No Man’s Land

Sarah A. Hoyt

There’s More to Birthing than Life

Eerlen:

It was always at the worst possible time, and Eerlen resented it just a little. They had one more chance to find the last person with a chip, one last hope it would be someone who could tell them how to get Webson home. And then Eerlen felt his water break.

He didn’t want to go to Yanda. It was the worst possible time to go to Yanda. He had to get a to-do list to Nikre, and he had to explain everything to him, more than whatever he might have got out of Thackray about the situation. He had to get the urgency of the situation through Nikre’s mind.

And then—

Before he opened the portal, he turned to Brundar. “Get Nikre,” he said. “Bring him to Yanda.”

He saw the mulish look come over Brundar’s eyes. “I don’t mean to have Nikre attend me at the birth, Brund. I do know you’re the best. I need to give him a list of things, in case— In case—”

“There will be no ‘in cases,’” Brundar said, his voice flat.

“That is my hope, also,” Eerlen said. “And I trust you, but only a fool doesn’t prepare for the worst. And I can’t risk the world and the brotherhood and…you. And this child if he survives, and Lendir and his child, because you don’t want to face the chance I’ll die. Get Nikre.”

Brundar opened the portal and stepped through it before Eerlen opened his own portal and stepped through with Lendir and Webson.

Webson looked uncomfortable in a way that confused Eerlen. It wasn’t until they were in the cave, when Webson headed for the kitchen and the stasis compartment for flour, that Eerlen understood how uncomfortable. Something about this was as stressful as combat to the man from the stars.

Eerlen must prioritize things first. He went to the bathing room, removed his now-destroyed linen underpants and the fur pants he’d worn over them. Previous experience showed he’d have to use magic to rehabilitate the garments, and that was hardly worth it, so he bundled them to be disposed of later. There would be other things to be disposed of by burning. And if the child didn’t survive— Well, he couldn’t very well bury this one in the royal cemetery, unless Brundar insisted. More likely the clan burial grounds, as he hoped for himself one day.

He went to his and Lendir’s shared bedroom, where Lendir was unpacking their backpacks and took off his silk tunic, putting on one of the knee-length night tunics they used for day wear around the shelter. It was still chilly, but Lendir said, “I’ll light the fire.” Eerlen nodded. It would warm. Truth be told, once it started in earnest, he was likely to get too warm. He put on short underwear under the tunic, with adequate protection, so he wouldn’t need to dispose of both.

He returned to the cooking area to find out why Webson was so uncomfortable that he responded the same way he acted when they were ready to fight.

“Lord Webson?” Eerlen asked. “You realize no one is likely to attack us because I’m brought to child bed?”

Webson looked up from the statis. “I have no idea what happens,” he said. “I’ve never been around anyone giving birth. Not even in my world.”

Eerlen almost asked how that was possible, but for all he knew, they were like Draksalls, where, from what he got out of his sire’s stories, males and females lived almost entirely separate except for the obvious. Instead, he said, “For a while, nothing will happen. I will talk with Nikre and tell him what I know about the trouble Elly is in, and I’d appreciate it if you sit with us and tell me anything I miss. Brundar says I’m likely to survive, but I have too much responsibility to trust it to fate. You understand that?”

Webson nodded, but all the same, started baking a cake. To Eerlen’s raised eyebrow, he said, “I don’t know how long it takes, except from reading, but I understand, at least among my people, it can take days, and I thought something easy to eat and sweet might give you energy.”

Eerlen smiled. “It’s not usually that long. More for the first time, but this is not my first time. It’s very much not my first time. However, who knows? Brundar might need it. It’s the first time he’s attending me, and it will be awkward for both of us.”

“But he is the best?” Webson asked. “I… Milord Troz, I would not like to lose you. In the situation I’m in… I trust you.”

“He is the best,” Eerlen said, touched at the question and the sentiment. “But it is always a dangerous endeavor. And if something happens, you’ll have Nikre Lyto. He is also the best in a way, maybe better than myself.”

