"Must it happen now?" Tregaron replied.
"The Word and Will calls for a victory sacrifice as soon, as the battle is won, Colonel. You know that."
"I know that the Battle Tithe plays merry hell with morale, sir," Tregaron said wearily. He held up his hand. "You may have the mercied men for your Fires, but only after their friends have released them from their pain."
Havern's face fell, falling into the mask of disapproval he wore when debating Solaris. "What the priests do in Rethwellan is one thing, Colonel, but here we follow the Word and Will literally. Those men too wounded to travel or otherwise unlikely to survive will go to the flames. Alive. Vkandis takes no pleasure in cold flesh."
"I never understood why Vkandis took pleasure in any flesh," Solaris said pleasantly.
Havern rounded on her. "Your deviance from the Word and Will has been repeatedly noted. After I'm through with you, Solaris, you'll be lucky to preside over an outhouse, much less an abbey."
Tregaron, recalling her rallying the regiment with the Oriflamme, felt his temper heat. "The Sun-priestess held her place and inspired the regiment. What did you do?"
Havern didn't bat an eye. "We got out of the way. We were the wrong tool for the job. You were the right one. We deferred to you on the matter of how best to conduct the fight. Now," he said maliciously, "you will defer to us on how to conduct the Fires. The army was given its dispensation to sacrifice those who would die anyway, rather than the hale. I will accept no compromise on that point."
Solaris quietly slipped away and knelt by the gut-stabbed man, who still begged for water. She uncorked Tregaron's water bottle and gave him several small sips. Tregaron listened to the Sun-priest's tirade about duty and responsibility while trying vainly to hold onto the scraps of his self-possession.
Solaris stood and walked to the next soldier, who bled her life away from a gaping thigh wound. It wasn't until the gutted man sat up and felt his middle that Tregaron realized something bizarre had happened. Something far more important than the Black-robe's prating.
He turned his back and walked away from Havern as Solaris stood and went to the third man. The woman, who moments ago had been unconscious, moaned weakly and sat up. Tregaron caught a glimpse of Solaris' eyes as she knelt and placed her blood-covered hands on the man's exposed skull. Her gaze was far away, locked on a distant horizon, and she whispered to herself as she healed. Each time she knelt, her pupils shone with a golden glow and her hands were suffused in a warmth that looked like fire, but brought health, not hurt. Soon a dozen of the regiment followed her, whispering in hushed tones at the miracles as she healed each of the dying.
The story spread like wildfire through the regiment. By the time she finished, a thousand men and women were crowded around her, eager to see the prodigy. They stood silently, giving her space to work as she knitted flesh, healed bones, and restored health. After what seemed like an eternity she stood from beside the last. The silent regiment gave way, opening before her to let her by. A few, braver or more foolhardy than the rest, reached out tentative hands to touch her cassock as she passed. Tregaron, trailed by the stunned and silent Black-robes, followed her as she took shaky steps toward the more lightly wounded.
She placed her hands on a man's slashed and splinted arm. Nothing happened. "It's gone," she said in a confused voice, "it's gone now."
"It's all right, mum," said the trooper, who looked old enough to be her father, "I saw what you done for the others. I'll heal all right by m'self."
She turned back toward the regiment. Tregaron saw the glow had faded from her eyes. Her self-possession seemed to return and she looked at Havern. "Now you have none for your Fires," she said in a weary voice. "The dispensation protects the rest."
Tregaron, overcome by the miracles and the restoration of those he thought he would see consumed, drew his battered sword and knelt before her. The regiment, following his cue, knelt as well.
"Command us, Lady," he said, "we are yours."
"No, sir," she replied with a soft, sweet smile. Her expression seemed transformed, as though she were in ecstasy. "You are not mine. You are Vkandis'. If He has chosen to work through me, it is through the worthiness of the cause, not of the vessel."
Havern cleared his throat. "Ahmmm . . ." he began, "I know we all think we saw something. .. ." He trailed off as a thousand hostile faces focused on him. "Um, yes," he concluded and retreated.
"Please rise, sir," Solaris said, her expression still beatific, "I am not the Son of the Sun."
Not yet, anyway, Tregaron thought as he rose. Not yet.
