You said you wished to know our story.
I do not know how to tell a story.
Her song saved me. There is no other way to tell it.
I was ready to leave this world. No more, for me, the dizzying pain of broken flesh and lost blood. I wanted the God’s peace. I knew I could face His judgment without shame. The raiders were dead, after all, by my hand and Ari’s and yours. I knew we owed you a debt, and that was an uncomfortable thought—but it was also a matter for others. I was done here.
Until I heard Nara’s song, reminding me what it was to live, to ride beneath the sky. I knew, then, that whatever else was finished, there was something between Nara and me that was not yet done, something new and incomplete, something I was not free to leave. You call it a lifebond—call it what you will. What matters is that, though I am a man, I was not—am not—free.
I held to her song. I held to her. As if she were my only wife, the only woman in all the world.
So I lived. Through that night, and through the nights after, to this day when you say you have healed enough to be on your way. I asked how we could repay you, for I know Ari and I could not have killed those raiders alone. You told me what payment you would accept.
Now that payment is delivered, and I need not say more. I walk slowly with this cane, but I can walk, and since I can walk, I can work. I have three geldings ready to sell, and two mares in foal, and the fences still need fixing. There is much to do, and if Nara’s song makes the work go better, that is for the good. It is as the God intended.
A man has many wives—many people—in his care. Nara and I are bound, but not only to each other. The God places many obligations upon us. We are not Heralds. We seek more than simply to be free.
You are not Holderkin. You do not understand.
Nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.
I am bound to Garen, yes. But I also serve the Goddess, and my elder wives. I have not been put in this place by chance; it is the Goddess’ will. It is for a reason, even if I cannot always see that reason for myself.
You say this troubles you. Yet I think maybe Heralds know how to serve, too. I think you know about having your fate decided by powers beyond your understanding.
And I think perhaps the story you asked for ends here.
I can tell you this, though: last night, it was my turn to look after Garen. His wound still troubles him, and will for some time. I gave him medicine to numb that pain, and because it was late, and the day’s work was done, he accepted it. As he grew sleepy he asked me, “Would you ride from this place, if you could?”
His words startled me. I thought he spoke of Heralds. “This is my home,” I said, because it is true, and because it says all else I would have said.
“You wouldn’t ride as Jania rode, then?” Garen’s tone was light, but his gaze was not. If not for the medicine, he wouldn’t have spoken thus.
“Jania rode these ridges,” I said, “and these valleys. She did not ride in some stranger’s land.”
Abruptly, Garen grabbed my hand. “Nara,” he said, “You must not be silent again. I must always hear your voice.”
“Always?” I laughed, trying to make it a joke. “If the God and Goddess grant us years enough together, you might regret that.”
“Always,” he said, and he did not laugh.
Garen will not tell you this. Perhaps I should not tell you either.
But his serious voice made me feel strange, shy as the day we met. “I will not be silent,” I promised. And then, shyer still, I said, “I wish something, too.”
“What do you wish?” Garen asked, even though he need not do anything on account of my wishes.
“I wish to hear your voice. I wish—to hear you sing.” He never had, you see, in all the months I’d been here.
“My voice is no gift from the God,” Garen said.
“I wish to hear it, just the same.”
So he sang the hymn from our wedding day. His voice was rough, and off-key, and perfect. I added my high voice to his low one, and as we sang together, I knew there was in truth a bond between us, and that it was not like other bonds.
You say the gods have put this thing between Garen and me. I do not know your gods. I know only one Goddess, who is lost and seeks a way home; and one God, who has offered her shelter and longs to keep her forever by his side. Yet nothing is forever; one day the Goddess will return home. One day Garen and I will be parted, for a time at least. If Garen leaves first, my only comforts will be my songs and my land, and even they will not be enough. Yet that parting will not be this day, and that matters more than any story can say.
But then, I do not know how to tell a story. I only know how to sing.
Garen does not know how to sing. But he is learning.
FINDING ELVIDA
Mickey Zucker Reichert is the author of such masterful DAW fantasy novels as
and
(
trilogy),
and
(
trilogy),
series,
and
her debut science fiction novel for DAW. She is also the coauthor (with
) of the spellbinding fantasy novel,
. Mickey lives in Iowa with her husband and three of their children, and divides her time between her family, her writing, teaching at the local university, and the assorted livestock.
ASWORD crashed against Elvida’s with a force that nearly unseated her from Raynor’s saddle. Trusting the Companion to tend to balance, she put her full concentration into harmlessly redirecting the strike. Her riposte followed naturally, training drummed into habit by Weaponsmaster Altorin. Her blade struck flesh with a sickening tear. Pain thrummed through her hands, her enemy a target more solid than mock combat had prepared her to expect. Blood splashed, throwing red spots and squiggles across Raynor’s snowy neck and her own silvery gray uniform. The man collapsed, and a bitter thread of bile clawed its way up Elvida’s throat.
Cursing the dark curls that obscured her vision, Elvida wasted a motion tossing them from her eyes. She followed the sound of bridle bells to find the other two Companions, Tabnar and Leahleh, together. Surrounded by a mass of unmounted enemies, Herald Sharylle and her partner Anthea flailed wildly through the press. Scarlet splattered their Herald Whites and their faces, and the warriors bayed at them like blood-sick hounds.
Open for the moment, Elvida suffered a moment of terror. Her first mission was supposed to be routine, a leisurely ride through the Holdings, hauling a single cart. They would plant soaproot and blue bells, help organize the restocking of Waystations, and gather information to assure nothing troublesome was brewing just beyond the
