The Brotherhood: Blood (2 page)

No. My son is not meant to be with traders.

“Guide me, Mother,” he whispered. “Guide me.”

The figure came to a small house at the bottom of the hill and sensed within his body an urgency that led him to believe that this was where the baby would go. Heart faltering, breath silent but chest heaving, he stepped toward the door but paused in midstride, only to look down and upon the child that he now carried within his arms.

“You’re here,” he whispered, bowing to set the baby on the porch. “Goodbye.”

Before he could fully crouch, the door opened.

Hurling himself back, taking the child to his chest, he tore his cloak around his body and shielded the baby from the view of the human who stood directly in front of him.

No,
he thought.
I couldn’t have—

Panicked, instantly, by the idea that he had harmed the baby with his nails, he searched the infant for wounds while the occupant who had opened the door stared.

That in itself was easily understandable. Here he was—a giant in a cape with only the pale skin of his chest exposed—before a man whom could see nothing of the figure who stood upon his doorstep. He had to look strange, even frightening in a way. Humans feared what they could not see—those in the dark, the ones in the woods, the things that landed on the mountains and screamed on full moon nights. Had he expected any different, especially from an ignorant human man?

“Please,” he said, stepping closer. The human tensed almost instantly, then reached for something at his side. The idea that the man could possibly have a weapon forced him to pause in midstride. “I can’t promise you fortune or goodwill. The mother… she died.”

“By your hand?”

“NO!” The baby whimpered at such an outburst. The figure whispered to it, drawing his cloak around his body to shield it from the cold, before turning his eyes back up at the man standing in the doorway. “She died during childbirth. Please, good man—there was nothing I could do. Would you let an innocent child freeze in the cold?”

In response to his statement, the human examined him with eyes so dark they could barely be seen within their sockets, likely trying to gauge just what it was that stood on his doorstep. By nature, a human’s eyes could deceive them immensely on several different levels, so to think that this man could be seeing several different versions of what he happened to be was no understatement. Did he see a monster, a fool, a pathetic creature who stood in the rain offering a baby no more than a few hours old, or did he simply see something in trouble—a creature that, by all respects, was asking for help he could not give himself?

When the mortal man accepted a baby whose origins he could not be sure of, the figure turned and fled into the woods, forever disappearing from sight.

*

“Odin,” the human man by the name of Ectris Karussa said, looking down at the pale, translucent-skinned child.

After the figure had mysteriously disappeared into the woods, he had taken his place at the kitchen table and wrapped the child in a fire-warmed blanket in order to combat the chill dwelling within his body. Eyes downcast, lips pursed in confusion and heart still fluttering in his chest, he pressed a hand against the blanket the baby was wrapped within and tried to imagine just how such a young child could have survived outside the womb without its mother.

Does it matter?
he thought.

It’s all right,
he thought, staring into the baby’s harsh, blood-colored eyes.
It’s just… odd.

He’d heard of such children before—when, while seated beside his grandfather when he was still alive, he’d been told that such children had once been proclaimed as monsters some time ago and oftentimes killed for that very reason. Only the intervention of mages had saved them in the long run.

Mages.

Shivering at the idea, he allowed the baby to suck on his thumb and tried to imagine just what it was the creature had done when he’d pressed his lips to the baby’s brow. He’d sensed, within the air, the all-too-familiar signs of magic—a static which, when met with skin, could send the hairs on one’s arms on end. What the creature had done he couldn’t be too sure, but the fact that the creature knew magic, much less was capable of using it on his own son was unsettling in the least.

What could he have done?

Not willing to dwell on the idea that this child could have been instilled with something that could harm him come time when he eventually learned to walk on his own two feet, Ectris looked up and at the rain before bowing his head back to the baby lying beneath him.

Later, once the rain calmed, he could go to the young farmer and ask for a warm bottle of milk. He wouldn’t let this baby go hungry.

It’s all right. He’s just different.

Without so much as another word, he took the baby in his arms, offered his thumb once more, then watched the young child suckle his digit before turning and making his way toward the door.

