Valdemar 06 - [Exile 02] - Exile’s Valor

by Mercedes Lackey

  The Heralds lined both sides of the path that Selenay and her wedding party would take from the door of the Palace to the bower where the Lord Patriarch waited. Alberich was actually nearest the door in his line, and Keren was directly opposite him. At a mental signal that was passed via their Companions, they smoothly and simultaneously unsheathed their swords and crossed them overhead, forming an arch of shining steel.

  As the swords left their sheaths, the chattering stopped. There was a moment of absolute silence.

  Then the musicians struck up the processional march, the door of the Palace opened, and the first of the ladies in attendance emerged.

  There were twenty of them, strewing rose petals on the path from silver baskets. Last of all came Selenay.

  He could not have told what she was wearing, though he knew that even Heralds who were female would be discussing it for days if not weeks; he was only a man, after all. It was white—no surprise, she was a Herald as well as Queen. It was made of some soft, shining stuff, overlaid with some gauzy stuff, and embroidered with gold and pearls. She was swathed in what seemed like furlongs of veil, which made it difficult to see her face; he thought, as she passed, that she looked terrifyingly happy, though. She stared straight ahead, both hands holding a huge bouquet of white flowers and ivy.

  Her step was firm and brisk, and in a moment, she was past him, and all he could see was the back of her gown. It trailed for quite some distance on the ground behind her, and there were two of the little Tedrel orphans carrying her train. And one of them was that little lad in Formal Trainee Grays, an exact duplicate of Formal Whites, except done in gray. He looked terribly solemn and a little scared, but when he saw Alberich, he brightened, and Alberich raised his free hand in a formal salute that made him look still happier as he passed.

  Fortunately, the children were too young to have been infected with the doubts that plagued their elders.

  The Heralds held their pose until the entire wedding party had assembled at the altar. Then, with another signal passed by the Companions, they pulled their swords into a formal salute, and simultaneously sheathed them. As the musicians ended the processional with a flourish, they turned as one to face the altar.

  Alberich was just as glad that all he could see was the back of the Herald in front of him. He was reminded of all of the ceremonies he had attended as a member of the Sunsguard, after he had realized how many of Vkandis Sunlord’s Priests were corrupt and venial creatures with no more calling than a cat. Then, as now, he had made his mind a blank, and set his face in an expression of bland attentiveness.

  The ceremony, which made reference to every deity worshiped in all of Valdemar and Rethwellan, was a long one. Before it was over, long before, in fact, he sensed the restlessness of some of his fellow Heralds who had not spent their youths in military training. Anyone who had been a soldier got used to standing at attention for unconscionably long periods of time. . . .

  This should have been a joyful occasion. It struck him as inexpressibly sad that it should have become one that was merely endured.

  At long last the final vows were spoken, somewhere up there ahead of him. The rings were exchanged, Selenay’s veil lifted, the first marital kiss given.

  Bells rang out all over the Complex, which signaled the bells of the city below to begin pealing. A cheer rose over the assembled crowd—

  And it might have been noticed that the Heralds were not cheering, except that someone had decided that they should form the sword-arch again at full attention. Whether that someone had been Talamir or even Myste, the action made certain that no one was going to have to try and force out something he didn’t really feel.

  The procession came back through the arch, led by Selenay and her new Consort. He had his arm around her possessively, but Selenay was between him and Alberich, so the Weaponsmaster didn’t get much of a look at him. They all retired back into the Palace to be divested of parts of their costumes—veils and trains being highly impractical for outdoor receptions and feasts—and make a first appearance on a balcony above the gardens.

  Once again, the Heralds saluted—each other, this time—and sheathed their swords. But now the double line swiftly broke apart, to be absorbed into the milling crowd, some heading for the formal gardens, others on errands of their own.

  Myste was one of the latter; Alberich gathered that she had some little wedding duties to attend to in the matter of protocol. He loosened his collar and, feeling heavy in spirit, swiftly separated himself from the throng and headed back down to the salle.