A Herald's Honor
by Mickey Zucker Reichert
Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician whose twelve science fiction and fantasy novels include The Legend of Nightfall, The Unknown Soldier, and The Renshal Trilogy. Her most recent release from DAW Books is Prince of Demons, the second in The Renshai Chronicles trilogy. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies. Her claims to fame: she has performed brain surgery, and her parents really are rocket scientists.
Rain pattered to the roof of the way station, rhythmic beneath the low-pitched howl of the winds. Herald Ju-daia stared into the hearth, watching twists of flame flicker through their collage of yellow and red. Though her eyes followed the fire, her mind traced every movement of her mentor, Herald Martin. Already, he had curried his Companion, Tirithran, till the sheen of the stallion's white coat rivaled the moon. His sword and dagger held edges a razor might envy, and he had soaped his tack until Judaia feared he might wear the leather thin as sandal bindings. The image made her smile through a longing that had sharpened to pain. She imagined him struggling to buckle a back cinch the width of a finger and mistaking Tirithran's bridle for a boot lace. Judaia turned. For an instant, her dark eyes met Martin's gray-green ones and she thought she saw the same desire in him that goaded her, as burning and relentless as the hearth fire. He glanced away so quickly, his black hah* whipped into a mane and every muscle seemed to tense in sequence. Movement only enhanced his beauty, and the sight held Judaia momentarily spellbound. Her mind emptied of every thought but him. The rigors of her internship faded, insignificant beneath the more solid and cruel pain of Martin's coldness. Unable to resist, Judaia glided toward him, loving and hating the feelings his presence inspired.
Apparently sensing her movement, Martin tensed. Suddenly, he took several quick strides toward the door. "I'm going to check on Tirithran and Brayth." He fumbled with the latch, uncharacteristically clumsy. The door swung open, magnifying the drumlike beat of rain on the way station's roof. Beneath an overhanging umbrella of leaves, Tirithran and Brayth enjoyed the pleasures of stallion and mare, their grunts punctuating the sounds of wind and rain. Caught between Judaia and an even more obvious passion, Martin froze in the doorway.
Judaia brushed back a strand of her shoulder-length hair, wishing it looked less stringy and unruly. Its sandy color seemed out-of-place framing dark eyes nearly black. Still, though not classically beautiful, Judaia did not believe herself homely either. She had kept her body well-honed, even before the rigors of Herald training. Her features, though plain, bore no deformities or scars. Other men had found her attractive enough. Yet other men had not mattered to Judaia since she had met Martin at the Collegium three years past. They had begun their training together, year-mates, yet Martin had passed into full Herald status and gone out on circuit a year before her. Now, she learned from him. And maybe, if he could turn his eyes and mind from preparations for an instant, she might teach him something as well.
Martin remained still and silent for some time, seemingly oblivious to the rain that slanted through the open door frame and left damp circles on his Herald whites.
Judaia studied Martin in the moonlight trickling between clouds and over the threshold. The first half of their circuit had passed with routine ease, yet the Martin she had seen direct tribunals, chastise embezzlers, and calmly settle disputes seemed to have disappeared, replaced by an awkward child
scarcely into his teens. The transformation seemed nonsensical. She had never heard of a chaste Herald. She had lost her virginity even before Brayth had spirited her from Westmark to begin her training. A handsome child of local nobility, Martin surely had had his share of women, and Judaia had heard Lyssa, one of the Seneschal's granddaughters, bragging about Martin's prowess in bed. Why, then, has he spent the past five months finding every excuse in the Sector to avoid me? This night, Judaia decided, she would find her answer, one way or another.
"Ah," Judaia said, her soft words shattering a long-held silence. "I didn't know staring at love-making Companions could turn a man to stone."
Martin startled, suddenly and obviously aware of his lapse. He closed the door with clear reluctance and turned to face Judaia. Rain plastered black hair in ringlets to his forehead, and water dribbled along the crest of one eyelid.
Martin looked so atypically undignified, Judaia could not suppress a laugh. "I considered us lucky to get in before the rain. I should have known Martin would find another way to get himself soaked."
