'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.'
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
