The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [22]
There was little left of beauty in the gravid woman’s face. She was perspiring heavily, her skin tinged with gray. Her breath was sharp and rasping, and she bit her lips against outcry.
“This is not going well,” the birthing-woman muttered under her breath. “You there, stop your sniveling,” she ordered, swinging around to point at one of the gaggle. She lost her indecision as the requirements of her calling gave her temporary authority over those of rank. “Bring me hot water. Hand those cloths over. Find something warm for the babe. If it is born alive, it must be kept from drafts and chill.”
Reassured by her tyranny, the women stopped their whimpering and did her bidding.
If it survives, the words echoed in Lessa’s mind. Survives to be Lord of Ruatha. One of Fax’s get? That had not been her intention, although . . .
The Lady Gemma grabbed blindly for Lessa’s hands, and despite herself, Lessa responded with such comfort as a strong grip would afford the woman.
“She bleeds too much,” the birthing-woman muttered. “More cloths.”
The women resumed their wailing, uttering little shrieks of fear and protestation.
“She should not have been made to journey so far.”
“They will both die.”
“Oh, it is too much blood.”
Too much blood, thought Lessa. I have no quarrel with her. And the child comes too early. It will die. She looked down at the contorted face, the bloodied lower lip. If she does not cry out now, why did she then? Fury swept through Lessa. This woman had, for some obscure reason, deliberately diverted Fax and F’lar at the crucial moment. She all but crushed Gemma’s hands in hers.
Pain from such an unexpected quarter roused Gemma from her brief respite between the shuddering contractions that seized her at shorter and shorter intervals. Blinking sweat from her eyes, she focused desperately on Lessa’s face.
“What have I done to you?” she gasped.
“Done? I had Ruatha almost within my grasp again when you uttered your false cry,” Lessa said, her head bent so that not even the birthing-woman at the foot of the bed could hear them. She was so angry that she had lost all discretion, but it would not matter, for this woman was close to death.
The Lady Gemma’s eyes widened. “But . . . the dragonman . . . Fax cannot kill the dragonman. There are so few bronze riders. They are all needed. And the old tales . . . the star . . . star . . .” She could not continue, for a massive contraction shook her. The heavy rings on her fingers bit into Lessa’s hands as she clung to the girl.
“What do you mean?” Lessa demanded in a hoarse whisper.
But the woman’s agony was so intense that she could scarcely breathe. Her eyes seemed to start from her head. Lessa, hardened though she had become to all emotion save that of revenge, was shocked to the deeper feminine instinct of easing a woman’s pain in her extremity. Even so, the Lady Gemma’s words rang through her mind. The woman had not, then, protected Fax, but the dragonman. The star? Did she mean the Red Star? Which old tales?
The birthing-woman had both hands on Gemma’s belly, pressing downward, chanting advice to a woman too far gone in pain to hear. The twisting body gave a convulsive heave, lifting from the bed. As Lessa tried to support her, Lady Gemma opened her eyes wide, her expression one of incredulous relief. She collapsed into Lessa’s arms and lay still.
“She’s dead!” shrieked one of the women. She flew, screaming, from the chamber. Her voice reverberated down the rock halls. “Dead . . . ead . . . ead . . . ddddd,” echoed back to the dazed women, who stood motionless in shock.
Lessa laid the woman down on the bed, staring amazed at the oddly triumphant smile on Gemma’s face. She retreated into the shadows, far more shaken than anyone else. She who had never hesitated to do anything that would thwart Fax or beggar Ruatha