“Davtian, I would see my child. Take me to her.”
They walked through the chamber and went into an adjoining one where the servants slept. His worry intensified, but he held it in check, trying to calm the rage that bloomed inside. Davtian went ahead and opened the door, then warned the Prince back a moment as Myrrha was suckling the child. The girl covered herself and stood, cradling the little bundle. There was another babe playing by the stool, another girl, but she was a year old and toddling, though she was tiny.
“My lord,” Myrrha said, surprised at the arrival. She gave him a sultry smile. “You have a fine daughter. Your lady said she was to be named Ellowyn. She is Ellowyn Demont, by our customs. She is healthy, my lord. No sign of the milk sickness.”
“Let me hold her,” the Prince murmured softly, approaching the girl as he would a poisonous serpent.
She sidled up next to him, brushing her shoulder against his arm. He grit his teeth, keeping his expression guarded. She wore a perfume that was cloying and sweet. Her mistress lay dead in the other room, but she showed no indication of grief.
“Such a delicate child,” the girl said soothingly. “Each is a gift. She has a special destiny.” With a long finger, she ran it down the babe’s nose. Little Ellowyn tried to nuzzle it.
“Thank you,” the Prince said, carefully taking the babe into his arms. She seemed reluctant to let her go, though her eyes were smiling cheerfully, the look did not match her smile.
The Prince stared down at the flawless little face, the pink skin so warm and soft. He stroked her cheek with his nose, savoring the smell, the wisps of hair, the tiny fingers that curled and reached. As he stared at his daughter, her eyes parted, chalk-gray as most newborns were. There was a serious look in her expression, a contemplative look. His heart broke again with pain.
“You will want to be near her, while you can,” Myrrha said. “The invaders have entered Pry-Ree’s borders. The king of Comoros hunts you. I will be near so that you can see the child often before you return. I will keep her safe, my lord.” Her eyes gleamed like a cobra’s.
The Prince looked from her to Davtian and noticed the Evnissyen had finally caught up to him. They were standing outside, staring at him with smoldering anger and budding concern.
“Leave us,” the Prince said to Davtian.
“My lord?” the steward asked. He never allowed himself to be alone with other women, no matter the circumstance.
“Leave us,” he repeated.
Davtian obeyed, his face betraying his alarm. The door shut softly, but it caused the baby to startle.
The Prince turned and looked at her coldly.
Her expression turned from anticipation to alarm. She stroked the ridge of the chair with her finger. “It is normal, my lord, to feel the loss keenly. She was a great lady. A noble lady in every way. If I may be any comfort to you..?”
A spasm of lust went through his body. With ice-like control, he turned his thoughts to Tintern Abbey. He remembered the oaths he made, one by one, when passing the maston test. One by one, he recommitted himself to them. She stared at him, curiously, her face ranging through complex emotions.
“Where is your kystrel?” he asked her. “Who wears it?”
It was as if he had thrust a goblet of chilled water on her face.
“My lord?” she asked, pretending to be confused.
“Your thoughts betray you, daughter of Ereshkigal,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “So do your fears.”
“I fear nothing,” she replied, her eyes darting one way and then another.
“Who wears your kystrel?” he asked again, tauntingly.
He could feel the Myriad Ones now, mewling and hissing throughout the chamber. They skulked and glared at him, at the child out of their grasp. He clutched the baby close. “Who wears it? Speak – I command you by the Medium.”
Her voice came out unnaturally. It was full of loathing and more of a snake’s hiss than a voice. “Your brother.” Her fingers, which a moment before had gently stroked the baby’s nose and the smooth wood of the chair, were hooked like claws as if she were preparing to strike him.
“Which of my Envissyen will betray me?” he asked. “Speak!”
“Tethys,” came the hissing voice.
He stared at her coldly. “I speak your true name. You are Chione, the Unborn. You will depart.”
The hissing sound turned into a rush of wind and a screech. The Prince made the maston sign. “You are Chione, the Unborn. Depart.”
The girl’s face was stricken with fury and rage. The Myriad Ones howled with torment as the wind blasted against them.