A moment later, a stranger appeared from around a curve in the roadway. He rode a stocky Border pony, its dark hooves drumming hard-packed roadway and its chestnut tail streaming. The thin man on its back wore a well-tailored cloak and tunic of plain design. As he drew closer, crow's feet and a shock of graying hair showed his age, and his carriage revealed high breeding. The pony slowed to a walk as he came within hailing distance. "Thank the Goddess, I've found you! Greetings, good Heralds."
Judaia nodded and deferred to her mentor. Anyone seeking would certainly have found them. They traveled the main roads. Their circuit, so far, had remained tame and routine; and they had lost no days, arriving in each town, village, and city at the expected time.
"What can we do for you?" Martin asked, apparently sensing the man's distress.
Judaia exercised her Gift, though weak compared with those of her year-mates, concentrating on the man's abstraction. She Saw a birthing room filled with clean straw pallets. She found four women in the picture. One clutched an infant tightly to her breast, gaze focused so intently she seemed not to notice that two others argued vehemently, clothes torn and arms waving. Another baby wailed, apparently frightened by the noise, though both combatants took clear and obvious caution not to harm the child. The fourth woman lay still on the straw, clearly injured; and two more infants sprawled limply near a corner. Stung to action by what she saw, Judaia Sent the image to Martin, bypassing the need for the stranger's slower, verbal description. Martin had a strong Communication Gift, which made the Sending easy, though he had little Sight to locate the knowledge for himself.
Still, though she formed an image, Judaia's Gift brought picture without sound. The need for haste drove her to request the important details first. Ordinarily, she would let Martin handle the situation; but he had promised her the next judgment. Though he could not have guessed the urgency that would accompany their next decision, Martin would not go back on his word. Now, Judaia cherished the honor she had cursed moments before.
The stranger had already begun his story. "... all giving birth on the same day—"
Judaia interrupted, delving for the necessary. "The women's fight. It's over what?"
The man broke off into a startled silence. Then, apparently attributing her understanding to Heraldic magic, he addressed the question. "The argument is over who gave birth to one of the babies, Herald."
Martin drew breath, but Judaia overran him. "Doesn't the midwife know?"
"She apparently got hurt in the struggle, Herald. She's unconscious, but alive. We have people tending her, but she might need a Healer. I'm afraid this can't wait until she's well."
Anger rose in Judaia against the bitterness that motherhood could inspire, every bit as strong as the bond of love so many lauded between woman and child. Horror touched her then, along with a possibility she did not have to know now but she asked for the sake of her own conscience. "Did the babies get caught in the battle as well?"
"No, Herald." The stranger seemed as horrified by the prospect. "Two stillborn."
Judaia had heard enough. "We'll meet you there." She signaled Brayth, and the mare launched into a gallop toward the Border Holding from which the stranger had come.
Not bothering to compete with the wind, Martin Mindspoke with Judaia as they rode. :You took that over nicely.:
Judaia sensed a touch of displeasure, though she could not feel certain. He hid it well behind a sense of pride at her budding competence. :This one's my judgment, remember?:
Now, Martin's discomfort came through more clearly. :Are you sure you want this one? Something less serious might do for a start.:
Brayth flashed around the curve in a stride and a half, neck stretched and head low for the straightaway. :Are you breaking a promise?:
:Never.: Martin recoiled from the possibilty, Tirithran matching Brayth stride for stride. :Just giving you an out.:
:I don't need an out. I can handle this, and the midwife needs you. The best I could do is carry her to a Healer.: Brayth whisked around another bend, and the Borderland came into sight, a patchwork of large but simple homes to accommodate the men with their multiple wives and myriad children. Crops and pastures dotted the areas between homesteads, and a small but ardent crowd surrounded a single building set off from the rest. Though Judaia's Sight had shown her only the inside of the cottage, she knew this had to be the birthing room. :With your Gift, you might draw the midwife back to consciousness or stabilize her enough that a Healer isn't necessary. I can't do that.:
Either Martin saw the wisdom in Judaia's words, or he simply bowed to his promise. Eyes locked on the approaching building, he did not bother to reply.
