The Willful Princess and the Piebald Prince by Hobb Robin Page B

you two months ago,” she told me proudly. Clearly she expected me to be grateful. “Brew it as a tea and drink it quickly. Do not allow yourself to vomit it up, no matter how your stomach heaves. As soon as you feel your pains begin, come to me, here, and I myself will deliver your child in my room. There we will keep him or her safe and quiet and unsuspected for now. Then will come your time to be brave and strong. For you must arise from the birth bed, pad your belly out as if you still carry a child, and find a way to gain access to Caution.
    “Do not fear that she will deliver her child before yours is born. No matter how hearty they seem, the high-born ones always make much of pushing out a babe, as if they were the very first one to ever do so, or as if there were some great talent to it. She will take her time. Your task will be to get to her side and to remain, as you ever have been, her first and most reliable servant.”
    I was gaping at her. When I found breath to speak, I asked, “Why? Why must my child be born this day, and why must I conceal it from everyone?”
    She looked at me as if I were simple. “If I did not know you were mine, I would think an idiot mothered you!” she snapped. “There are two paths opening before you. You must be ready for them. The first is that you must be in milk when the new prince or princess is born, so that you can be the wet-nurse for the child. You have the right to that position, and you must not let it be snatched away from you. And the second…”
    She lowered her voice and beckoned me closer, speaking in a whisper. “All new-born babes look alike. I will tell you that is true, no matter what anyone says. As they grow, they may reflect the looks of their mother or father or both. But in this situation, no one save the Queen-in-Waiting is in a position to say what the father of her child looked like. And thus, when you carry off one infant to nurse, and return to put another in his place, no one will be the wiser.”
    I stared at her, trying to order her words to make sense. “What child?” I asked, even as the immensity of what she suggested dawned on me.
    “Your child, stupid girl. My grandchild. If the gods favor us, your babe will match the sex of the Farseer heir. You will whisk her babe away, to wash and nurse it. And you will bring back to her a tidy, well-wrapped child who will someday sit on the throne of the Six Duchies.”
    “But why?”
    “Why not?” she snapped. “What silliness says that a child born to this woman is born to be a king, and the child of that woman born to grub in a field? Why not lift a seed of our family to be a king or queen? We will keep the secret and you will raise your own babe, gowning him in silk and wrapping him in furs. Someday, when he is old enough to possess the secret, you will tell him that which he will know he must keep private. And then you, and I and your father and your siblings will live more generously than ever we have before, partaking of the largesse of a royal heir. Don’t you see, my dear Felicity? All is within our grasp, if only you are bold enough. I stepped forward and changed your life for you, as the cost of giving you up. Now you can take the next step. Put your child on a throne.”
    She made it sound so simple. My mind chased itself in circles. As I sat, transfixed by her words, she shook her head at me and snatched the little bag of herbs from my hand. She refilled her cup of tea, dumped in the contents of the little bag, and stirred it well. We were silent as it steeped. When she handed it to me, I asked her, “And what will become of Caution’s child?”
    “We will pass it off as yours, of course,” she said. Then, as I took my first sip of the brew she handed me, she added, “At first. He cannot be raised near Buckkeep, of course, in case the resemblance is too pronounced. If he is healthy enough, we have a cousin in Tilth who will foster him for us.”
    I took another swallow. I had