This time, it was rage that followed the words, it was despair, for all the children that had died because of those horrible people out there, for this poor little thing that had suffered the tortures of the damned, been forced into birth. No baby ever asked to be born, but this one had been tormented into existence, and nothing would make it better except to be ushered out of life—
Maria wept for it, a mother's tears. The tears fell down and into the shadow.
And the silvery blood-writing boiled. There was a brief moment of movement, of wind and of fire.
And then there was a surcease of pain.
The rain began. The clouds, so long held back, swept in, swept over the hawks in their new forest, so that they held up their heads to the falling rain and drank in the sweet water that washed away the foulness on their tongues. It swept over the peasant women who set out jars and bowls to catch it. It soaked into the earth, that drank it with a million thirsty throats, and sent it down into the streams, into the unseen crevices of the rocks, with the sound of life renewing, at last.
"It is in my kingdom now," said her new husband. "I have put it where it belongs."
"What else must we do?" asked Maria tiredly.
He shrugged. "The Mother's place has rain at last, and will heal. It has got its people again, and they love it. It is in a magical place with those that perished giving birth to it. They blame it no more than you, and now they can cherish it. With that, it will heal."
"What about the siege?"
"Ah." Tall already, he seemed to grow taller. And grimmer. "War is death's kingdom. Mine, not Hers."
"Hah," Maria replied, feeling anger giving her back her strength. "Maybe so. But I'm going to help."
Chapter 99
Erik was on the battlements of the inner curtain wall, organizing and trying to prevent panic. Most of all, wishing silently that the inner walls had been built as the outer had: to withstand cannon. But the outer walls had been rebuilt not fifteen years back. This inner wall was probably a century old.
The outer wall had stood up to months of pounding. The inner wall would last weeks at best. Which was more time than they had water for, anyway.
A cannon across on the Spianada boomed. They must be mad! They should move them up first . . . a second, then a third cannon spoke. And Erik realized they were firing into the outer city. Into their own troops. Peering out to the enemy encampment on the other side of the Spianada, Erik's jaw dropped. For the first time since Svanhild's death he began to laugh. It was harsh sound, but it was laughter nonetheless.
The Hungarian camp was burning. Not as if from a little brave band in a small patch, but across a wide front. It must have taken thousands of men. And more and more of the Hungarian artillery fired into the Hungarian troops in the Citadel. If they spiked those guns before retreating . . . the inner citadel would last as long as its water held out.
Erik wondered whether this was Venice's forces at last. Like the rain, those had just never seemed to get here.
Manfred came up behind him, helmet under his arm and grinning like the cat that had eaten the cream. Von Gherens was just behind. "Well, Erik. What do you think? Half of them seem to be running back to camp. Are we going to sortie again?"
Erik shook his head. "The cannon-fire is doing it for us. As soon as it stops—"
A cold wet something hit him on the nose. Then another hit his cheek. "I don't believe it! It's raining!"
The rain came down in a gray, hissing curtain. So heavy that the view of the Spianada and then the section of the Citadel outside the inner curtain suddenly disappeared.
Manfred, Erik and Von Gherens stood there, rain driving in their faces, plastering their hair down, grinning at each other.
"Come on, you pair of loons," said Von Gherens. "Your armor's getting wet."
Behind them the Citadel was echoing—despite the rain—to cheers and cries of "San Marco!"
* * *
Erik was the last to leave the battlements.
He looked out at the rain, but he saw her face. And no one in the downpour could tell rain from tears anyway. He hadn't been able to weep, since that early moment in the hospital. Now, here, alone in the rain, where no one could see him, he could. Somehow it lifted a weight from his soul.
* * *
Giuliano saw the first heavy drops splash on the dusty earth. Like Erik he gaped. But he'd lived here all his life and he knew that when it rained here, it rained in earnest. "Sound the retreat," he said to the young Venetian with him.
"But sir, we still have some cannon to spike!"
"Believe me, Nico. They won't be using them for a while anyway. Look at that rain. This place is going to be fetlock deep in mud soon. And this rain will cover the retreat beautifully, eh, Thalia?"
She smiled at him, eyes like stars. "Good for the olives, too."
She was a jewel past price.
* * *
The cannonball must have hit the house, because even in the cellar they felt the impact of it. Flakes of black paint fell from the ceiling. Alberto looked owlishly at Benito. "I believe I'll have that second drink after all. No sense in dying sober."
In Benito's informed opinion, if the next cannonball came right through into the cellar in two heartbeats' time and hit Alberto . . . he still wouldn't die sober. Yet he'd suffered Benito's rough surgery stoically. The wine might have helped. They hadn't eaten much in the last while and a little wine went a long way.
"Air holes, but no view," grumbled Benito, passing the bottle over. "No wonder the woman went mad in here."
"You ask me she was mad to start with," said Alberto phlegmatically. Once he'd got over his shock the big man had rapidly reconciled himself to staying down here for a while.
Benito hadn't. He'd been pacing the cellar like a caged animal for the last while. Being pinned down would kill him as surely as bullets or swords, he decided.
"Alberto. I'm going to have a look outside."
* * *
In the temple cave, Alessia stirred. The rock beneath her moved slowly, slightly, readjusting from the terrible stresses that had been put on it and were now washed away. The crack that split the holy pool healed. Water, rising from a deep artesian flow, began to drip slightly faster. And, as the rains beat down outside, faster still. The drops became a trickle and the trickle became a stream. The clay bowl overflowed. The pool filled up.
The healing and the magic in this place affected other things, too. Alessia woke up. She got to her knees; then, waving her arms for balance, stood up. It was no great height. She took little swaying baby-steps forward.
And fell into the pool.
Another baby might have drowned. But this child was hemmed in by certain protections. She sat up, wet through, and screamed. And screamed. She wanted her mother.
She wanted her mother NOW.
* * *
And if her mother is not there to care for her—she just has to touch running water to call me or my kin to help.