Lendir came back just then. He insisted on making tea, and didn’t ask Eerlen every five breaths if the pains had started, which frankly meant he was less anxious, or showed it less than Myrrir had.

And then Nikre came in with Brundar. Seeing Nikre’s worried expression was the first time that Eerlen felt truly afraid. Not of dying. That was always a possibility, and it didn’t necessitate giving birth. The stark-naked fear, rather, was of leaving Nikre with the horrible situation they were in.

While he trusted Nikre implicitly, he didn’t want to leave his apprentice—his child—with the fear and horror Eerlen was facing, and the stark possibility of losing Elly during his Archmagician tenure.

But it must be done, and so with a heavy heart, he entrusted Nikre with an explanation of all that was happening, and handed him the instructions Eerlen had written over the last few days.

“You’ll know I’m gone if you get the ruby. You might get it for seconds at a time, then it ports to me again if I’m struggling between life and death. That happened to me with Drahy. One more thing: while you’ll get the general impression of the past archmagicians, unless my death lifts whatever Drahy did to it, and I doubt it, you won’t be able to access their specific memories. Brundar is working on removing whatever Drahy put on it. We don’t know why, unless it was to keep his activities secret, though why it should matter after his death, I don’t know. Brund says he should manage it any day, so let’s hope he does.”

“Let’s,” Nikre said. He still looked far too serious. More so now that he understood the gravity of the situation. “But Eerlen, I’d very much prefer you don’t die. I will help you with all of this as much as I can. But I don’t want— You’re the only parent I’ve ever known, and while I realize I’m far older than sixteen, I’d rather not face this particular route alone.”

And then he’d squeezed both of Eerlen’s hands, and left Eerlen to face his own battle.

The Long Wait

Skip:

After Nikre left, Troz, Peaseblossom and Almar disappeared into the room Almar and Troz had occupied before. And I entered what my father used to call a day of years. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say days of years.

It had taken me very long to understand it, since I had first heard him use that expression when I was five or so.

If I hadn’t been so nervous over Eerlen Troz giving birth—seventeen stillbirths…or close enough. Some of which had been quite dangerous, from what I’d caught around the edges of conversations, didn’t argue for this being either easy or happy—I’d probably giggle over how in Britannia on High, we had the exact opposite problem of Elly. Infections, bacterial, viral or even fungal, weren’t a real problem. We had nanites to deal with that, and almost everyone had them injected at an early age.

Sure, the set we had as ambassadors—or spies—was a little more versatile than the average person could afford. The normal set would have had Edmund down for a couple of weeks with at least mild fever before he was fully well. Still, no one died of infections.

But trauma…

Well, sure, we did have regen tanks, and they could bring you back from the brink. Note could, not guaranteed to. Sometimes, because too much time had passed, or because there was something funny with your genetics, regen just didn’t take.

There was a strain in the nobility of High Britannia, probably due to the fact that we all connected via some third cousin somewhere, where the regen just didn’t take. Seemed like it was going to, but sputtered and stopped, and left the person either crippled or dead.

When I was five, there had been some battle that left a significant number of Father’s people, from his own ship, wounded. By the time they’d returned to Britannia and regen, a couple of days had passed.

Father had spent two days in the hospital and had referred to it as two days of years. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but Father had been grey and tired, and looking like he was exhausted by being depressed. I later found out he’d lost two close friends, but even the ten who survived had been touch and go before he was sure the regen would take. And there had been nothing he could do but pace and wait.

By the time I was fourteen, I’d gotten to experience my own days of years twice. The first time was an accident, where a school transport had gotten bisected by a heavy interspatial that inexplicably dropped to the atmosphere. I had been unscathed save for a light concussion, but my classmates, five people from my own dormitory, as close as I had to friends, had been taken to the med center and put in regen.

It had taken five days for us to be sure the regen would work on them. And for that time, I, the only one who was unscathed from the dorm, stayed in the med center, sitting on the uncomfortable chairs under the artificial lighting. Pacing. Pretending to be interested in the riveting news flashes forming as holograms in the corner, drinking stale coffee, imagining everything that could go wrong, and how they could all die.

