TODAY IS TOO LATE Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    Einin felt strange climbing into bed with her, a familiarity that broke all the rules of etiquette. They were cousins, similar in appearance as far as height and build went, but Ishma was the great beauty of Rosh, a face made famous by a thousand songs. Ishma outshone her, despite being swollen with weight from the baby. Einin would be considered young and desirable if she stepped outside Ishma’s shadow, tallish with fashionably slim shoulders and a pleasant face, but the empress made most women look plain. Einin watched her struggle and wondered why no one wrote songs about childbirth. Where were the poets to chronicle the grunting, sweaty mess?
    “Let me help.”
    “It’s coming. Oh, make it stop.”
    The empress climbed into her arms. Her fingernails dug into Einin’s shoulders, and her groans morphed into a growl. She no longer sounded human, panting like an animal. Ishma buried her face in Einin’s arms to muffle her cries.
    Einin held on, thoughts of poison filling her mind. She had never asked what the poison did and hoped it made her sleep before it killed her. She watched Ishma suffering. Could the poison cause this much pain? Why had she agreed to this?
    Then the empress performed a miracle, a feat that Einin didn’t believe as she watched. Ishma curled upward, knees near her shoulders. Both hands reached around her swollen belly while her entire body convulsed in one last push—legs trembling, shoulders shuddering, eyes watering—as she moaned and birthed the heir. She seemed to pull the baby and catch it all in one motion. She clutched the slimy thing to her chest and collapsed into her pillows.
    The room became quiet. Einin wanted to lie down beside her. She needed a moment to collect herself, maybe a nap. A calm, a gladness spread through her. The noises had stopped. No one had died.
    She stiffened. Babies were supposed to cry. She reached for the child. The empress pushed her away.
    “Empress, something is wrong.”
    “Nothing is wrong. It’s over. Everything is fine.”
    “Empress.”
    “Give me a moment.”
    “Empress, the child is not crying.”
    Ishma’s chin dug into her neck as she eyed her baby. Working together, they rolled the wrinkly thing onto its back, wiping away fluids and purplish goo. Einin’s fingers gently probed the nostrils and mouth. Gunk covered the face. The tiny head seemed too still, so small, wisps of white hair—stark-white hair—eyes closed in a knot of creases, a heartbeat, purplish skin, tiny little hands clasped in fists.
    “Einin, what is wrong?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Her attention pulled to the umbilical cord, still attached and so morbid, this yellowish and gray thing connecting the heir to the empress. That cord belonged on an animal, some mare in a pasture, not the Empress of Rosh.
    “She’s not breathing.”
    “Her heart beats.”
    “Is she choking?”
    The empress patted the child’s back, like a feather at first and then a more desperate slap. The child coughed, and the mouth opened to cry. Einin pulled her hands back, arrested by confusion. The child made too much noise, but she didn’t want to hurt it. Please, let it stop crying. They had come too far to be caught now.
    The empress comforted the child with soothing sounds, caressing its face. Einin leaned out of the four-post bed to check the door. Never having been the fainting kind, she wanted to faint now; how wonderful would it be to black out until this ended? Stupid thought. She’d awake in the hands of interrogators.
    “Did you see her chest?” The empress leaned in close, smelling the baby’s head.
    “I did.”
    “The visions were right. Yes, they were.”
    The child had a birth rune. The geometric pattern, a few lines, was white and raised against the skin: a natural rune, very rare, making her a Reborn hero from ages past. Etched Men were given runes by sorcerers, but there were a few heroes born each generation with real runes. Outside of Rosh, feasts would celebrate