It was the mid of the afternoon, warm and lazy, only bees and crickets buzzing in the grass. I went to Kotta’s tent. As a rule the warriors kept away at such a season. A decrepit grandmother or two hovered near, crackling in their old woman’s voices. Their teeth were black, their sour hair gray. They played with beads in their fingers and said it was a long while to be waiting, and mentioned gore and pain. Then they noticed me and tutted, drawing aside.

As I came up to the flap, an animal screamed inside the tent.

The blood ran out of my heart. I gripped the flap in my fingers and stood rooted there.

The old women nodded approvingly.

One said, “Listen, warrior. That is how you came.”

And Tathra screamed again, and the old women chuckled, and congratulated each other on their predictions of a hard, prolonged travail.

Close to the flap, I heard her pleading now, pleading to her gods, pleading with the pain to let her be. The sweat broke out all over me. I thrust open the flap and was in Kotta’s tent.

The old women shrilled with outrage and interest. Inside it was red-dark from the burning brazier, and stank of blood and terror. Then Kotta came between me and the light.

“No, warrior,” she said. “This is no hour for you. Men sow and women bear. That is how it is.”

“Let me by,” I said.

And from the rugs behind her, Tathra called frantically, with her voice broken up by panting and hurt, “Tuvek—go out. Don’t stay to see my shame. You must not—stay—” Then she caught her breath and tried not to cry aloud.

I put Kotta aside and kneeled down where my mother lay. Her eyes were sunken but starting from her face and moisture streamed into her hair and a frenzied whining came from her throat. When she saw me so near, she tried to beat me away. I caught her wrists.

“Scream,” I said. “Let the krarl hear you, and be damned to them. You are bearing another son, one who will treat you better than I. Come, tear my hands if you want. Let me feel your pain.”

She fell back gasping.

“No,” she said. “You must go.”

But the vise seized her again. She drove her nails into my hands and shrieked.

“Good,” I said. “It will be easier soon.” But she shut her eyes and scarcely breathed. Kotta was bending near.

“How long?” I asked her.

“Too long,” she said, having forgone dissuading me. “A night and this day already. It is like the last.” But next she said quietly, “I cannot turn the child. It may die.”

“Let the thing die. Save Tathra.”

“Hold her, then,” Kotta said, “if you are for helping her.”

Accordingly, for an hour I held my mother, and Kotta aided Ettook’s son into this world. For it was a son. There was hair on its head, red hair as his had been, and it was dead.