As the Companions' silver hooves rang over stone and earth, a few members of the crowd glanced over. These nudged more, until every eye eventually turned toward the Heralds. A mass of voices rose in question, conversation, or attempts to inform, the whole blending into a din Judaia did not bother to decipher. Some slunk away, whispering among themselves. Judaia knew that many of the Border Holdings considered Heraldic Gifts unholy or the work of demons.
Judaia and Martin dismounted together, leaving the Companions to tend themselves beyond the crowd. Ignoring the huddled mass of comments, Judaia pushed through, the citizens parting to allow a path for the Heralds to get to the doorway.
The midwife sprawled just outside the door; apparently they had taken her from the crisis but feared to move her far in her current state. Two men and a woman hunched over her. These moved gratefully aside as the Heralds came forward. "Head wound," one said unnecessarily. "Can you help her?"
Martin replied. "If I can't, I can get her to help quickly." He gestured Tirithran vaguely, then inclined his head to indicate that Judaia should take care of the problem inside.
Judaia reached for the portal, apprehension finally descending upon her as she tripped the latch. In the heat of defending her need to judge, she had found no time for self-doubt. Now finally on her own, consideration of her weaknesses came unbidden. She had only the experience of watching Martin when it came to justice. Her Gift of Sight would help her little here; it would take a Communication Gift to delve into the complications of situation and intention. Unlike Martin, Judaia could cast only the first half of the Truth Spell; she could tell when a subject lied but could not force honesty the way he and the more strongly Gifted could. She would have to rely only on the first stage and on her own instincts, and the price for a mistake might prove the breaking of family and the severing of a bond between mother and child.
Too quickly, the door swung open. Again, Judaia saw two women arguing heatedly, their screams drowning one another's words so that the Herald could understand only a few broken phrases. The one nearest the door looked robust, her brown hair neatly combed despite the turmoil of childbirth. The other had curly locks hacked short, a hint of russet amid the darker strands. A naked baby boy curled, asleep, in the straw, clearly the object of their dispute. It pleased Judaia that they had taken care not to let their blows go wild enough to squash or harm the child. Against the far wall, a third female, more girl than woman, cradled another infant. The two stillborn lay hi a corner near the door.
"Stop!" Judaia said. Though she did not shout, the authority in her voice silenced the women. She seized on the hush. "My name is Herald Judaia, and I was sent to settle this dispute."
"The boy is mine!" the curly-haired one shouted.
"Liar!" The other lunged toward her, fist cocked to strike.
Judaia snatched the descending wrist in midair, wrenching the woman around to face her. "Rule one, no fighting." She hurled the arm away, and the woman staggered several steps. All three fixed their gazes on Judaia, the would-be attacker glaring. "Rule two, no one speaks unless questioned by me. You may call me Herald. Politeness has never displeased me." Judaia studied the women, guessing she would get the most unbiased story from the satisfied observer. "You there." She faced the quiet woman against the wall.
"Me, ma'am?" The youngst
er shook back mousy looks, keeping a firm grip on the baby that supported its head. She rose.
"What's your name?"
"Lindra, ma'am. Thirdwife of Salaman." She avoided Judaia's eyes, keeping her gaze low, at the level of the Herald's mouth.
"Is this your first baby?" Judaia hoped Lindra would answer in the affirmative. She seemed no older than fifteen, and Judaia hated to think the Holderkin stressed their women any younger.
"First live baby. Yes, ma'am." Apparently Lindra finally absorbed Judaia's words, for she corrected. "I mean, yes, Herald. I lost two others early."
"And you gave birth to the baby you're holding?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am . . . Herald. I'm certain of it."
The other two women fidgeted, obviously fighting the need to hold their tongues. Lindra's response bothered Judaia. The mention of certainty suggested exactly the opposite. A simple "yes" seemed far more natural, so Judaia prodded for details. "What do you remember?"