Finally, Martin smiled. He flicked away the trickling raindrop and raked dripping locks from his forehead. He headed for the fire, his wet Whites brushing Judaia's dry ones as he passed, leaving a damp, darker line that the warmth would quickly dry. He sat in front of the capering flames. Judaia took a seat beside him.
Martin fumbled dagger and whetstone from his pocket, sharpening the blade for the twelfth time since its last use. "Are you tired?"
"No. You?"
"Not yet," Martin admitted. The conversation seemed to have come to an end, and he abruptly steered it in another direction. Among strangers or while riding Companions, they always chatted with an easy fluency that seemed to mock the choppy nervousness that characterized their more private moments. "You're doing well, so far." He scratched stone over blade.
"Oh, yes," Judaia said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. "I've gotten pretty good at riding around watching you work. I'm probably the Heraldic expert at observing Martin."
Martin glanced at the stone and steel in his hands as if noticing them for the first time. "I'm sorry. I guess I haven't been giving you much responsibility, and you are ready for it." Again, stone whisked over metal with a scraping hiss that set Judaia's teeth on edge. "Next time, you get to check the tax records."
Judaia had learned to care for her gear, too, and she put the appropriate amount of time and effort into the task. Martin's tending had become clearly excessive. "Tax records? Tax records be hanged. Hellfires, Martin. I want to make a judgment. By myself. No interference from you."
"A judgment?" Martin considered, whetstone scouring steel a dozen strokes before he spoke again. "All right then. The next judgment's yours and yours alone. I'd better warn you, though. We're getting toward the Borderlands, and those people have a different idea of justice and a woman's place."
"I can handle it." Though excited, Judaia could not keep annoyance from her voice. Martin's long closeness had fanned her desire from a spark to a bonfire. There could no longer be any doubt about the source of that need. Lifebonded, no question. Yet Martin seemed as oblivious to the ultimate sanction as he was to her readiness for a more active role in their Sector patrol.
Another long silence followed, interrupted only by the ceaseless gallop of the rain and the slash of stone against steel.
Judaia could avoid the need no longer. She clasped a hand to Martin's arm to halt the sharpening, staring directly at him. Martin stiffened, then ceased his work. His eyes darted from floor to dagger to fire. Finally, he met her gaze.
AH of the emotion Judaia had suppressed came welling up at once. She did not waste words on caution or euphemism. Pent up frustration burst forth at once, and she no longer cared if she hurt or offended him. "What's wrong with you?"
"What?" Martin parted damp strands of hair from his eyes. Startlement at her outburst quickly faded to apology. "Look, I'm sorry. I guess I've been overprotecting you, but it is your first patrol and—"
Judaia interrupted, "That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it." "What are you talking about?" "I'm talking about you so free and confident out there." Judaia gestured vaguely northward, toward Haven and the towns and cities they had policed. "Then, every time we're alone together, you're currying Tir-ithran bald. Or you're cutting enough wood to fill six way stations summer to summer." She released his arm so suddenly, the whetstone tumbled from his fingers.
Now, Martin echoed Judaia's anger. "Well excuse me for being thorough."
"Thorough?" Judaia leaped to her feet. "Thorough! If you get any more thorough, you're going to whittle, that dagger to a toothpick. You're not just being thorough; you're avoiding me."
Martin sheathed his dagger and put away the whetstone. "Yes," he admitted.
A blatant confession was the last thing Judaia expected to hear, and it completely arrested her train of thought. "What?"
Martin rose, again meeting Judaia's eyes, candor clear in his green-gray stare. For a moment, his shielding slipped, and she caught a glimpse of deep struggle, honor against need. Then, he hurriedly rebuilt his defenses. "Yes. I am avoiding you."
"Why?" Surprise dispersed Judaia's anger, leaving only confusion in its wake. "I feel ... I mean we both know . . ." Words failed her, and she discovered an awkwardness as petrifying as Martin's had seemed. "That we're lifebonded? Yes, I know." Judaia could do nothing but stare, jaw sagging gradually open without her will or knowledge. At length, she managed speech. "You know? Then why are you avoiding me?"
"Because I made a vow to Lyssa that she would be my one and only, that I would never sleep with another woman."
Judaia did not know which shocked her more, her own disappointment, the tie to Lyssa, or the promise like none she had ever heard before. "Are you lifebonded with her, too?"
