Almost as quickly as she had thought it, the child's deep, brown eyes closed, her soft eyelashes fluttering for the last time, like tiny butterflies' wings. Then came the delicate death rattle from her exhausted lungs, and her head slipped quietly over to one side. The woman slowly stood back up.
With tears in her eyes, the woman named Adrian lifted the worn blanket up over the baby's face. Turning to look at the parents, she shook her head sadly.
Refusing to believe, the frantic mother snatched the dead child up in her arms, as if by holding her close, she could somehow imbue her with new life. Adrian left the mother to her grief and walked to the father. His name was Inar, and he hadn't eaten or slept for three days. Near collapse, he leaned his head against the wall and sobbed openly.
"Please know that I did all I could," Adrian said softly.
Reaching out from the sleeve of her hooded robe, Adrian gently touched his hand. It felt cold and lifeless, just as his heart now surely did. Tears running down his face, the father could only nod.
Knowing there was nothing left to be said, Adrian quietly left the room. Going to the cottage door, she let herself out onto the street, where a light rain had begun to fall. She walked to where her horse was tied, pulling up the hood of her robe as she went.
As she mounted her roan gelding, she took a final look back at the modest cottage. Smoke wisped up out of the chimney, and she knew that the traditional black silk ribbon of mourning would soon adorn the door.
What a difference only a few seconds could make, she thought. A body could be warm and alive one moment, and then, in the twinkle of an eye, it was not. After closing her eyes for a time, she slowly opened them again and turned her horse up the slick, cobblestoned street.
Had the child's parents somehow had the occasion to see Adrian's upper left arm, they would have noticed her tattoo: a square, bloodred image of the Paragon. Still, that would not have entirely revealed Adrian's secret, the one she had promised never to divulge since the age of five, when the wizards of the Directorate had granted her father's humble request that his only daughter be accepted for training in the craft. But Adrian was more than simply another person of endowed blood.
Adrian of the House of Brandywyne was of the craft, and a graduate of a place known only to a privileged few. A place called Fledgling House.
Listening to her horse's shoes strike the cobblestones, she regarded the drab city of Tanglewood as it passed slowly by. It was not one of Eutracia's more prosperous places, and probably never would be. And since the unexpected return of the Coven of sorceresses and the deaths of the wizards of the Directorate, she feared the city's plight would only worsen.
The houses in this section were made of dark wood and had shabby thatched roofs. They all seemed to look the same somehow, and had a crooked, fragile, ramshackle quality about them. It was almost as if they needed to lean up against one another just to remain upright, and if the first of them fell, the rest would also give up the effort and tumble down with it.
She had been trying to save the dying infant all night, and it was now just after dawn, the rising sun smothered somewhere just over the horizon among inky, dark rain clouds. Around her, Tanglewood seemed to be slowly waking up. Low, muffled conversation could be heard here and there, and smoke was rising from the tops of the chimneys. The occasional chamber pot could be seen held out of a window, its contents unceremoniously dumped on the nearby ground. Men in worn work clothes began appearing from doorways to kiss their wives good-bye and go about their daily labors. The enticing aromas of peasant food-plain, but good-hung in the damp morning air.
Adrian's stomach growled, reminding her of how long it had been since she had eaten. Trying to save the baby girl had taken all her strength, and she was exhausted. She reached into one pocket of her robe and counted her kisa. There should be enough, she reasoned. She would stop at the first inn she came across, allowing herself a rest before returning to her village.
Sometimes she felt very alone in the world, despite the number of people she always seemed to encounter who needed her help. At thirty Seasons of New Life she found herself neither young nor old. She was not yet married, but that did not trouble her too much. And she had been an only child, her mother dying while giving her life. Her father had not visited her modest cottage-the one he had built for her with his own two hands-for nearly a year now, and because of that she feared greatly for him. He was a consul of the Redoubt, and it had often been said that he knew the lead wizard personally. But for some time it had been widely rumored that Wigg was dead, along with all of the other wizards of the Directorate. A shudder went through her as she wondered anew about the fate of her father and the other members of his discipline.
She had not come across any of the Brotherhood for some time now, and that was unusual. She would certainly have known them, just as she always had, by their simple dark blue robes, quiet manners, and the tattoo of the Paragon on their shoulders, should any of them deign to reveal it to her. It seemed something sinister had happened not only to the Directorate but to the Brotherhood as well, leaving her and her sister acolytes lost and alone in the craft.
But Adrian was a hardy, stalwart woman. And she would continue to uphold her vows, regardless of the nation's plights. She would gladly perform the good deeds she had promised the headmaster and matron of Fledgling House the day they had pronounced her trained and set her and her classmates free at the age of twenty-one.
She had been a proud member of the first such group to be given their tattoos and then sent forth. She had always yearned to return to Fledgling House, to see again the modest, charming castle sitting next to the base of the northern Tolenka Mountains. But she never had. She also longed to see Duncan again-the wizard with the long gray hair who had taught her so much. And Martha, Duncan's wife-the kindly, rotund matron who had always seen to the girls' other needs. She remembered the couple fondly and hoped they were both well. Fledgling House was the only real home she had ever known, and Duncan and Martha were more her parents than her father and late mother had ever been.
Perhaps I will return one day, she thought. When times are not so cruel, and the need for my gifts is not so great.
As she rode along, Adrian clutched an errant lock of her hair that had somehow escaped the hood of her robe and hooked it behind one ear. As she did, she smiled gently to herself. She knew she was not beautiful. But she possessed the strength of heart to know that the quality of her femininity mattered far less than the quality of her service to the craft. What she may have lacked in appearance she more than made up for with not only her intelligence, but with the goodness of her heart.
Adrian was rather short and plain. Her wide, level eyes were deep brown. Her sandy, curly, shoulder-length hair always seemed to be getting in the way. The sleeves of her dark red acolyte's robe fell loosely down around her wrists, and the hem gently swished across the tops of her boots when she walked. A black, knotted cord secured the robe at its middle, its tasseled ends falling down along the outside of her right thigh.
Finally she saw an inn, with a sign proclaiming it the bear and finch. But as she approached it, she felt a strange sensation and pulled her horse up short. Breathing heavily, she began to sweat noticeably, even though it was certainly not warm on the street. She had never felt anything remotely like this. It was not painful. It was more… needful. Yes, she thought. That was the word she was looking for: needful. But needful of what? she asked herself.