he lay drenched in her own sweat, exhausted, drained. The labor had been long, the birth a difficult one. Someone, a servant, dabbed at her face with a cool cloth. She was turned and washed, a fresh bed gown drawn over her head. As if in a dream, she allowed herself to be coaxed into helping with her dressing, pushing her arms which seemed impossibly heavy into the fresh linen gown. The effort further weakened her and she drifted into a sleep that was very near unconsciousness.

Lysalla saw her beloved Balizar, his dear face drawn and worried. She flung herself into his arms, trying to draw comfort and to give it, but as she reached for him she saw it was not Balizar at all, but the face of High Lord Mykal which stared back at her his sad, blue eyes sunken deep into his flesh. The former escribar to Willawyn drew back sharply, a curse coming readily to her lips.

In her fevered sleep she mumbled and groaned, tossing in her furs. The servant set to watch over her grew frightened and sent for Maralynd, the Krys healer from the Tower.

When she arrived, the older woman found her charge thrashing in the bed, her bedclothes soaked her brow fevered and wet. Immediately she called for the herbs to be gathered whispering a soothing incantation over Lysalla while she waited for them to be brought to her.

Still Lysalla tossed and cursed in her delirium. “You shall bear no Heir of the treacherous witch. There shall be none other to displace my son, the only son of Balizar and true Heir of Pretava. No happiness for you and your Laural shall there be whilst you sit upon the stolen Throne.”

Though she had never shown the least inclination toward possessing Talent, the words nonetheless rang of prophesy and were noted by the attendant Krys presiding at the birth.

By the time all the ingredients were assembled, the new mother was more lucid, though still suffering severely from the trauma of such a difficult birth. Maralynd’s expression was somber as she blended the fragrant flowers and leaves with hot water and forced the potion into the young woman on the bed. Soon, Lysalla quieted, her fever fleeing the magic and the medicine combined. The Krys healer allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction as she returned to her room to call the fire and bond with the Tower. The Lady Kalaya had specifically asked to be kept informed of Lysalla’s progress. The dowager, Lady Marjika, was intensely interested in news of her grandchild and the woman who’d born him.

The day was bright and glorious. A small breeze blew in through the open window and fluttered the curtains. Lysalla woke, the sound of her son’s lusty cry loud in her ears. The infant was placed in her arms, where his demand for nourishment was satisfied at her breast. A fine boy, she thought, examining him in minute detail wonderingly. Ten tiny fingers she counted lovingly and ten tiny toes. His head was covered with soft brown fuzz, which fluttered gracefully when kissed by the fleeting breeze. Lysalla smiled in delight as the infant fell asleep in her arms, still suckling, though less noisily than at first.

“He’s beautiful” said Dylgarn, coming to sit at the foot of the bed. He reached out a hand to the boy, stroking his head gently. “He favors you I think.”

Lysalla stared at her husband, a man for whom she held no love, though he had been more than kind to her.

“Do you think so? It is too soon to tell really, but I think he favors his father. His eyes will change color you know. And his hair, though light and fine now, will grow in thick and dark.”

A hint of sorrow touched Dylgarn’s eyes as Lysalla spoke. She, seeing his hurt, touched his arm lightly. “Perhaps he will favor me, husband. Still, we both know he is sired of a noble line; the noblest in Pretava. Though you shall be his father under the law his true parentage lies deep beneath the Halls of Thannon in the chamber of the dead High Lords.”

“Lyssy I understand how this must sound, but I...” He stopped as her gaze turned stony.

“I have asked you not to call me that. That is a name I would not hear from the lips of any living man. Not you or any other! You are my husband, but not of my choice. It was convenient, a way to rid the palace of my awkward presence. Go now and leave me with my son.”

He turned slowly away then remembered his errand and turned back.

“His name, Lysalla. He must be named by moons rise tonight. I had thought to call him for my uncle, the old Lord of WingSweep whose heir he shall be.”

“No, Dylgarn. My son shall be named for his true father! He will be called Zalibar.” Her lips twisted into a tiny smile. “The name reflects the way be was conceived, does it not, husband? Wrong way out?”

“But my dear, that is so transparent! It will set the entire country to speculating about his birth. People can count, Lysalla. We were wed quietly, it is true and amidst the confusion of war, but even so…” He shook his head. “Would you have trouble of this child? If you would then this in the surest way to find it.”

“It is not the surest way, Dylgarn. That would have been to call him Balizar outright. But, it will do.” She waved him away.

“For a start,” she muttered under her breath as he left, closing the door behind.

©2005 by Trish Reynolds