The midwife opened a wooden box in the corner. Issari glimpsed tongs and metal tubes, and then the pain washed over her, and she shut her eyes and clenched her fists.

While Teean worked, Issari screamed.

Please, Taal, please, she prayed, clenching her fist so tightly the amulet hurt in her hand. Please . . .

Something large and smooth and wet slithered out of her.

A babe cried.

It was a beautiful sound—soft, tender, begging for a mother's love.

Issari took a shaky breath, her eyes still closed.

My son needs me.

"Oh blessed Irishin . . ." rose the midwife's voice. The clatter of falling bronze tools followed.

Issari opened her eyes and she wept. He stared at her from the edge of the bed, eyes wet and wide. Her son.

"My son," she whispered.

The nephil blinked, his eyelids making soft, wet sounds. Blood and amniotic fluid covered his wretched, twisted, rotting body, and his tiny jaws opened, lined with teeth, and he cried again. Cried for her, for his mother. His hands wrapped around her leg, clinging, drawing blood with his tiny claws.

"My son." She wept. "He needs me."

Face pale, Teean lifted a knife. She thrust the blade into the nephil's back.

"No!" Issari screamed, hoarse. "Teean, no!"

Her tears fell and she leaped from the bed. Her son screamed. A horrible sound. A betrayed sound. He gazed at her, the blade protruding out from his chest, and his mouth opened and closed.

Why? he seemed to ask her. Why did you abort me? Why do you slay me?

"My son. . ." Weeping, she reached toward him.

But the boy turned and leaped away. The little nephil, no larger than a newborn kitten, scuttled across the floor, leaving a wet trail, and fled the tent.

Bleeding and dizzy, Issari stumbled off the bed, shoved Teean aside, and raced outside.

"I'm sorry!" she cried out, for now that she had seen her son, she pitied him. She loved him.

And he was gone.

She searched the hills for hours, searched every tent, but she could not find him, and finally she stumbled out of the camp, and she fell to her knees in the wilderness. She lowered her head, and her body shook, and her tears fell.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

She placed her hand upon her belly, and she felt empty. She had slain demons, had saved Vir Requis, had led an exodus from ruin to new life, but for the first time she had created life—even if it was a twisted, miserable life—and she had tried to extinguish that precious life, to kill her own son.

She lowered her head, and despair washed over her.