It wasn’t that bad, because I wasn’t responsible, and their families were there, too, and they were all very kind to me. But the uncertainty and the inability to do anything to decide the outcome made it impossible to rest or to leave the med center, or for that matter, to concentrate on anything. I had reading material, since I had my study terminal on hand. I just couldn’t think. And so each day was years in passing, years of grey sameness and a desperate wish to do something.

This was worse a year later, when my unit in a live-fire exercise had been hit, and it was my fault. Feeling responsible—even if I’d not been prepared for what actually happened, which was someone else’s fault—had added another dreary layer on the week of years I’d spent pacing the floor of the med center.

Both times, I’d lost no one. But the potential had been there, and there was nothing I could do.

Now with Eerlen Troz, it obviously wasn’t my fault. To be honest, I wasn’t sure it was anyone’s fault. I’d caught talk of contraceptive shields—a form of spells—around the edges, but I’d also gathered Eerlen Troz wanted this child very much. He wanted a child very much. A child who lived and carried on his line name.

I felt like Ellyans got it from both sides. Like women, they wanted a child, a baby to dote on. I’d seen the parents of young children at the Troz gathering, and knew the signs. They were much like my cousin Charisea when her children were infants, soft voice and soft eyes, and acting like this child was the most wonderful thing in the world. But judging by talk, there was also the masculine need for a son and heir, someone to carry on the family, the line name.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’d seen men who were sweet and tender with their children, too, back in Britannia. Arguably, my father was more affectionate than Mother. I’m speaking in generalities, though.

And Eerlen wanted a child. At least one, and possibly more. So he would come to this via seventeen dead children and a desire to try again.

But his past didn’t bode well, and from the moment the other two went with him to his room, I was left to a day of years.

First, I baked. I made croissants, and bread, and three very sugary cakes, one of them full of almonds, which I pounded to a paste with a mortar and pestle. Look, I did have other ways of dealing with nerves, but most of them weren’t exactly available in Elly. It’s not like I could go driving fast or practice shooting. I suppose I could go out and try to find some Ursus Leo Atrox to shoot at, but that whole not being quite sure how portals worked meant I was likely to get myself in trouble.

So I baked. It might have been worse. It could have been cocaine or somnum. It could’ve been wine or purple ruin, or…well, what I’d done after Father’s death, except that I had no one to do it with here. And it could be outright dangerous to attempt, given my differences and the anatomy of their hereditary enemies. People were bound to get confused, and I was bound to end up dead.

I baked. But there’s only so much you can bake before you start wondering if you’re wasting food by making baked goods no one will have the time to eat.

I don’t know how long it had been—probably hours, but it felt like two or three years—when Peaseblossom came out looking exhausted. At my hopeful look, he shook his head, and then his eyes lit up at the baked goods. I made him tea and put lots of honey in it at his request, and then he cut himself a slice that was a quarter of the cake. After eating half of it, he said, “He is the most infuriating patient!”

I nodded sympathetically, not sure what that meant. Then said, “I take it it’s not fast?”

Brundar sighed. “The baby is just slightly large.” Then he rushed, “Not too large. I think. But… It’s slow and he refuses to walk to speed it up. I will take him…” He found a very large clay cup, filled it with tea and put an absurd amount of honey in. “He will hate it, but it might help.”

And then we were back to my not being able to do anything but wait.

I paced.

I tried going to my room, but found that being next to Eerlen Troz’s, I could hear everything. Or rather, I could hear the least helpful part of everything. Groans and moans, mumbling and whispers, and at one point, Troz’s voice raised in an almost-scream that turned to a squeak. “I can’t.”

That was my cue to get out of my bedroom, because my mind filled in the most terrifying things that could be causing the sounds or eliciting the words.

So I wandered the shelter as a lost soul. It will tell you something that I considered bathing to pass time. But that seemed too strange even to me, so instead I walked back and forth across the gathering and cooking area.