The baby close to his chest, Ectris walked down the road in the faint sheen of rain and tried to ignore the protests coming from the child wrapped within his arms. The crying fit much worse now that he’d stepped back into the cold, his limbs protesting beneath the bundled blanket, Ectris could do no more than shroud the baby within his cloak in order to protect him from the rain until he got to the house.

Will Joseph have it?
he dared to think.

Of course the young farmer would—the cows in his enclosure numbered aplenty. They produced more than enough milk for the man himself and the neighbors who lived around him. Surely he could spare enough for a baby.

After what seemed like an eternity of walking through the rain, he came to the young farmer’s front door.

“Here goes nothing,” he whispered.

Knocking, he kicked the mud off his shoes, stepped up onto the first two stairs, then waited, occasionally whispering to the baby in an attempt to calm him down.

Shortly after it seemed as though Odin’s wails would not calm down, the door opened, revealing the blonde-haired, stubble-bearded farmer. “Ectris?” Joseph frowned. “What’s wrong? What are you doing out in the rain?”

Inside, Ectris slid out of his muddied boots, followed Joseph into the kitchen, then stared at what appeared to be the pail of milk he knew the farmer would have.

Ectris nodded. He pulled the baby out from under the cloak and showed him to Joseph, careful to keep the child a fair distance away for fear that some form of revulsion would slight the young man’s demeanor.

Ectris said nothing. Instead, he settled himself into a chair, pulled his cloak off, then gave the baby his thumb. “The milk, please.”

While Joseph busied himself with the task, Ectris took into consideration the fact that much of his physical interaction with the farmer had been few and short-to-none. He knew, however, that the boy was good for his word. If he said he’d offer milk, he would offer milk.

“It’s supposed to be lukewarm,” Joseph explained, stoking the fire and hanging the pail over the flames. “Not hot enough to burn you, but cool enough to make your fingers tingle.”

Though Joseph offered no word in addition to his comment, he occasionally dipped his finger into the milk and tested its warmth. After several long, painstaking moments of waiting, he pulled the pail from the fireplace and retrieved a glass bottle from one of his cupboards. It took him much longer to locate a nipple, but he soon found one and filled the bottle with milk. “There,” he said, even managing a smile despite the awkward situation. “I’ll let you take that home with you. You’ll be feeding him for the next long while.”

“What about the milk?”

“It’ll be good for a few days, but I imagine the little one will be drinking most of the pail. All you have to do is come to me if you need milk.” Joseph paused. “Well… actually, wait. You’ll be busy with the baby and your own housework, so I’ll bring the pail over.”

He fell into a routine within the next few days. Rising early in the morning, changing the child’s diaper, feeding him milk, and, occasionally, if willing, a vegetable ground to mush—he’d spend much of the early hours of his day managing the baby before he fell in line with his own chores in and around the house. Always he stayed close, allowing himself the chance and ear to hear the baby’s cries, and when night came he’d feed, burp, change, then rock him until he fell asleep before settling him down into bed beside him. With this he took extra precaution. His greatest fear was that he would roll over in the middle of the night and crush the baby to death. To remedy that he had, essentially, created a cradle out of spare blankets and pillows, but took extra care to make sure that the child wouldn’t roll over and smother himself to death.

The following morning, before he even rose from bed, he woke to a pounding at the front door.

After crawling out of bed, pulling a pair of shoes onto his feet and checking to make sure that the baby was still asleep, he walked from the room, down the hallway, then into the living room, where he crossed the brief distance between the fireplace and the window before looking out to make sure no one unwarranted had arrived.

Outside, Joseph stood on the porch in full winter attire—shivering, arms over his chest, and with a cradle standing on its twin legs nearby.

He didn’t,
Ectris thought.

Joseph shrugged, heaved the cradle into his arms, then brought it into the house, taking extra care to set it on the middle of the floor before turning his head up and examining him. “I hope you’ve been careful,” he said.