Now, Lindra met Judaia's gaze directly. When it came to defending her child, she could clearly gather the gumption and fire she otherwise lacked. "I carried twins; Herald. The first came out easy, but he was dead." She gestured the bodies in the corner, tears turning her muddy eyes moist. "She had to push around for the other. The stress of the first, and the pain . . ." She winced. "I fainted. I didn't actually see her take out my little girl, but I know she's mine, Herald. A mother can tell." She hugged the child closer.
The nearby fight stole all veracity from the latter statement, but Judaia let the observation lie. She saw no need to use the Truth Spell here. She had more obvious subjects for it.
The curly-haired woman had picked up the baby boy, clutching it with all the fierce tenderness that Lindra showed the girl. The other woman balled her fists, obedient to Judaia's rules though she clearly wanted to reclaim the child by violence.
Judaia placed a hand, both comforting and warning, on the woman's empty arms. "I speak for the Queen now. My decision here, no matter its end, will stand.
Who holds the baby while we speak will have no bearing on the judgment."
Judaia's words seemed to soothe the angered woman. Her fingers uncurled, and her manner softened. Still, the took she turned her curly-haired neighbor held venom.
Though she released her grip, Judaia kept her attention on the empty-armed Hold woman. "Speak your name."
"I am Keefhar, Firstwife of Kailer."
While the woman spoke, Judaia closed her eyes, focusing on the verse she would need to run through nine times. She pictured a fog with blue eyes, shaping the Truth Spell with a bent toward muting it. Gradually, a blue fog took shape about Keefhar's head and shoulders. As all subjects of the spell, she remained oblivious to it. Lindra seemed too fixated on the baby girl to notice. The third women squinted, rubbing her eyes, as if to blame the magical vapor on her own vision. Surely, none of them would have seen such a thing before nor known its purpose. "Keefhar," Judaia watched the blue fog closely. She had kept it sparse, which would make its comings and goings more difficult to evaluate. She relied upon her Sight to gauge the status of her spell. "Which baby did you bear?"
"The boy, Herald." Keefhar rolled her gaze to the infant nestled in the others' arms. The blue haze dispersed, indicating a lie. "The stillborn was hers." She jabbed a finger at the curly-haired woman. The fog returned, as bright as at its casting. About this, at least, she had spoken truth.
"She lies!" The woman indicated screamed.
Judaia dropped the Truth Spell, swiftly placing another on her only remaining witness. As weak as her power was, the double casting would cost her a nasty overuse headache, but she pressed aside consideration of consequences. She could tolerate pain as the price for a competent first judgment.
"The boy is mine!" the curly-haired woman shouted, the magical fog disappearing with her words. In her rage, the Hold woman discarded Judaia's rules as well as her request for manners. "The dead one is hers." Keeping one hand looped protectively around the boy, she used the other to gesture disdainfully at her accuser. The remnants of the Truth Spell did not return until after she finished speaking. Clearly, she had spoken all falsely.
Judaia imagined the crisp, blue eyes of the fog drawing closed, and the Truth Spell winked from existence. She kept her own eyes open and alert for movement, not trusting the women to remain at peace until she rendered her judgment. Her thoughts flew, bringing understanding of the cause of the argument and why the girl-child had been spared from the tug of war. The answer came with Martin's description: "Those people have a different idea of justice and a woman's place." Others had told her that the parents of girls paid dowries while a son's possessions and holdings remained his own. Since men married many times, a son brought wealth to a family, while daughters cost them dearly in wedding price.
The door opened, and Martin stepped inside. "The midwife will live—"
Judaia waved him silent before he could continue. The three Holderkin looked noticeably relieved, though whether glad for the midwife's health or for escape from the punishment that would have come with a charge of murder, she did not know or try to guess. She reached for the baby boy, and the curly-haired woman relinquished him with obvious reluctance. Keefhar smiled.
Judaia spoke. "In the name of the Queen, I make the following judgment: The baby girl shall remain with Lindra."
The women nodded, all apparently satisfied. Martin stiffened, but true to his word, he said nothing.
Judaia continued. "As to the baby boy . . ."
All eyes followed Judaia's every movement.
"... he was born to Lindra and will remain with her." She handed the boy, too, to the youngest of the mothers.