Then I started looking into all the other rooms, which is how I found what for a brief shining moment I thought was a library. At least it had a wall of cubicles, with rolls of cloth, and when I unrolled the first scroll, I saw it had writing. Peaseblossom had done the needed for the nanos to pick up on the writing system of Elly, so I could read.

In various places and circumstances, I’ve read recipes for ingredients I didn’t have, decorating tips for houses I’d never own, and gossip columns about people I’d never before heard of.

But with the best will in the world, I couldn’t read these scrolls. All the ones I looked through had very few words. Things like “Amissar’s Portal Formulas” and then math that would make Charisea’s head hurt, and she was a time engineer, weren’t something I could read for any time. I’d follow it for a few lines, then lose track.

The most readable of documents I found was a genealogy of the Troz clan, and even that was not interesting. The names were readable, but I had no idea to whom they referred.

Eventually I gave up. Coming back to the eating area, I realized all the cakes and half the croissants were gone. I had no idea how long had passed, but I was back to baking again.

Two cakes and a pan of cookies later, I heard— It sounded like a baby crying, but teeny and very high.

I walked back down the hallway, to the door of the room. It was smooth wood, highly waxed, but closed. I heard nothing from inside. Then some semi-reassuring murmurs, and a chuckle.

The chuckle was hopeful. I raised my hand to knock.

The door opened, and Peaseblossom, looking bleary-eyed and near collapse, looked at my fist at about his eye level. I lowered my hand and said, “I was going to knock…is—”

Peaseblossom looked inside. I had a vague impression that permission had been asked and received. There was a smell of blood in the air, and other smells, and a bundle of sheets in the corner, but Eerlen Troz sat on the bed, holding a very small bundle of cloth.

How small? Well…

I’d thought the abandoned baby was small and he was, but it seemed he was also normal.

I approached hesitantly, and he lifted the bundle in both hands so I could see that on the cloth rested a perfectly formed baby, about the size of an eight-week-old kitten. I’d be surprised if he was one pound. I looked up in confusion to meet Eerlen’s smiling eyes. “Meet Kaheer Troz,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. My brain, which felt sluggish and slow, tried to parse through how to react. The baby looked healthy, just truly tiny. And they were all so proud, so the tiny couldn’t be abnormal. “He’s beautiful,” I said. “He’s…a kitten.” I’m not sure where that had come from, but it made Peaseblossom giggle and Troz smile.

“Do you want to hold him?”

Strangely, I did. I was also terrified to. He was so small.

“You won’t break him,” Eerlen said. “He’s a big strong child.”

Right. I extended my hands, in a conch of sorts, and he deposited the nest of cloth with the baby in them. I brought the baby up to my chest. It was tiny and wearing only a diaper that must be the size of a handkerchief, but it had a perfectly formed face, and little eyes screwed up with the effort of looking up at me, though I doubted his brain could yet process something as huge as my face.

“Hello, kitten,” I said. As though in response to my voice, there was a subtle relaxation in the face, and then the tiny mouth opened in a perfect yawn. And that’s when I became captive. I’d go anywhere and do anything to keep this tiny creature happy.

Peaseblossom laughed. “You can’t keep him,” he said, which I judged was in response to my expression. He gently worked his hands atop of mine and under the fabric, getting the baby. “He needs to nurse.”

I accurately judged that this was my cue to go out. Or at least I’d later find out it was accurate, as they were more embarrassed about nursing than most women.

“I’ll go prepare dinner,” I said.

“Good idea,” Almar said, speaking for the first time. He stood by the bed looking like some sort of honor guard. I registered that he looked worried, but I didn’t know why.

Though I had a feeling of underlying worry beneath Peaseblossom’s happiness, too.

Later, after Peaseblossom had taken wolverine-elk cutlets and bread to Almar and Troz, he came back and sat across from me at the work surface, and made me a plate, not giving me time to protest, before serving himself. “It’s been a full day,” he said. “And you need to eat.”