  Once there, he stripped himself of the detested finery as quickly as he could, and donned a set of his oldest and most comfortable leathers.

  :What did you have in mind for the rest of the day?: asked Kantor.

  :I suppose—: he began, then heard footsteps on the path and looked up to see Elcarth approaching—with a bottle in one hand.

  “We might as well stay out here,” he said, by way of greeting. “The others will be here shortly.”

  “Others?” Alberich inquired, raising an eyebrow.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Elcarth told him, with a sardonic twist to his lips.

  And within the candlemark, Jadus, Keren, and Ylsa all arrived bringing their bottles. And last of all, bringing up the rear, came Myste, with Healer Crathach, more bottles, and a hamper between them.

  The last, evidently came as a surprise to the rest; Myste and Crathach set down the hamper and the Healer surveyed them all, hands on hips, as they tried not to look guilty. “Myste advised me of what you were likely to do,” he said, and Alberich tried not to wince or feel betrayed. “Or shall I say, the state you were likely to get yourselves into.” But Crathach was only warming up to his theme.

  “Now, all things considered, I am somewhat in sympathy with the idea of finding a bit of ease in drink, at this particular time. But I told her that you were not going to undertake this without me. We are going to get drunk,” he announced. “We are going to get genteelly drunk, pleasantly drunk, and we will remain in that state with careful application of food as well as drink. We will not drink ourselves sick, we will not drink ourselves stupid, or maudlin, or unconscious, and I will make personally sure that when we finally seek our beds, we will do so in a state that will permit us to sleep and wake without hangovers. Are you with me?”

  They set out a kind of al fresco area under the trees, since none of them really wanted to be inside, and at any rate, Alberich’s little sitting room would have been horribly cramped with all of them crammed into it. “I certainly don’t need to be up there now. There are a couple dozen people who’ll be giving me their notes,” Myste said sourly, jerking her head in the direction of the gardens. “Including Talamir.”

  “I can’t figure Grandfather on this at all,” Keren replied, waving vaguely at the Palace; Alberich wondered if she’d gotten a start on all of them back in her own quarters, for although she walked and moved perfectly well, and her speech was clear, she had a glazed quality to her eyes as she passed him a full mug of wine.

  “Grandfather?” he asked. Keren had her nose in her mug, so it was Myste who answered.

  “Talamir is Keren’s grandfather; her people marry off early, and it’s usually arranged between families,” Myste replied. “Since he was the only boy in his, he had to take a break during his Trainee period to go home and fulfill his—ah—obligation.”

  “Four breaks, to be precise,” Keren added, with a smirk. “Fortunately for me, I’m half of a twin set, and traditionally only one of us had to do the duty. So when I was Chosen, that left my brother Teren as the one.”

  “But is Teren also not a Herald?” Alberich asked, puzzled.

  “He got Chosen after he’d provided the family with a litter,” Keren replied and shrugged. “What can I say?

  With so many close relational ties, my people have to be more pragmatic about marriage. You marry who’s available, and if it turns out there’s a love match, all well and good, but if not, no
body cares who you sleep with for love or pleasure as long as no one is harmed by it.”

  “About your grandfather—Talamir,” Alberich prompted, wanting to change the subject back to its original topic.

  Keren lay back on the old, worn rug she’d appropriated, and stared up at the branches waving overhead. “I don’t understand why he isn’t doing something about this,” she said finally. “I mean, it’s wrong, we all know in our bones that it’s wrong, though—”

  “We can’t put a finger on why,” Elcarth interrupted. “That’s the reason, I think. We don’t have a reason, and somewhere down inside, we’re all uncertain that the only thing we can object to is that the Prince is an outsider.”

  “But none of us objected to Sendar’s choice of wife,” Jadus said slowly. “None of us had this feeling of wrongness about her, and she was not a Herald.”

  “But she was Valdemaran,” said Crathach, and turned to Alberich. “And have you anything to contribute?”

