Daughter Of Lir – Judith Tarr

“He’s less likely to run,” said Caleva, “if he’s farther from the steppe.” “One would hope so,” Rhian said. Minas had left off watching and gone to show Bran how to separate a wheel from its axle. One of the women took the wheel and inspected it, feeling out the joining of the spokes to the rim.

“Do you see how that’s made?” said Caleva. “He must have been a god who conceived such a thing.” “The people of his tribe do believe so,” Rhian said. “And we are mortal,” Caleva sighed. “We have his grandson here with us, who was his pupil. He’s a great gift of the Goddess.” “That gift were best delivered to Lir,” Caleva said, “and to the king.” “And the Mother?” Rhian asked steadily, though her heart had begun to beat hard.

“The Mother is dead,” Caleva said. “No one’s been set in her place?” “The priestesses rule in council,” said Caleva. “Some are declaring that the age of the Mothers is over; that this is the time of kings and councils. Others say the priestesses are afraid—they tried to choose a Mother from among themselves, but every woman they chose was given some sign that she was not meant for such an office.

One, it’s said, went as far as to sit in the Mother’s place, and was blasted for it, struck dead where she sat.” Rhian heard her as if she spoke from very far away. It was strange to be told these things, and to remember how she would have heard them if she had been in Long Ford. Now when Caleva spoke of the Mother, she spoke of the woman who had given Rhian life; whose heir Rhian should have been, but the priestesses had forbidden it. Rhian was going to Lir.

She could hardly avoid it. Minas was her captive. She was not about to hand him over to any troop of guards, though they were chosen of the king. “We had better go tomorrow,” she said with sudden decision. “Can we be ready then?” “It can be done,” said Caleva. “Good,” said Rhian.

“Will you help us see to it?” “With pleasure,” Caleva said. She rose, creaking a little, for she was not a young woman. She stood looking down at Rhian.

On the day the Mother’s daughter was born, a storm battered the city of Lir. Winds tore at its walls and towers. Thunder cracked. Rain lashed the streets. She was very young to be the Mother of a city, though not so young to bear a child. This was her third, and the first that was not a son: a blessing, and great joy, for a daughter would be Mother in her place, when she was old and august and had lived the full count of her years.

She came to the birthing knowing she bore a daughter. She sang through the pains, though her dreams of late had all been dark. Just as her daughter leaped into the world, the world itself split asunder. Lightning struck the topmost tower of the temple and cast it down in ruins. The Mother, secure in the sanctuary below, loosed a great cry, fierce and shrill above the tumult of heaven.

They laid the child on her hollowed belly, all bloodied and newborn as it was. In the ringing silence after her cry, the Mother bit through the cord and bound it with her own hands. But she did not take the small wriggling creature in her arms. When she reached to do it, the last strength poured out of her, a gout of blood that wrung a cry from the midwives.

She fell back with a soft sound, neither a gasp nor quite a cry. The child began to slip from her belly. One of the priestesses caught it: the youngest, standing startled as if she had not known what she would do until she had done it. A murmur passed among the attendants. The young priestess should not have been there. She was new come to childbed herself, but her son had scarcely opened his eyes on the world before he shivered and died.

She clutched the baby to her breast, which was full and aching with new milk. The child nosed, seeking; found the nipple; began to nurse. She stood transfixed. She made no move to thrust the child away, nor did anyone move to take it from her.

o0o The Mother lived, if barely. They had entrusted her life and spirit to the Goddess whose living image she was. Healer-priestesses tended her. Even a man had come, one of the sacred dancers, who had a great gift of making and healing. The rest of the Goddess’ servants gathered in the heart of the temple, in the shrine that was as old, some said, as the world.

It was round like the curve of the Goddess’ arms, and full of lamplight. But the shadows crowded and whispered.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: f9d933113b43c2c9
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,884,562 bytes (1.797 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• ISBN: 9781611384307
• Pages: 566
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 948.58 minutes
• Total Words: 189,716
• Total Characters: 1,005,333
• Average Words per Page: 335.19
• Average Characters per Page: 1776.21

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