"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.
All 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 Tirithran 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. Lifebonds 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 noose, 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.:
:I 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.
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 possibility, 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 in 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 youngster 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.
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