The Mapmaker's War by Ronlyn Domingue

attention, for recognition, and received little. You had no affection for Raef. His meanness disturbed you. But nevertheless, you had some pity for him.
    You knew that you and Burl felt protective of the people you'd met. When the steward told his story, you realized his interest was self-preservation. He wanted to protect himself, and to him, telling the story of what he had seen was a cooperative act. He wished to appease those in power. The steward had little, but even that was too much to lose.

    WYL TOLD YOU SOME OF WHAT HE AND HIS BROTHER HAD SAID PRIVATELY. This was how you knew Raef intended to push for confrontation. Perhaps an invasion. There were comments about what Wyl had given up of the kingdom for you, now less territory, fewer resources. Raef understood that more land meant more wealth. That meant more men granted favor to tend, till, tax the land, more men beholden to him. It was a twisted logic, you thought. It wasn't danger but greed and neglect that fueled Raef, his influence stirring Wyl.
    You pointed out with stark plainness that a river separated the kingdom from the distant settlement. If he feared unrest, place guards along the bank. No reason to cross. It was a natural barrier, wide at parts. But Raef twisted him, twisted his goodness. He told Wyl he had children, an heir. He would have the domain over many children. Protect us, Wyl. Tell Father to protect us.
    When you could see that Wyl was losing his discernment, that his goodness was about to be turned, you decided to warn the Guardians. You regretted the circumstances, but not the reason, for crossing the river again.
    You knew you must travel by yourself. You required a direct route, safe shelter, and kindly hosts. You entered the castle archives, where your life's work was kept under guard. Beneath candlelight, you reviewed the maps. You had drawn memory traces of your travels on the parchments, where you'd been fed honey cakes and savory pies and told wondrous tales. You sketched an alternate path, where no one would know how to follow.
    Of course, first, you offered to serve as an envoy. Under cover comfort, in pillow talks, you suggested this to Wyl. It was reasonable to meet with them. They had an excellent interpreter. He stroked your hair, your hands. Don't worry yourself, said he.
    Then you thought to tell a ruse. Tell Wyl you had a childhood friend who lived away. She, too, had babies. You would so like to visit her. You'll miss him. You don't know how long you will be gone. Not long. You'll take your nursemaid. But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. This wasn't easy to arrange. This was like planning an escape. A cart, a driver, a good horse. Maps to direct the way. Then what would you do when you reached the border?
    You decided to go alone. Then you changed your mind and decided to take the twins. They were still small, breast-fed. You weren't certain they'd accept strange milk. You couldn't justify the risk they would go hungry.
    Since they were newborns, the girl and the boy traveled well in the pouches you stitched to a cloak's back. A trotting horse bounced them to silence. In the forest, you would leave them sleeping in a shelter under a bush. You hid them as any wild mother would hide her young. For hours you would sit, sometimes blank, sometimes in thought. Sometimes a child again watching a spider build its web. How did it know to do that? When the twins were awake, you let them roll around naked on a clean cloth. When they soiled, you rinsed them in a stream and held them at arm's length to feel the water's full flow.
    You were attentive to their creature needs. Still you knew you didn't love them, not as a mother should. Duty is not love. You had the strange thought it was your responsibility to bear them but not to raise them. The latter was not necessary, in fact. A nursemaid could take over their full care once they no longer required your body for nourishment. Your mother had been tended by a nursemaid from infancy