Free Glasswrights' Master by Mindy L Klasky Page B

cradle, and he knew that there was no evil here, no manipulative potion. He was merely excited to see his only living child, the son who would carry his name down through the ages.
    â€œHe’s grown!”
    â€œAye.” Mareka bent down and lifted the boy, oblivious to his fussing as she folded his swaddling around him. She touched a fingertip to his nose, brushed imaginary fluff from his brow. “He eats and sleeps–that’s a recipe for growth.”
    â€œHe’s sleeping well, then? You said that he was restless when last I visited.”
    â€œI found a potion to help with that. It’s making him stronger, too.”
    A warning pricked behind Hal’s ears. “A potion?”
    â€œIt’s nothing, really. An old wive’s cure. You needn’t worry.”
    Old wives. Those would be the herb witches that Mareka had consulted, the women who had conspired to help her bear this son. Disdain brought hot words to his lips, sneers that any Morenian noble would cast upon such superstitious creatures.
    But what right did he have to suspect them? How could he challenge the herb witches when they had done what his own medics could not, what his own priests had failed to do? The witches had given him a living heir, and he would forever be in their debt.
    Nevertheless, he feared whatever brew Mareka was feeding Marekanoran, worried that the draught might carry some subtle poison.
    As if to forestall argument, Mareka offered him the bundle of cloth. Automatically, he stepped back. His hands suddenly seemed too large, too awkward, and he knew that he would trip over his own toes if he took a single step. The cloth would slip away from him, the child would squirm when he least expected it.
    A tiny smile quirked Mareka’s lips. She understood him. She understood his fears, and yet she would not ridicule him, not when he merely thought to protect his child, their child. She gestured for him to sit in the chair beside her fire, a sturdy three-legged stool with a stark frame back. He complied and held out his hands.
    The child weighed more than he had before–what was it, five days past? Or did Hal misremember his own son? The boy squirmed as Hal took him, sleepily stretching amid his soft swaddling. Hal quickly lowered the baby to his own joined knees, intent on balancing the precious burden, protecting him, keeping him safe from harm.
    Marekanoran’s eyes flew open, as if he were surprised by the strange touch. Hal’s gaze met his son’s, and he felt a shock of recognition, a rush of power. This was his heir. This was the child who would carry the ben-Jair blood into the future. This was the son who would cap the meaning of his life, the meaning of his father’s life, and all his fathers before him. Pride swelled inside Hal’s throat, crushing tears against his eyes. Pride, and love, and a great, glorious sense of righteous power.
    â€œHe’s doing well, Mareka.”
    â€œAye.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Ah! There! He’s awake now!”
    Her announcement was accompanied by the infant opening his mouth, gathering in air as if he were determined to live on breath alone. Then, he began to squall, the sound echoing off the earthen ceiling in the close room.
    Frantic, Hal tried to gather up the baby, but his motions were awkward, and the boy began to slip from his knees. Hal started to speak to the child, trying to calm him, but he knew the boy would not understand any words. He was an infant, after all, a helpless, senseless creature.
    The sound grew louder, more forceful, and Hal cast a nervous look to the ceiling above them. It was plastered, and it looked secure, but it might crumble at the assault.
    â€œMareka!” he started to cry, but she was already moving forward, already lifting the baby, already clicking with her maternal tongue, cooing in a soft voice that Hal had never heard her use before.
    As soon as the child was taken from him,