Prologue

Jarren gazed down at the bloody infant the midwife had just handed him, his heart heavy. The tiny corpse barely filled his big, rough hands. The air was heavy with the scent of blood, and his wife's ashen, sweaty face told a grim story of struggle and pain. The midwife, Remal, glanced up from trying to staunch Misha's bleeding with boiled cloths.

“Bury him, Goodman Jarren,” she advised.

The goatherd turned to gaze out of the window, where a waning Death Moon's skull face glared down, an ill portent to any who were born under it. Perhaps it was better that the tiny boy his wife had just birthed in a river of blood had been born dead. A blizzard howled outside, rattled the wooden shutters and buried the frozen land under deep snow drifts. His son should not have been born for another three tendays, by which time spring should have arrived. The chill crept in through chinks in the windows and doors, cooling the air inside despite the fire that roared in the grate in the lounge.

A guttering oil lamp on the old coalwood bedside table lighted the cramped bedroom of his modest house. Clay plastered the dry stone walls and reed grass from the nearby lake thatched its roof. Faded, but clean homespun curtains covered the two narrow windows, a worn woollen rug softened the stone floor, and cheap ornaments and brick-a-brack stood on a puffwood chest of drawers in the corner

Jarren looked down at his stillborn son again. “Conash,” he whispered.

Remal grunted. “A fitting grave name.

He nodded. “Dead Son.”

Driven by an urge he did not understand, he shook the tiny infant, willing him to live. He did not want to lose his wife and his new son on the same night. If Misha died, at least his son must live. Jarren shook the boy again, and he writhed, then drew in a short gasp and let out a weak wail.

Remal glanced around. “You fool. He'll not survive more than a few time-glasses. He's too small and weak. He was born too soon.”

“He's alive.”

“He'll be dead soon enough.”

Jarren looked at his wife as Remal sat back, wiped her brow and left a smear of blood on it. “How is she?”

“I've stopped the bleeding. Now it's up to Tinsharon.”

Jarren approached the bed and knelt beside it to lay the tiny boy on his wife's breast. Conash breathed in weak gasps, and the midwife made a sound of disgust.

“You should wrap him and bury him now, Goodman Jarren. Spare yourself the grief of hoping that he'll survive. He won't.”

“And my wife?”

“She may live. She may even be able to bear more children. The childbed was blocking her womb. When the birthing started, it tore; that's why there was so much blood. As soon as he was born, the bleeding stopped. Misha almost died trying to bring him into this world alive.”

“She succeeded.”

Remal snorted, shaking her head. “Don't change his name.”

Jarren stroked the damp black hair from Misha's pale brow, gazing at her gentle face. Conash's head bore a thin layer of inky hair, so he had inherited his mother's, and perhaps her grey eyes too, like Jarren's other children. Misha had yet to bear a child that looked like her husband. He hoped she would give him more children, but if she could not he would be content with three. Or two. The boy was limp, but his fragile chest rose in shallow breaths. Jarren fetched a warm, damp cloth to clean his tiny son. He resembled a doll with translucent skin, Jarren thought.

Remal dug in her bag and placed a bottle on the table. “Feed her this when she wakes. It's a tonic to strengthen her blood. And give her plenty of water. Don't let that boy feed, Jarren. Let him die. It'll be kinder for him.”

Jarren looked up and nodded. “Thank you, Midwife Remal.”

“I'll return in a few days to see Misha and collect my fee. I don't expect to see him here when I do.”

He looked down at his son. “I expect not. But until he dies we'll love him. He deserves it. He didn't ask to be brought into this world, or to leave it again so quickly.”

She shook her head. “You're a fool.”

After the door had slammed behind her, Jarren kissed his son's brow. “You're going to live, Conash.”

The infant whimpered, and Jarren placed him in the cradle, then set about removing the blood-soaked sheets.

Three days later, Jarren stirred a pot of ryelen when someone banged on the door. He glanced into the bedroom, where Misha rested. Although still pale and exhausted, she had regained a little strength and held the baby to her breast. The child had only started to suckle the day before, and she fed him as often as possible. She lowered her gaze to her son, her eyes filled with tenderness.

Jarren opened the door to admit Midwife Remal and the village seer, Pendrith, with a blast of cold air. Pendrith's dour manner and sour, pinched face, straggly white hair, hooked nose and rat-trap mouth gave him a bellicose air. Remal spotted the baby and snorted.

“You're both soft in the head. Misha, you weaken yourself to feed him. He won't live.”

Misha shook her head. “That's up to Tinsharon.”

“What about your other children?”

Misha glanced at four-year-old Rykar and little Alenstra, who, at two years old, was due to be weaned. “It does them no harm. It's time Alenstra was weaned, in any case. We love all our children.”

Remal sighed and turned to Pendrith. “That's the child I told you about.” She glanced at Misha. “I brought Pendrith to do a cleansing, but now he can do a reading too. Then you'll see.”

Jarren took the bubbling pot off the stove. “According to you, he should already be dead, but he's not.”

“Only because you've coddled him, Goodman Jarren. Why would you want to raise a sickly child, even if he survives?”

“Because he was born to us.”

Pendrith lighted incense sticks and waved them as he wandered around the house, mumbling. Rykar sat on the overstuffed couch with his little sister, who watched the seer with wide eyes, her thumb plugged into her mouth. Remal went into the bedroom to sit beside Misha, frowning at the baby.

“When did he start suckling?”

“Only yesterday.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“A little stronger.” Misha looked down at her son. “I want him to live.”

“Let's see what Pendrith says.”

They waited for the seer to finish his cleansing, which entailed a great deal of incense smoke and mumbling. He entered the bedroom and sat on the chair that Jarren had placed beside the bed, gazing at the baby. The seer laid his hand on the infant's head, then snatched it away, rubbing it with a frown.

“What is it?” Jarren demanded.

“There's a lot of blood and death in this boy's future.”

“But he has a future?”

“Perhaps. The death may be his, although it's powerful.” Pendrith brushed his fingers over the child's hair again. “A lot of power around him, too.”

Jarren smiled. “He'll be a mighty warrior then, and fight in the war, most probably.”

Pendrith closed his eyes. “This is an ill-omened child, Goodman Jarren. All the portents of his birth are against him. I think Remal's right; you waste your time trying to keep him alive.”

“Well, that's up to us, isn't it?” Jarren gave Remal a silver coin. “Thank you for the reading, Seer Pendrith.”

Remal headed for the door, and Pendrith followed with a last glance at the baby. When it closed behind them, Jarren sat beside his wife and gazed at his youngest son, a gentle smile curving his lips.

“He's special, Misha. I feel it in my bones.”

She nodded. “I know. I feel it too.”

“They're wrong about him.