Five

There was no celebration when he came out, no cries of joy, no flickers of relief, not even sympathetic hands to grasp for reassurance at the tragedy of it. Certainly, the deadly silence of her attendants was all his exhausted mother needed to know the grim news.   Another male.   Was the curse of the Mistress upon her? Diracusta could read the thoughts in the unmoving faces of these her most loyal handmaidens. She could not help but entertain the possibility of it herself. Her enemies would cackle with laughter and warm their hands at her misfortune, quick to seize the advantage this would bring them.   Five! Five males, and only one sickly daughter and she was worthless - not of the blood, not acknowledged by the Tome, not fit to rule. Diracusta’s clan, their history, her entire line, her hopes for a future were unsecured, teetering on her shallowest breath day by day.   She knew what she would have to do next; had already thought of this possibility. She snorted. Thought of it? She had obsessed over it for the last cycle pouring over her options endlessly through every waking moment. In the back of her mind, a still small voice had soothed her, telling her the time of decision was not now, and that there was every chance that this time it would be different.   Stupid hope.   The convulsions of the afterbirth seized her and she breathed deeply with focus as she expelled the bloody remnants of this latest attempt to birth a daughter of the blood out of her body. It would be at least five cycles before she could expect another pregnancy. She was not overly fertile like Ta’bsern who produced endless children on cycle centers.   Damn Y’lasrea anyway! Such a fool to ask the Mistress for such a worthless thing as prowess in battle. It galled Diracusta to always send her males to serve the other clans, to protect and die for them in order to feed and clothe her own people. Could she but rule by violence and force of arms it would be different, her clan would be first. But no, the Mistress saw to it that that was not an option. The rules for Purgatine were strict, designed to keep the great clans from exterminating each other and gaining power from their males. Worse, the rules were enforced by the Mistress herself – one of the few laws that she actually bothered with. To Diracusta, it was proof that the founder of her clan had been a fool, unable to see beyond the past, to recognize the certainty of change. It was a bitter tincture indeed for her daughters to swallow.   That random thought flickered through her head again, her suspicion that Y’lasrea was not a fool at all, maybe not even… But no, such things were impossible.   “Priestess?” the voice of Talrath cut through her thoughts. They must be very afraid of her reaction to appoint her right hand as their spokeswoman. They had been prepared for this eventuality. Plotting, thinking, anticipating, preparing like the poisonous vipers they were. Loyalty amongst the dark elves was a precarious thing. Their service did not mean they were not deadly dangerous. They would kill her in a heartbeat if she became unfit.   “You may speak, Talrath.”   “The child requires a name.”   Diracusta blinked. Of all the things to ask. A name. Ligeoa help her, she had no time or energy to name a male child in the midst of this quagmire.   “Whatever seems best to you Talrath. I have no thought to spare for naming yet another male child.”   “Priestess. It is not my place -”   “Five. Name him five. That is how many I have borne, is it not? Let him take his place in line. His name is five.”   “Yes Priestess.” She hesitated then drew a deep breath. “Will you present him?” she asked swallowing nervously, then flinched at the venomous look she received.   Diracusta closed her eyes, and when she opened them again they had softened with resignation. Her retainer’s question was necessary.   “That will be needed too. Perhaps the Tome will accept him. There may be something salvageable from this catastrophe,” Diracusta sighed, “but not today. Tomorrow.”   Talrath turned away from the exhausted Diracusta cradling the tiny male child in her arms. The squish-faced infant opened deep sapphire blue eyes that seemed to grab at her and focus sharply on the handmaiden’s face as though memorizing it. She gently ran a finger down his left cheek, and he turned towards her finger eagerly rooting for a nipple. She smiled a rare smile at the motion, then passed him to Prewcar, the dwarvish slave woman who would nurse and raise him.   He had his life, and more than that, he was strong and healthy thought the High Priestess’s most loyal retainer. Diracusta bore them that way. Strong babies, but small. Just like the fierce woman who ruled Iraenox with a rod of iron. Easy to overlook, easy to ignore the warnings and believe they were harmless, so easy to underestimate – until they decided to act, and you realized your mistake too late. A mistake you were never allowed to regret for more than a few moments.   Too bad that Elsayah was so frail. The future of the fiercest clan in the Dark Caverns lay with the only sickly child in Diracusta’s brood, flawed heir to the Iraenox throne. Not that she was different in spirit from her mother – but spirit alone could not rule Iraenox – one must be able to rule. She wiped her thoughts from her face and turned to care for her mistress.   “Priestess. You must rest. The labor has taken your strength,” she said soothingly as she helped her mistress from the birthing chair. “I will guard you from your enemies until you wake.”   Diracusta nodded. She needed rest. After rest she would be fit to deal with the repercussions of this latest disaster.   If she lived that long.