Lindra smiled, cuddling the children, love making her dark eyes sparkle. "But I thought . . ." she started.
Judaia did not let her finish. "Many healthy babies are born floppy and blue." With no further explanation, she left the birthing room to announce her decision to the elder whose slower pony should have arrived in the time it took to hear and judge. She left Martin to reinforce the finality of her decision. They would obey the word of a man in a way they never would a woman, even a Herald.
The ride from the Borderland Holding commenced in a silence far deeper than the previous one, but this time Martin seemed the more pensive of the two. He did not hum or sing, and his eyes remained fixed on the mound between Tirithran's ears.
Scarcely able to suppress a smile, Judaia waited for Martin's inevitable assessment of her work. It did not come. In fact, neither Herald passed a word until Martin drew rein in a quiet clearing alongside the beaten track. He dismounted there, removing the bitless bridle and bells from Tirithran's head. Judaia joined him, releasing Brayth as well. The Companions grazed on the boughs and underbrush while Martin prepared a meal in the same thoughtful hush he had assumed throughout the ride.
Finally, Martin broke the silence. "I spoke in private with the midwife."
Judaia leaned against a thick, rough-barked oak, nodding encouragement for him to continue.
"You gave only one of those babies to its rightful mother."
Judaia nodded. "Lindra bore the boy. The girl was Keefhar's baby."
Martin stared. "You knew?"
"Of course, I knew." Judaia met Martin's green-gray stare that appeared even more muddled than usual. Familiarity made the eyes beautiful, despite their indeterminate color. Guilt twinged through Judaia for the pain his silence must have caused him in the birthing room; he alone could have reversed her decision. But he had promised not to interfere with her judgment, and his honor had held him to that vow as strongly as to the other.
Martin seemed incapable of blinking. "You intentionally gave a baby to the wrong mother? Are you insane?"
"Maybe." Judaia plucked at the bark beneath her fingers, studying the fragments she pulled loose. "If you find considering the welfare of the children insane. Having a womb doesn't make a good or worthy mother. Bloodline isn't enough. No one, Martin, no one can grow in the hands of a lia
r or in a home without honesty, loyalty, and trust. As far as I'm concerned, Keefhar gave up her right to motherhood when she knowingly traded her child for another." Once again, Judaia met Martin's eyes, and she did not blink either. "Sometimes, Herald Martin . . ." She grinned. "... sometimes what's right is more important than the truth or any vow. Sometimes justice over honor."
Martin considered the words for some time. Gradually, his lips framed a smile, and he pulled Judaia into a friendly embrace that might become so much more. And all the awkwardness, at least, was gone.
A Song For No One's Mourning
by Gary A. Braunbeck
Gary A. Braunbeck has sold over 60 short stories to various mystery, suspense, science fiction, fantasy, and horror markets. His latest fiction also appears in Future Net and Careless Whispers. His first story collection, Things Left Behind, is scheduled for hardcover release this year. He has been a full-time writer since 1992 and lives in Columbus, Ohio.
Sweat ran down the young man's back and his ankle hurt severely—he'd leaped from the window on impulse and landed badly after the scullery maid discovered him in the master's private chamber. She had simply opened the door and walked in, her servant's eyes taking in everything—the bags of silver coins clutched in his hands, the portrait set haphazardly on the floor, the exposed secret cache in the wall, the broken-locked, opened lid of the master's money box—before she thought to shout an alarm to the others in the manor-keep, but by then the young man had tossed a chair through the stained glass window, perched himself there like a raven for only a moment before hearing other loud voices and footsteps thundering toward the room, then jumped. Though careful to bend his knees, the impact was nonetheless painful. It was a miracle he'd to made it to his horse without losing more of the money, but make it to his horse he did, and Ranyart—as fierce and strong a horse as ever the young man knew—galloped swiftly away from the manor, through the streets, past the city gates where the guards and armsmen in the towers, too busy with their own private Harvestfest celebrations, were neither able to take up their crossbows nor lower the gate in time to stop him. He hoped they heard his laughter as Ranyart carried him away into the darkness of the forest road.
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