On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [47]
For a moment, Yeshi did not react. Then she said, “No.”
“I am sorry, my wife. Perhaps this is the Dragon’s price for bringing so many of our brave warriors safely home.” The lie burned him, but he could not let Yeshi know the truth. There was no need to inflict more pain on her. She would know suffering aplenty in the next few moments, and for years to come.
“No,” said Yeshi, again. She held out her arms imperiously. “Give me my daughter.”
“It is best if I take her—it—now,” Tahmu said, aware that he was pleading. “If you hold her, it will only hurt you more when I—”
“Give her to me!” With a strength that startled him she leaped up from the birthbed and lunged at him. He barely managed to turn in time to keep her from seizing the infant. Even so, he was not quick enough to prevent Yeshi from scoring his face with her long, sharp nails. One came perilously close to his eye and he jerked his head away.
Her small fists rained down upon his back, her hands scrabbled for the baby, her screams echoed in his ears. She ducked underneath him and seized the infant, clasping it close to breasts that were swollen and full of milk.
“She’s mine! I won’t let you take her!”
But she was a delicate woman, and weak from her ordeal, and Tahmu was a war-hardened man. Implacably, hating himself, hating her for making this so much more painful than it had to be for both of them, he wrested the baby from her and pushed her backward.
She fell onto the bed. He stood, clutching the bundled, crying baby, waiting for her to come at him again, but all the strength seemed to bleed out of her. She lay where she had fallen, sprawled on the lavish bed where this tragic child had been conceived, and mewled pitifully.
“My baby,” she moaned, “my little girl…give her to me, Tahmu, please, I beg you, give her to me….”
His heart ached as he watched her, filled with his own grief at what he must do. “I’m sorry,” he said uselessly, and left her, racing down the stairs into the courtyard and grabbing the reins of the nearest sa’abah from a startled Clansman.
For much of his trip, the baby continued to scream. It wanted sustenance, love, its parents, soft bedding. All the things a baby has a right to expect when it is brought into the world, all the things Tahmu had not given Kevla and could not give this little girl. Eventually, its cries subsided. It whimpered now and then, enough for Tahmu to know that his daughter was still alive.
By the time he reached the Clan’s altar at the foot of the mountains, the girl made barely any sounds at all. He drew the sa’abah to a halt and slipped to the ground. Tahmu felt ill when he saw the remnants of all the offerings Yeshi had made to the Dragon in his absence. Dried leaves from fruit long since devoured, wilted flowers, empty water jugs—all pleas from the House of Four Waters to bring the warriors home safely.
Most of those pleas had been answered; they had lost few men. But the Great Dragon had a terrible price for his protection, and Tahmu’s feet felt as heavy as if they were carved of stone as he approached the offering area.
He looked down at the baby. Her eyes were closed, but she was breathing.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, illogically trying to explain what he was doing to her. “But this is the way of our people. The Great Dragon marks those it would have us give to him. He robs them of their sight, or the use of their legs, or their minds. He cleaves their mouths, or gives them only nine fingers, or,” he paused, the lump in his throat preventing speech, “or stains their faces with the blood mark, as he has done with you.”
Gently, he reached to touch the blotch on his child’s otherwise perfect face. She opened her eyes and regarded him. Tahmu held the doomed infant close.
“Dragon!” he cried at last, his voice raw, “Dragon, you have tormented me for so long. I beg you, let this be your last