Latgalay expected some small amount of retribution for her actions. She had given poison to an emissary of another tribe afterall, but because she had made use of an intermediary, she felt safe. Afterall, Morwen the poet would hardly confess to having slipped poison into the Hand of Boldjay’s mead. The poet was many things, but honest he was not.

And yet, it still came as some surprise, that early the next morning, when someone burst into the crone’s nest, that instead of a furious poet, it was a small boy–Kainis’ younger brother.

“My sister needs you!” the boy yelled. He had run in without knocking and had found Latgalay buried beneath a blanket on her straw mattress, with perhaps a small amount of drool decorating her face. The boy grabbed and pulled at Latgalay’s hand until she stumbled upwards.

Her first reaction was to smack the irreverent child for bursting in and waking her, but then she remembered what he had said. His sister. That would be Kainis. Kainis needed help? Likely the pregnancy gone awry. A cold sweat beaded down Latgalay’s neck as she threw on a shawl and asked at the same time “What ails her?”

“She gives birth, but the babe is stuck!” He cried. “Hurry, before it is too late!”

Latgalay was hurrying as she got ready. But she could not go out without certain precautions. First she must smooth out her hair, then place upon her wrists and neck several bone charm ornaments, and then her boots upon her feet. All the while, the boy rocked back and forth in place, emitting a nervous energy. To distract him, Latgalay asked, “And Gerda the midwife?” Gerda the matron, the midwife, and the chief’s aunt.

“She sent me—please hurry!” The boy answered.

Latgalay nodded as she finished readying herself. She grabbed a small trunk of herbs, ointments, and spirits and followed after the boy. She almost ran, but the trunk weighed her down. The result came across as an undignified hurry.

She arrived at a cramped shack attached near the edge of the village main, on the same side as the tannery. This was where the invalids and the poor of the tribe were put, including orphans and unwanted children. This was where the wretches and the most worthless of slaves lived. This was where the crone Karreki had found Latgalay, before adopting her, and making her an apprentice.

Before Latgalay entered, she could hear the pained grunts and the occasional shout. Before Latgalay entered, she could smell the blood and sweat, even over the tannery. Before Latgalay entered, she felt a twinge of worry for her friend. Birthing was unfair and dangerous and a blight to all womankind, and the very idea of it made her blood boil. But it was now what Kainis must endure. It was to Latgalay to ensure her friend survived.

Before her, the boy ran into the shack. Embers burned low in the hearth, but the room felt warm and damp. Kainis rested on a slanted board, with her feet up on pegs. She was panting, covered in sweat, and fluid dripped down. Red rags were crumpled on the floor, wet and sticky. And resting in a corner, slouching on a stool against the wall, was an exhausted Gerda, Gerda the matron, Gerda the chief’s aunt, Gerda the useless, this Gerda now slouched upon a stool.

“What ails her?” Latgalay asked once again. This time, she hoped for an answer.

“The babe is stuck and she is bleeding out,” Gerda said. “I tried reaching around the crown, but it is a tight fit.”

Latgalay sat next to Kainis. Her forehead awash with sweat, her eyes barely open. Latgalay felt a moment’s panic, for she had never been in this position, of having sole responsibility for a difficult birth. Why had not Karreki stayed instead?

She spoke soothingly to Kainis, “You will be alright,” Latgalay said. “But we need to get the babe out. I shall help.” Even if she had no idea how, she would help her friend survive this. And then she would seek justice for her friend, for having been forced to endure this hardship.

Kainis did not say anything but a near lifeless grunt. Her younger brother was crying, with tears streaming down his face. For him, a distraction was needful, else he was sure to become a distraction himself.

“And how old are you?” Latgalay asked the boy. “Surely you must be old enough to pick up arms and win honor.”

“I am seven winters yet,” he said, “And soon, I shall fight for my position.” He still sniffled, but his incessant mewling had ended.

“Kainis,” Latgalay said, after turning back towards her. “I will delve your womb. You may feel this.”

She uttered a quick spell and her dusjos sent tendrils into Kainis. Latgalay felt the babe, felt a strong and weak heartbeat. She felt where the babe rested and she found the problem: The cord had pulled away from the mother, which caused the bleed, and the cord had tangled itself around the babe, which kept the head away from the canal.

Latgalay moved down between Kainis’ legs and did what no simple midwife could have done. For having the cord pull from the mother would always be lethal, without magic, or without alchemy beyond the pale. Fortunately for Kainis, Latgalay had magic.

“The babe is stuck,” Latgalay said. She rolled back her sleeve. She frowned at Kainis’ thighs. If the babe were to live. This would be far more personal than Latgalay preferred to become with any. But endure she must, if her friend were to endure. Latgalay’s hand found its way through the opening and she found the top of the babe’s head. She pushed the head back in for a moment. With her spirit as her eyes, she twisted the babe, unraveling the cord. Its heartbeat grew stronger while Kainis’ grew weaker.

“Has the father shown up yet?” Latgalay asked. She knew better than to ask, but she wished for a suitable topic to think of, besides where her hand was, and besides where her face was, and besides where her spirit currently delved.

“The fool girl does not know,” Gerda scoffed.

