Thus when the king’s mother began her labors, her ladies waited outside her chambers, and the people waited outside the palace walls, while the king’s advisor did attend her birthing pains with his significant wisdoms.

But great was the sorrow of those who had gathered when the king’s advisor emerged and announced that the babe had been stillborn. So overcome was the advisor himself that his lip was seen twitching in woe as he delivered the news. And so much was the weeping, and so much was the wailing that a palace guard, even, overwhelmed by his grief, was spied rushing away, clutching a blanket that should have swaddled the babe if the birth had been happy.

A brutish day. A brutish age.

Another misfortune none thought to question, for, yea, though all mourned the loss of the babe, it was not inconceivable that the babe should not live. It was not even unexpected that the babe should not live. It was, rather, unfortunately, the way of the age. Brutish.

None thought to wonder at the overwrought guard who rushed with the blanket away from the chamber and down to the stables; none thought to question why he galloped off into the dusk, still clutching the blanket—or why, in truth, the blanket was now tied, wrapped even, about his chest as he urged on his horse with whip and with heel. Grief, of course, was an excellent answer: how overcome he was, dutiful guard; how much he lamented the loss of the babe.

Yes, this much was true: He was dutiful.

Dutiful with blanketing, with galloping, with journeying.

Of course, none thought to question the heart of the thing: the idea of the babe, one babe, sibling to the king, next in line to the throne, who was said to have died.

From the Innkeeper’s Log at the Inn at the Edge of the Woods:

suppers

mutton leg II

cabbage + beans IIII

ale IIII III

wine III

rooms

above stairs—single (paid I night, no horse)

back room—double (paid II nights, stabled team)

above stable—single (paid I night, stabled horse) NOT single; has TWO SHRIEKING infants; OWES four coins; COLLECT REMAINDER IN MORNING

VIII

A SACK OF CABBAGES IN THE DARK

Alba was, for months after her prophecy, inconsolable. Nights, she lay awake staring into the darkness, hearing again and again her own cruel words, seeing again and again the boy-king’s delicate flan cheek harden and crack. Mornings, when the gray light of dawn first entered the room, she rose reluctantly and only at the prodding of the oracle, who reminded her that the priests would, without hesitation, discard her in the wilderness if she were found neglecting her duties. Days, she kept up the appearance of an apprentice, kneeling deep in the cave, listening to the oracle answer questions—

Should I buy a goat or a sheep?

The ruminant that bleats will bring blessings to your home.