The command tent became a birthing chamber between two dawn bells.
Maps rolled and stacked. The campaign table scrubbed and draped. The healer's iron tray of instruments laid out in shining rows, and beside it, a second, stranger tray, because no midwife on the continent had instruments for what was coming. Boiling water, clean linen, and a leather strap for biting, and that was the extent of the world's wisdom.
The vessel lay on the table with her knees apart and her great belly heaving, Juhi at one hand and the healer between her legs, and the sound she made was not screaming. It was low and continuous, a sound like a mine being dug from the inside, and it had been going on for forty minutes.
"Fast," the healer kept muttering. "It's too fast. First births take a day. This one is coming like it's late for something."
"Master," the vessel gasped, finding Raven's face at the edge of the lamplight. "My lord. Tell my body what to do. It only obeys you now anyway."