"No."
"Then why would you make such a promise?"
Martin shrugged. "She wanted me to, and I did. Life-bonds are uncommon enough I never expected to form one."
Judaia saw the hole in Martin's logic at once. Lyssa, she knew, had slept with many others, as recently as the night before Martin left to patrol the Sector. "Did she make a similar vow to you."
"Yes."
Judaia considered a tactful way to inform Martin of Lyssa's deceit and found none. Though she hated herself for the cruelty she might inflict, she chose a direct approach instead. He deserved to know the truth. "I'm sorry, Martin. Lyssa hasn't kept her vow."
Martin took the news too easily for it to have been a surprise. "Lyssa is not a Herald."
Judaia stared, not believing what she was hearing. More than anything in the world, she wanted Martin, and she knew now that he felt as strongly for her. Yet, the pledge that shackled him had become one-sided and the integrity of a Herald his undoing, as well as her own. "But it's not right!" she shouted, the agony of the thwarted lifebond writhing within her. "It's not fair."
Martin's eyes went moist, the green-gray smeared to a colorless blur. " 'Fair' is not the issue." Once again, he looked away, and this time Judaia applauded his decision to dodge her stare. "A Herald's vows," he said softly, "take precedence over desire. Honor always over right."
Suddenly, Judaia felt very tired.
Stormy night passed to crystalline day, free of humidity. Rainbows scored patches of sky and pooled along spiders' webs, but their beauty did little to raise Judaia's mood. She rode at Martin's side in silence. Overtended buckles and bridle bells reflected silver fragments of sunlight; clean whites and curried Companions shed the brightness until it seemed to enclose them like a divine glow. Birds flapped and twittered from the forests lining either edge of the roadway, feasting on insects drawn by the warm wetness following a gale.
Martin whistled a complicated tune written by his Bardic brother. He seemed to have forgotten the events of the previous evening, returning to his usual brisk confidence and grace under pressure. The normality of his routine only amplified Judaia's pain. The lifebond, already a noos
e, now felt like a noose on fire.
Brayth sensed the Herald's pain, Mindspeaking with a tone pitched to soothe. .-What's troubling you, little sister?:
Judaia sighed, loath to inflict her sorrow on another, yet glad for a friendly ear. .-It's Martin.:
:What about Martin? He seems happy enough.:
Judaia patted the Companion's silky neck. .-That's exactly the problem. How can he be so oblivious when I'm so miserable? Can't he feel the same pain, the same thwarted need?: In explanation, Judaia opened her shields fully to Brayth, showing the mare the conversation in the way station and the mass of conflicting emotions it had inspired, at least in Judaia.
:The lifebond is as strong in him as you. He feels it, too. But his honor is stronger even than the bond.:
Frustration made Judaia sullen, and her next words came from superficial anger. :Lady take his damnable honor. I hate it.:
:Do you truly hate his honor or the situation to which that honor has fettered him?:
Uncertain of the question, Judaia gave no reply; but she did feel guilty for her lapse. Companions chose only
those pure of intent, and devotion to duty came with the first Heraldic lesson.
Brayth continued questioning, :Do you love Martin because of his honor or in spite of it? If he had made a similar vow to you, would you expect him to keep it?:
The last, Judaia felt qualified to answer. :Well, of course. But I'd never ask for such a vow. Or, if I did, I would keep my vow as well. Blind loyalty to one who deceives is simply slavery. Honor it may be, but an honor without justice.:
Brayth shook her head, her frothy mane like silk on Judaia's fingers. :Tell that to Martin.:
.7 already have.:
:Ah.: Brayth glanced back at her rider, a light dancing in her soft, sapphire eyes. .-Next time, sister two legs, you'll have to convince him.:
As the Companion's words settled into Judaia's mind, the approaching pound of hoofbeats drew her from deeper consideration. She glanced at Martin, and the intensity of his focus on the road ahead cued her that he had heard as well. He signaled Tirithran to a halt, and Brayth stopped at the stallion's side. The broken pattern of the oncoming hoof falls and lack of bridle bells told her, without the need for vision, that the horse and rider were not Companion and Herald.
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