I ate. I wasn’t going to argue. But when we’d eaten, and he was devouring cookies and drinking milk, I said, “Something is worrying you?”

He shrugged. Then sighed. “Kaheer was too large. He… Eerlen was badly ripped. It’s easy to heal, but…”

“Infection?” I asked, now aware of the dangers of Elly.

He nodded, then took a big gulp of milk. “We cleaned it all as much as possible. Obviously, alcohol wasn’t a possibility. And I healed it all and maybe it was fast enough and the infection won’t be too bad.”

Fever

Skip:

It was a bad infection.

Peaseblossom helped me clean the kitchen, and then said, “I am going to try to sleep some. Lendir will keep watch on Eerlen.”

And I went to bed. I woke, I didn’t know how much later, but I had the feeling I’d been in a deep, dark, dreamless sleep, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and the sense of someone by me. I opened my eyes to see Peaseblossom squatting by the bed. He had Kitten, now swaddled, in one hand. As I woke and sat up, still bleary, he thrust the child at me. “Can you hold him? Keep him? Eerlen… Lendir and I need to look after Eerlen.”

I picked up Kitten, warm and sleeping, in my hand. “I’ll look after him.”

Of course, I couldn’t go back to sleep. For a long while, I walked back and forth, looking at Kitten sleeping. After a while, somehow, he worked one arm free of the swaddling, and held it above his head in a tiny little fist. I think the fact he was so tiny was part of his charm. Oh, don’t get me wrong. He’d have been beautiful even if he were a normal-sized baby, but being so tiny and absolutely perfect made him more so.

After a while, he made a tiny cry, his eyes squinched in protest while he yowled, and I took him back to the room, and knocked at the door. It was a weird knock, because I wanted to be heard, but not to disturb Troz if he was asleep.

Almar opened the door. He looked…ragged, which I’d never seen before, except after battle when Troz was unconscious. He stood aside and let me see the bed. Troz was sitting up. He was very red, and seemed to be muttering something under his breath. Peaseblossom applied a wet cloth to his forehead.

I looked from them to Almar. “Kitten is crying… I don’t know…”

“Brundar!” Almar said, with a sound like it was both urgent and scary.

Peaseblossom made a sound. He looked at Troz. “I don’t… We don’t have a choice… It’s not good. Yes. It’s probably time. Take the baby. Lord Webson, please wait outside.”

It was the first time in a long time he called me by my formal name. I waited. After maybe half an hour, Kitten was handed back to me, and then the door opened again, and a bundle of cloth was also handed to me, this time by Peaseblossom. “There’s a sling, and fresh diapers,” he said.

The fresh diapers, which I unfolded back in the common area, were about the size of small handkerchiefs. The sling was a little hard to work out, but once I had it, over one shoulder and tied under my other arm, I could nestle Kitten securely in the folds in front of my chest and have my hands free. Which was good, because I’m not stupid. I could perfectly guess what was happening. They had held Kitten for Troz to nurse, even though it couldn’t be good for Troz. I was going to guess there wasn’t anything even mildly resembling preserved milk here. Which meant if we lost Troz, his child might not last much longer.

I’d just thought of the King’s Children and that they must have nursemaids when Almar came out, fully dressed for the snow and carrying skis.

“Nursemaid?” I asked him.

He made a face and nodded. “Milk, at any rate, if I can.”

He went up the tunnel.

Shortly after, Kitten woke up and I changed him. The diaper was held in place by knots.

I swaddled him back in the very soft little square of…wool, I thought, and sang to him. He cried for a while, and then seemed to get tired. I sang to him. I walked, and I sang. When he was asleep, I washed the diaper.

Eventually, Almar came back. He looked exhausted. He had no one with him, but he was carrying a backpack. When he opened it, there was a series of clay flasks.

“The backpack is stasis,” he said. “And the jars were boiled.” He swallowed. “All the volunteers at the King’s house…each gave a flask. They like Eerlen.” He looked up. His mouth was working, and I realized he was making a great effort not to cry. “If I had— I’m not due for another month. If Eerlen…”

I wanted to tell him Troz would be fine, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t know, anyway.

