Orphans - Kevin Killiany [8]
He rested his hand for a moment on the throne of the Builders, a plain chair of massive scale, far larger than his grandfather’s ornate seat atop the dais. Only his grandmother had not been foolishly dwarfed by its dimensions.
As a child he had explored the Hall of Memory seeking mystery, thrilling himself with the fear of ghosts. Now again he came seeking…something. And if there be ghosts, he would be glad for the comfort of their company.
But there was no comfort here; even the air smelled dead.
He’d had too much of death.
Rajho and Vissint were still waiting, carefully just beyond the edge of his vision. The Doctor General and Chancellor of State would not impose lightly on his solitude, and the two coming together boded something pressing, something that needed his attention. Stifling a sigh, he squared his shoulders and turned to face them.
Both nodded deeply, not the bow his grandfather had required, but the chin to chest of his father, not breaking eye contact. When authority is absolute, one need not add debasement to obedience.
“What news?” he asked.
Rajho looked to Vissint, who nodded for him to proceed.
“Baron, your wife is in good health,” the Doctor said. “The water of the pool is pure, the herbs and unguents fresh and free of poisons.”
“Wherein then lies the fault?” Terant asked.
“Perhaps”—Rojha hesitated—“something occurred during the pregnancy?”
“That—” Terant shouted, then stopped himself, biting back the next words. A deep, cleansing breath; a second. “That is what you said last time,” he said, aware that the preternatural calm of his voice was more terrifying than any rant. “And the time before that; and the time before that.”
He stepped toward the Doctor. To his credit the smaller man did not shrink back.
“In four attempts to conceive an heir we have followed all of your directions. Tell me”—his smile was slight and cold—“what have we to show for your advice?”
Rajho wisely said nothing.
“Sixteen memorial stones,” Terant answered his own question. “Sixteen stones in three years. Is this not remarkable?”
“Baron?”
Terant’s eyes snapped to his chancellor. Vissint understood he had thrown himself between Rajho and a spear. A bold move by a good man. Somewhere beneath his grief and rage, Terant recognized these men were not his enemies. He made the effort to modulate his voice.
“Yes, Chancellor?”
“I wish with all my heart your tragedy was unique,” Vissint said, “but it is not.”
“How do you mean?” The anger was shocked back into Terant’s voice. “Four pregnancies have ended in death—four fours of my children are dead—and you say this is not unique?”
“There have been no live births in all of Atwaan,” Rajho blurted in a rush, then flinched under the baron’s glare.
“Is this true?” Terant demanded. Then, when neither man spoke: “Is. This. True?”
“Yes, Baron,” Vissint answered. “No infant has been born alive in over a year.”
Terant paused, remembering the crowds, neat and orderly about the pavilion, picturing in his mind the populace. When was the last time he had seen a family with a clutch of infants? Not a four, no, not in the years since the withering had begun; but three or two or even one? He could not remember. There had been no babies….
“And I was not told?”
“We sought a cure,” Rajho answered. “And forbore to tell you until we were successful.”
“And you did not warn me? Did not warn my wife?”
“We thought that of all the People,” Rajho said, “you would be spared.”
Terant raised his hand, forestalling words. He knew the Doctor was not flattering him idly.
Along the opposite wall, half concealed by pillars, were the sepulchres of the Giants. Mad, they had been, and dying, but they had caused all that was now Atwaan to be. Had caused him to be.
His grandfather had been young, newly made a border warden for the barony, when the Giants had emerged