  Alberich shrugged. “No Foresight, if that is what you mean,” he admitted. “Only the same feeling, that this marriage will prove to be a grave mistake.” He did not mention the things he had learned about the Prince’s contacts with the actor, in no small part because it was not yet proven. But he exchanged a look with Myste, who gave a small shrug.

  “Which could all too easily be nothing more than prejudice,” Ylsa pointed out shrewdly. “He certainly has gone out of his way to be agreeable to everyone.”

  “Too agreeable?” Keren asked, then snorted. “As if it matters.”

  “Well,” Myste said slowly, “it does. If we aren’t just making a mountain out of nothing, if this is going to turn into a bad situation, then the best thing that we can do for the Queen is to support her in every way. Including keeping an eye on him, so that if he does something against her, or against Valdemar, we can do something about him.”

  “That’s more or less what Grandfather said,” Keren admitted. “But of all things I hate, I hate having to play a waiting game the most.”

  “Don’t we all,” Jadus replied, and that seemed all that anyone could say.

  They passed the remainder of the evening assiduously avoiding the entire subject—but it was with them, as an unseen presence, a kind of specter at the feast, the whole time. Alberich left them early, feeling that not all the wine in the world could wash away his unease, and feeling wearier than he ever had in his life. He sought forgetfulness in sleep, and for the first time in his life, actually found it. Whatever was wrong, it was not immediate enough even to give him uneasy dreams.

  The Collegium was back in session; things were getting back to normal again. The last of the classes was over for the day, and Alberich was working with Kimel of the Guard, while two more of Kimel’s fellows waited their turn to bout with him. They were outside, on the practice grounds, rather than inside the salle—whenever possible, since the mirror incident, Alberich preferred to run practices that were, by their nature, unpredictable on the grounds outside.

  Alberich caught movement on the path long before the Prince and his entourage arrived; he sensed it, identified it as “outsiders” by the lack of Whites or Guard uniforms, and dismissed it as currently unimportant, all in a heartbeat. The group of seven or eight paused a prudent distance outside the edge of the practice ground and watched.

  There was some murmuring, but nothing more than that; certainly there was no hint of scorn or scoffing in the tones of the muttered conversation. Perfectly acceptable, that was. Alberich finished the bout in a draw with Kimel. He probably could have beaten him; he usually did but caution made him decide not to do so in front of outsiders. The two of them drew back and saluted, and only then did Alberich turn his attention to the audience.

  It could not have been clearer that the one in the middle was Prince Karathanelan. The man was, Alberich supposed, handsome enough. He could certainly see that Selenay would have no reason to find the arrangement of his features less than pleasing. The cut and style of his clothing was a bit different from roughly half of the young men around him; the effect was of “foreignness,” but was reasonably flattering. The others were apparently friends of his from Rethwellan; Alberich had heard something of them, that a number of the Prince’s landless friends from Rethwellan had arrived in time for the wedding, and that Selenay had already granted them holdings of their own from unclaimed properties on the Border with Karse and Rethwellan. Alberich wished them joy of their new lands. They weren’t the most prosperous even at the best of times, being mostly sheep country.

  What Alberich didn’t like was the posture of those around him. These were sycophants; nothing more. They devoted themselves to pleasing someone stronger; if any of them had ever had an original thought in his head, he had quickly suppressed it. A man who surrounded himself with men like these, in Alberich’s experience, was a man who had a great deal of difficulty in understanding that the world did not happen to run itself to his desire.

  There were a great many Sunpriests like that. . . .

  Still, the look on the face of the Prince suggested that he had some respect for Alberich’s ability.

  Alberich gave him a sketchy sort of salute, while the Guards gave him the full bow due to his position as Consort. He waited, resting, to see what the Prince would do or say.

  Although a brief shadow passed over the Prince’s face, aside from that flicker of displeasure, the Prince’s expression did not change, and his voice, when he spoke, was polite and pleasant enough.