“The baby will eat every two hours, probably,” Almar said. “This will last for two days. The— Nikre said he’ll put a call out to the Brotherhood, see if anyone can come out and help.”

“We’ll manage,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after him.”

He nodded to me, and I realized at the last minute these things had no nipples. “How…what do I use for a nipple?”

Apparently, I used the wrong word, because he stared at me for a moment in bewilderment. “Oh. A feeder tip,” he said. He dug through the backpack. They were clay, and like the caps that were on the bottles, but had a hole in the center, and through the hole, a little ball of cloth protruded. “They were boiled. And they’re in stasis. Wash your hands, because you’ll have to pull it back every so often so the baby doesn’t pull too much cloth?”

I nodded. I’d kill for a rubber nipple, but this beat dipping my finger in the milk, and letting him suck drop by drop.

I found it was both easier and much harder. Most of all it was fussy. The ball of cloth, with ends trailing into the milk, was securely attached, so Kitten couldn’t suck and choke on it, but on the other hand, milk didn’t soak into it and diffuse as fast as he sucked. So he’d get one or two sucks, then get frustrated and wail, flailing his diminutive arms. I’d have to take the bottle from him and turn it upside down, then let him get another two sucks. By the end of it, we were both exhausted, and I’d change him, and sing him to sleep, then wash the diaper and lay it out to dry, and then doze myself while sitting up, holding him.

After a few of those naps, I was starving, and I made more cakes, and had some, and Peaseblossom came out and had cake and tea. And then I fed Kitten again, and I slept.

Time rolled into itself, and I completely lost track. I fed Kitten when he cried and seemed hungry. I had no way to tell time. They talked about hours, but I’d never seen a clock. For all I knew, they measured time with magic.

I was singing to get Kitten to sleep, and we had ten bottles of milk left, when Peaseblossom and Almar came from the hallway to the rooms, carrying a body-sized bundle in what looked like a tarp between them. I thought the worst and stood, shaking, unable to speak, and then I saw the bundle jerk violently and was confused.

They somehow dragged it up the tunnel between them. And were gone a very short time, when they came back dragging the bundle, now still.

They laid the tarp down on the floor and opened it. Troz was…wet. He looked drowned. He looked visibly thinner than he’d been, and very pale, and…dead. But his chest was rising and falling.

Peaseblossom touched his forehead, then made a choked sound and looked up at Almar. “Get me—”

He never finished. Almar ran. He came back almost immediately with a fur blanket, and wrapped Troz in it, and carried him back.

Peaseblossom was shaking. Kitten was asleep. “You have to eat something,” I told Peaseblossom, and got him the first things I blundered into: bread and butter and milk.

He ate and cried. He was still shaking. “He was convulsing,” he told me. “I could only think of a way to get the fever down. We took him outside, under the snow, in his tunic. He… He’s not convulsing. Now he’ll die of pneumonia.” He wiped at his eyes, violently.

“How can he be that sick?” I asked. “That quickly?”

“It’s been almost two days since he delivered. You…slept. I didn’t want to wake you. I was hoping it would be nothing. Eerlen fed the baby. I thought—” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have let him nurse. He wasn’t strong enough to. He had only one meal. But we couldn’t let the baby starve, and he wouldn’t let me take him. Maybe we should take him. To the King’s Children. Until he—” He shook his head. “But there is Eerlen’s double, and I think someone is after Eerlen. Perhaps the only reason I’m targeted is that I’m his sireling. I can’t let his child—”

There wasn’t much I could do. But what I could, I did. I fed him milk and bread and butter, and patted his head and squeezed his shoulder, and lied to him and told him everything would be well.

Eventually, he wiped his eyes with his tunic, and went back to Troz’s room. And I fed Kitten.