Latgalay pulled her arm back out. The babe was reoriented, head down with arms tucked, no longer tangled by the cord.

“Push once more—hard— for your life and for your daughter’s.” Latgalay said. She cast a spell to help Kainis past the last hurdle. “Jakkitos tu Kainis,” Latgalay whispered in the tongue of her ancestors. Latgalay felt her soitos go out to Kainis. Latgalay grew woozy. This was more power spent than the acorn required to sprout. This was more power spent than Latgalay could do so in good health. This was enough power spent, that the raven protested through the sacred animal totem bond. But still, Latgalay pushed, until the bleed stopped, and the tear in the womb scabbed.

And Kainis strained.

And muscles contracted.

And the babe’s head did stretch the canal, beyond the means of either pleasure or pain, into the heart of agony.

And the babe’s head stuck once again.

“Push harder!” Latgalay shouted, “You are nearly there! Push! PUSH!”

Gerda moved into position, readying herself. Still Kainis struggled on the final push. Kainis had little breath, her pulse weak from blood loss, from exhaustion. Gerda pinched her thigh hard enough to leave a dark bruise. “Push for your life!” Gerda shouted into her face.

And Kainis groaned and then she screamed, and Kainis gave one last mighty push. And out came the child, a girl. Gerda placed a cool cloth on the Kainis’s head and placed the babe to nurse.

Latgalay’s arm and hand were soiled, and she wiped it as well as she could, but there was no clean water, and Latgalay felt far too exhausted to overly care.

Latgalay said to Kainis, “If your man be unwed, bring him to me on the morrow. This child deserves a father.” Left unsaid, was that an unclaimed daughter would know only a life of hardship and hate among the tribe.

~

The next morn, light streamed through the shutters. Latgalay rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and found that her hands still stank of Kainis. Without having set a basin the night before, and without time to set one now, she was forced to use the scrying bowl to wash her hands and face. The water grew black with the filth and the foulness of the day before. And still, Latgalay felt that filth. But she had needful business to attend to, for at her threshold, there stood Kainis, and an old man named Dwallo–a known widower.

“This is the father,” Kainis said. “As you commanded, so I brought.”

“Come now,” Dwallo complained. “Will you not dispel this girl’s fool notion? I am but an old man.“

Latgalay held up a hand. The man frowned but stopped his rambling.

“He seeded your womb?” Latgalay asked.

Kainis nodded. The wrapped bundle in her arm, the babe, let a gurgling squawk.

“No proof of that,” Dwallo protested. “And even if it were true, she has been seeded by most of the shepherds too.”

Kainis looked down at her feet. Latgalay, Kainis, and Dwallo all knew the truth. But truth be damned by the Spirit of Deciet, for the babe deserved a father. Latgalay would not let this daughter face the same fate as Kainis, the same fate Latgalay would have faced, were it not for Karreki.

“You shall name your child,” Latgalay told Dwallo. “Else I shall name her for you, and then curse your name before the Spirits.”

“But she is not mine!” Dwallo protested, more strongly than before.

Latgalay glared while Kainis began to cry. So easily could Latgalay have ended up as Kainis had, forced to bend for warmth and for food and succor. It could have been Lagalay instead. So, Latgalay took measures to better this daughter of Kainis, and she placed both a hand upon the babe, and reached a hand towards Dwallo. He went to back away, but Latgalay was quicker than the old man.

Latgalay put a single finger upon his forehead and pressed. She uttered a few words, “Gartay Anxtos.” She spent a sliver of her power, her soitos, which passed through her finger and into Dwallo. The spell-words were nonsense, and the power did naught but feel cold. But Dwallo did not know this. And he wobbled upon his feet and paled in fear.

“The child is yours,” Latgalay lied as she spoke the deceit. “Without a fraction of doubt. For the Spirits confirm this. Should you deny the child, then so shall you be denied by the Spirits.”

“What? This is not—“

Latgalay spoke more nonsense spell-words, with a rising voice. Dwallo stumbled and fell backwards to his rear.

“You have no authority to force this!” Dwallo shouted. “None! You are not even a woman yet, nor a druid. And you expect me to believe you? To wed this, this, this whore? Jaxtos will hear of this, you bet your maiden’s head upon that!”

Latgalay put more of her soitos into an actual word of power, “Tethstu skrammanay.” This time, Latgalay would cause the fool man injury, should he not relent to her will. How dare he speak such to her. He would pay, if he did not relent. He. Would. Pay.

Dwallo sweated, his face grew red. Latgalay uttered more words of power, preparing to call all the Spirits down upon him. Nevermind that she did not have the Spirits on beck and call. She could make him hurt. She could–

“Stop!” Dwallo shouted.“I will take her, just, do not force me to wed the—“

Latgalay stepped towards him. Dwallo scrambled back. Latgalay uttered more and lifted her hands to the sky.

“Spirits help me,” Dwallo swore. “I will wed her. Spirits help me, but I will do it–just keep your curses to yourself!”

Latgalay stared Dwallo down for minutes, as though she weighed some great decision.

“The spirits have heard your promise. You are wed. And I warn you: Should you mistreat your wife, or your daughter, then the demon mists shall drag you screaming into the abyss.”