  “You are the Weaponsmaster?” he asked. “The Karsite?”

  “Weaponsmaster Herald Alberich,” Alberich confirmed. “Karsite-born, yes, Your Highness.”

  The Prince looked him over carefully. “And Karsite-trained, I am told. Interesting.” As he was surveying Alberich, the Herald was doing the same for him.

  :There’s muscle there,: he observed to Kantor.

  :No matter what he’s been doing since he got here, he’s not soft,: Kantor agreed.

  “I should like to bout with you,” the Prince said abruptly.

  Alberich did not bother to point out that the Prince was hardly dressed for a round of vigorous exercise; he was clearly one of those who did not trouble himself over the ruin of a suit of clothing. He merely glanced at the two Guardsmen, who quickly effaced themselves with a little nod, making it clear that they were perfectly willing to yield their time to the Prince. One of them picked up a set of practice swords and offered them to the Prince, as some of his entourage helped him to take off his elaborate doublet and relieved him of some of his jewels.

  “Would Your Highness make a choice of practice weapons?” the Guardsman asked.

  But the Prince waved them off. “Live steel is the choice of men,” he said, with a touch of arrogance that made the Guardsman flush.

  :Stupid. Overconfident,: Kantor said acidly.

  :Testing me,: Alberich countered, as he took up his own sword from where it was lying with the Guardsmen’s. :And he knows that there is no way that I would dare harm him. He has me at a disadvantage, he thinks.:

  The question was whether that advantage was real or only in the Prince’s mind. There was muscle under that silk, but somehow Alberich doubted whether the Prince had ever had a Weaponsmaster who really tested the Prince to the limits of his ability. There was too much sly arrogance there.

  Nevertheless, Alberich was not at all certain that he wanted to show the Prince which of them was the superior fighter. The Prince was the enemy here, but he was an enemy who had not yet truly shown his hand. He knew far more about the Prince, he would warrant, than the Prince knew about him. So there was a distinct advantage in leaving the Prince with the impression that his expertise was less than it actually was.

  All that flashed through his mind in a few moments, as he made sure that his weapons were in good condition and his own muscles thoroughly warmed up.

  Then they faced off, and the combat began.

  It was no real challenge; Alberich was not only able to
react automatically to the Prince’s blows and feints, his mind was free to think about what he was doing, despite the fact that they were using live steel weapons.

  The Prince’s style of fighting was a curious combination of aggression and stealth that told Alberich far more about the Prince’s personality than the Prince would ever guess. He did not—quite—engage in the underhanded moves of the streetfighting bravos that Alberich had encountered in his own nighttime prowlings, but the things that he did left Alberich with no doubt that he was perfectly well acquainted with such tactics. And while Alberich himself made no bones about teaching his Trainees those moves, he doubted that the Prince had any notion of this. So he pretended that he had not noticed those little suggestions of a feint, and proceeded exactly as if he was fighting in the “classical” style. And he thought that he saw the Prince’s lips tighten in a self-satisfied little smile when Alberich failed to respond to those feints.

  So much for the testing; having established the perceived limits of Alberich’s expertise, the Prince abruptly switched tactics, and went for a very aggressive, straight-on attack. Alberich kept up a purely defensive strategy, and did not respond to any of the openings that the Prince gave him. This was surely puzzling Kimel and the other Guards, but Alberich wasn’t working for their benefit, only for this audience of one. The impression he wanted to leave the Prince with was that Selenay’s Weaponsmaster was skilled, competent, strong, but limited in his vision—and thus, in what he was teaching the Trainees.

  I’ll have to have someone watch the boy when he practices, he realized. There was a lot he could guess from what the Prince had done so far, but if it ever truly came to a fight between the two of them, he wanted to be sure of what the Prince could and could not do.

  Gradually, the Prince’s style began to drift, and for a moment, there was a nagging sort of familiarity to it that Alberich could not pin down. It was flamboyant, definitely overconfident, and grew more so as time went on.