Paul Kemp: The Godborn

Spots formed before Varra’s eyes. Sparks erupted in her brain. She might have been screaming, she could not be certain. She felt the priest and midwife manipulating the hole they’d made in her, felt them reaching inside her.

She was screaming, she realized, swimming in pain, in blood.

She focused on Derreg’s hand, its solidity, the gentle way it cradled her own. Warmth radiated from his flesh, dulled the edge of her agony.

He would never leave her, she thought. Never.

Something warm and wet pattered on their joined hands. Her fading consciousness mistook it for blood at first, but then she realized it was tears. Derreg’s tears. She felt his mouth near her ear and he whispered words of faith.

“From ends, beginnings, from darkness, light, from tragedy, triumph. Night gives way to dawn, and dawn to noon. Stand in the warmth and purifying light of Amaunator who was Lathander and fear nothing. Fear nothing, Varra.”

She felt herself fading, slipping. The room darkened.

“Care for him,” she whispered to Derreg.

“Him?” Derreg said.

Varra nodded. She knew the child would be a son, a son for the father, the spirits in the pass had told her. “His name is Vasen. After his father.”

“I will, Varra,” Derreg said. “I promise.”

Varra heard a rush like roaring surf. The room darkened. She could no longer see. She felt herself drifting, floating in warm water, sinking. .

She heard a tiny cough, then a newborn’s cry, the defiant call of her son as he entered a world of light and darkness.

She smiled, drifted, thought of Erevis, of Derreg, and feared nothing.

Derreg had slain many men in combat, had seen battlefields littered with corpses, but he had to force himself to look on Varra’s body, at the bloodsoaked bed, at the opening in her abdomen out of which Erdan, the priest, had mined the child. Her face, finally free of pain, looked as pale as a new moon.

He could not release her still-warm hand. He held onto it as if with it he could pull her back to life.

“She is gone,” the midwife said. “Gone to light.”

Derreg nodded. He’d known Varra perhaps two hours, but he had felt a connection with her, a whispered hint of what might have been had they met under other circumstances. Through sixty winters he had never married, and now he knew why. He was to meet his love only in the twilight of his life, and he was to know her for less than a day.

He thanked Amaunator for that, at least.

“What’s wrong with it?” the midwife said, her exclamation pulling Derreg’s attention from Varra.

Hand to her mouth, the midwife backed away a step from the birthing bed, a step away from the child. Erdan, eyes as wide as coins, held the baby out at arm’s length, as he might something foul.

The child, pinched, dark, and bloody, his legs kicking, cried in sharp gasps. The umbilical cord still connected him to Varra, and a thin vein of shadow twined around the cord’s length and slowly snaked toward the child as if the baby-Vasen, Varra had named him-had received nourishment not only from blood but also from darkness. Vasen’s eyes flashed yellow with each of his wails.

“It’s born of the Shadovar!” said Erdan, and looked as if he might drop the child. “Look at it! The darkness moves toward it!”

Vasen’s appearance and the coil of shadow around the umbilical made the claim hard to deny, but deny it Derreg did.

“He’s born of this woman, Erdan. And his name is Vasen.”

The child kicked, wailed.

“It must be killed, Derreg,” Erdan said, although uncertainty colored his tone, and he paled as he spoke. “If the Shadovar learn of the abbey. .”

“Killed?” the midwife said, and put her hand to her mouth. “A child? You cannot!”

“No,” Derreg said, his hand still holding Varra’s, feeling it cool. “We cannot. You heard me give this woman my word. I’ll keep it.” He let go of Varra’s hand and held out his arms for the child. “Give him to me.”

Erdan looked dumbfounded, his mouth half open. His two rotten front teeth looked as dark as Vasen’s skin.

“Give him to me, Erdan. It’s not a request.”

The priest blinked, handed the blood-slicked boy to Derreg, then wiped his bloody hands on his yellow robes.

Vasen stilled in Derreg’s hands. His small form felt awkward, fragile. Derreg’s hands were accustomed to holding hard steel and worn leather, not a babe. Shadows coiled around the baby, around Derreg’s forearms.

“You’d damn us all for the child of a stranger?” Erdan said, his tone as much puzzled as angry.

Derreg did not bother to explain that he did not regard Varra as a stranger. “I gave my word.”

“I must take this to the abbot. I take no responsibility-”

“Yes,” Derreg snapped, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice. “You take no responsibility. I understand that quite well.”

Erdan tried to hold Derreg’s gaze, failed.

“Give me the knife,” Derreg said.

“What?”

“The knife, man. I can’t use a sword on the cord.”

Muttering, Erdan handed Derreg the small knife he’d used to cut open Varra’s womb. With it, Derreg cut the shadow-veined umbilical, separating boy from mother, then wrapped him in one of the sheets stained with Varra’s blood.

“You must find a-” the priest began.

“Shut up, Erdan,” Derreg said. “I know he’ll require a wet nurse. I’m childless, not a dolt.”

“Of course,” Erdan said. He stared quizzically at the boy. “The shadows, Derreg. What is he if not a shade?”

“What he is,” Derreg said. “Is my son.”

Holding the boy against his chest, Derreg stepped to Varra’s side and leaned over her so the boy could see his mother’s face. Her mouth was frozen in a half smile, her dark eyes open and staring.

“That is your mother, Vasen. Her name was Varra.”

“You know the abbot will consult the Oracle,” said Erdan. “You risk much.”

“Perhaps,” Derreg said. He stared down at the tiny, bloody child in his arms-the tiny nose, the strange yellow eyes, the dusky skin, the thin black hair slicked back on his small head. He resolved that he would not turn Vasen over to the abbot, no matter what the Oracle said. “If the Oracle sees danger in the child, I’ll take him from here. But I won’t abandon him.”

Erdan studied him for a moment, then said, “I will see to the woman’s- burial. And we’ll see what the abbot and Oracle say. Perhaps I’m mistaken. I was. . surprised by the boy’s appearance and spoke hastily. Harshly, perhaps.”

“It’s forgotten, Erdan,” Derreg said softly. He knew the priest to be a good man.

“I’ll prepare her. . body for the rituals,” said the midwife. “I, too, was-”

The lantern light dimmed and the shadows deepened. The child uttered a single cry and burrowed his face into Derreg’s chest.

Derreg felt pressure on his ears, felt the air grow heavy and found it difficult to draw breath. The shadows in the far corner of the room swirled like a thunderhead, their hypnotic motion giving Derreg an instant headache. He caught a pungent, spicy whiff of smoke, the smell somehow redolent of times old and gone.

“By the light,” said the midwife, fear raising her voice an octave.

The shadows coalesced. A presence manifested in the darkness.

“Shadovar,” Erdan hissed. “I told you, Derreg!” Then, to the midwife, “Get aid! Go!”

She ran from the room without looking back, stumbling over the bloody sheets in her haste.

The entire room fell deeper into darkness, the lantern’s flame reduced to the light of a distant star.

Cradling Vasen against his chest, Derreg drew his blade and took a step backward, toward the door. “Go, Erdan. Now.”