I think I fell asleep and it was much more than two hours, because I woke, with Kitten crying as loudly as he could and squirming so hard, he almost fell out of the sling. My excuse must be that I was dead tired. I didn’t know how Ellyan parents did it and nursed and survived.

Feeding Kitten got him quiet, and then I changed his diaper. He held onto my finger and wouldn’t let go, so I was holding him in one hand, and he was holding onto my finger with both hands, when Almar came through, dressed for the weather, and went out.

And Peaseblossom came out. I felt as if I were looking at Peaseblossom as he would look at fifty and deathly ill. And I hate to say it: he was still beautiful. Just exhausted and tragic-looking.

“He went to see if Kalal will come,” he said. “I can’t do magic to keep him alive and maybe give him a chance to fight this while I’m alone in Yanda. And this tired. But Kalal and I probably can maybe help him hold on while he fights. Still, it will take Lendir a while, and…”

“And?”

“I don’t know if Eerlen will be alive. He was bleeding. Inside. I should have caught it. I fixed it, but he’s very weak. And the infection… I don’t know if he’ll be alive when Lendir comes back. I sent Lendir away so he wouldn’t… So he wouldn’t see. He’s loved Eerlen almost his entire life. He shouldn’t see… If it…” He was shaking so much, his teeth were clacking together. “Maker curse it all. I’m an idiot. I’m an adult. It shouldn’t be this hard. My parent died. It was hard. I had to be king. That helped. But Myrrir’s death left— I feel like I’m still bleeding out from that.” He looked at me, his eyes swimming with tears. “I don’t want to lose Eerlen. He was always there. I could always trust him.”

And this is when I went insane. There is no other explanation.

“What do you do when someone loses too much blood?” I asked. “How do you give them blood?”

He looked blankly at me. “You do a spell so blood replenishes fast.”

“If that’s not possible?” I said. “Is it possible to put a person’s blood into another? Without killing the one who receives it? Can you change the blood to match?”

He blinked. “You mean change the pattern in the blood to match the other?”

Pattern. Sure. Whatever. “So it doesn’t kill the one who receives it?”

He nodded. “It’s difficult, but yes, it’s possible. And you can make it flow into the veins of the one who needs it. Tricky, but not impossible. It’s rarely done, because it takes finesse.”

“Can you do it?”

He nodded, hesitantly.

“Can you do it right now?”

“Eerlen is not dying because his blood is too low.”

“I know, but the nanos fight infection—”

“The spells,” he said, as though it had just hit him. He sat up straighter and blinked at me. “In your blood?”

“Yes. It’s a long shot. There have been stories of it transmitting in a field blood transfusion. It’s rare. Not impossible, but rare. Still. How likely is he to survive if we don’t?”

Peaseblossom shook his head. “Not. He’ll likely be gone before Lendir comes back.”

“Can you do it? As tired as you are?”

Peaseblossom nodded. “If it saves Eerlen’s life…I’m good,” he said. “Let me have some tea.”

I was shaking. I wasn’t absolutely sure if what we did would help, or finish killing Troz. And I wasn’t sure I’d forgive myself if it did kill him.

I gave Peaseblossom tea, and we put Kitten to bed, in a bassinet in Troz’s room. The bassinet was made of wicker and I had no idea where it had come from. It was also sized for a normal-sized infant, so he looked lost in it. He cried at me, and I petted his fuzzy head and sang to him.

Then I sat beside Troz. Peaseblossom got a knife and poured clear liquor on it. He got clean strips of cloth. He carefully cut into Troz’s arm. Then mine. He brought our bleeding arms together, and did…something. Blood stopped coming out between our arms. I felt…something, but…

“It will be very slow,” Peaseblossom said. “It’s a trickle. I don’t know if…” His voice failed. “I’m going to tie your arms together. To keep the cuts meeting.”

He tied multiple strips of cloth around our arms. Troz’s felt warm enough to burn my skin.

I can’t explain what happened next. One second, I was sitting on that bed, my arm tied to the arm of a dying Ellyan. And then, without falling asleep, I fell headlong into a dream.

BUY VOLUME 3