Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "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 liar 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 i
s 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.

  1

  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.

  That had been several candlemarks ago, and now both he and Ranyart were weary from the chase—and the armsmen had given chase for a while before he lost them near the Westmark Hills. He was glad he had been alone this time, claiming to be a simple minstrel who wished only to entertain with song in exchange for a warm fire and a good meal; not only had his being alone enabled him to flee quickly without having to make excuses to anyone in whose company he might have been seen, but had such a disaster occurred while he was with a troupe, the other members would now be suffering for his actions.

  And isn't that always the way, Father, he thought. Whenever the rich find they've been bested by one of a "lower" heritage, they vent their wrath on others whom they deem undeserving of mercy, or kindness or understanding, let alone a chance to prove their innocence—and forget about individual worth; in the eyes of the rich, we are all the same: valueless fodder, so much human flotsam for them to treat with as much disregard or contempt as they please. I remember the way Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach treated you after those damned Herald-mages from Haven showed him what a Gifted one could do with metalworking. I remember how the bastards all laughed at you, and you were a good enough man to pretend you didn't hear the laughter or see the smirks. But did any of the gentry, any of the courtiers ever bring their trade to you again after that? No. Gods, how they killed your spirit. Half my life you've been dead, and I miss you no less now than I did on the day Mother and I had to watch the gravediggers toss your body in that foul, disgraceful hole. Damn them! Damn then all!

  The young man's name was Olias, a thief who secretly possessed a meager measure of both the Bardic and Heraldic Gifts. Often in his travels, when both money and food were running low, he would insinuate himself into the good graces of various traveling minstrel troupes, enchanting them with his storytelling and enviable abilities on the lute, rebec, and cornemuse (his fiddle and pipe and tabor-playing, though not offensive to the untrained ear, left something to be desired in his opinion); inevitably, the leader of the troupe would invite him to travel and perform with them, which Olias was more than pleased to do, accompanying them from city to village to hamlet and hollow, playing for lords and ladies and peasants alike. Since he never wished to endanger the members of the troupes (who were always kind to him, despite their typically desperate circumstances), he took care to ensure his thievery would appear to be the act of someone with whom the victim was familiar. It seemed that every merchant and nobleman possessed their fair share of enemies, and it was surprisingly easy to discover who among them was the most envied or despised—as well as the names of those who harbored resentment—and thus lay the groundwork for his deception. Sometimes it was as simple as placing a few stolen coins outside the doorstep of his chosen scapegoat (always another member of the gentry or a successful tradesman, never one of the poor), making it appear that they, in their haste, had dropped some of their ill-gotten treasure as they ran from the sight of their crime; occasionally he would have to resort to more complex methods of duplicity in order to avert suspicion from himself or the other players—employing his mild Gift of Thought-sending to plant misgivings in others' minds—but the effect was always the same: None had ever accused him or any member of his temporary troupe of the robberies.

  For Olias—lonely, angry, bitter, and distrustful—it was a good life.

  Good enough.

  The road he now found himself traveling was little more than a rutted tract of hard-packed dirt meandering through a skeletal tunnel of near-barren tree branches. This Harvest had been an usually cold one, and the trees, sensing this, chose to slumber earlier than many of the people in Valdemar were accustomed to. Tendrils of mist snaked from between the trees and lay across the road like a blanket of living snow, shifting, curling, reaching upward to ensnarl Ranyart's legs for only a moment before dissolving into nothingness. Overhead, the moonlight straggled through the branches, creating diffuse columns of foggy light that to Olias' frayed nerves became fingers of foggy light from a giant ghostly hand that at any moment would fist together and crush him. He was aware, as if in deep nightmare, of shadows following along from either side of the road—silent, misshapen things, spiriting along with the mist for furlongs until he snapped his head toward them. Then they would disappear in slow degrees, mocking his anxiety, melting back into the darker, unexplored areas of the night-silent forest. These shadows called to mind far too many campfire tales and old wives' stories of the outKingdom and the Pelagirs, with its uncanny creatures—which was not all that far from here.

  Unhooking his armed crossbow from its saddle-catch (were some of those shadows moving even closer!), the young man wiped the sweat from out of his eyes, then leaned forward and whispered in Ranyart's ear. "I can't speak for you, old friend, but I don't much care for this stretch of road. I know that you're tired, but I promise you that if you'll just quicken your pace and get us the hell out of here, the small bag of sugar I have in my pouch is yours."

  In answer, Ranyart broke from his amble into a trot, then a gallop, and soon they passed through a clearing to emerge on a more inviting expanse of road where the trees and mist and shadows were at a comforting distance, and the moonlight shone all around, crisp and cold and clean, forming no phantom fingers.

  But there was in the air a strong stench of burned wood and straw, of fire-scorched stone and something more; an odd, thick, sickly-sweet aroma that—though it was not so mighty as to overpower the other smells—seemed to be inexorably entwined with all the others.

  Ranyart chuffed, shaking his foam-streaked head.

  "I know," replied the young man, wrinkling his nose. "But we're both too tired to go any farther tonight, and there is a mild wind blowing against us; at least that makes the stink less offensive. We'll stop here until dawn and hope that the wind continues to blow in our favor."

  Beneath him, the muscles in Ranyart's back rippled, as if the horse were shrugging its reluctant consent.

  "Good. Then it's settled."

  They made camp quickly, Olias taking car
e to find a nearby stream so Ranyart could quench his thirst, then turning his attention to building a fire and killing a pair of squirrels for this night's meal. He arranged his ground-bedding under an imposing old sorrow tree (thus called because its like, rare in these parts, was usually found in the distant Forest of Sorrows), then lay the crossbow within easy reach before attaching his dagger sheath to his uninjured ankle. As a further precaution, he slipped a small stonecarver's blade beneath his sorry excuse for a pillow, then removed the sugar from his pouch and gave it to Ranyart, almost smiling as he watched his horse devour the brilliant-white chunks.

  When Ranyart had finished, he stared at Olias as if to ask, Is that all?

  "I'm afraid there's none left, old friend. You'd think after all these years, you would have learned a little moderation."

  Ranyart snorted once, loudly, then threw back his head as if quite insulted, and stalked off to the side of the road where he settled himself for the night.

  "I'll remember this when you come begging for your morning oats."

  Ranyart snorted again, but this time less indignantly—perhaps even with a touch of humility.

  "You'll not charm me," said Olias. "I've known you far too long to—"

  The rest of it died in his throat when he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, coming hard and fast from somewhere down the ghostly road he'd left behind not half a candlemark ago.

  The back of Olias' neck prickled and his heart pounded against his rib cage. Somehow, the armsmen had found his trail.

  2

  "Hell to Havens!" he hissed, throwing aside his blanket and grabbing up his crossbow, then rolling quickly to the right where a small, downward-sloped patch of land created a furrow just big enough for a man to hide himself. It was only after he was in position that he realized the sound was that of a single horse, carrying a single rider (a sound he'd trained himself to recognize). Perhaps one of the armsmen, in an attempt to prove himself to the others, had stubbornly pursued him this far.