Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor

by Mercedes Lackey

  As beautiful and peaceful as this place was—he was trapped here. And he came to realize, as he walked on in the thick golden light, that the peace came at the price of being unable to escape, and completely alone. Not Paradise. Not even close.

  That was the end of the dream. As abruptly as it had begun, it was over, and Alberich dropped out of the meadow and into the usual fever dreams that he had fought since being brought here.

  From fever dream, he moved into welcome dreamless-ness, and from then into the pain that always woke him when his medicines wore off. But it was not as bad as it had been, and he knew that the drugs being given him were not as strong as they’d been at first. Someone gave him a different-tasting drink, then, and he drowsed for a bit.

  Sometime later, he woke to the sound of someone—no, two people—walking into his room.

  “Is he awake?” asked a voice that was strange to him.

  “He should be. I gave him a draught that should—well—sober him up completely,” replied one that was more familiar —one of the Healers who spent a great deal of Alberich’s waking time with him. There was a touch on his chest, where there were no bandages other than the ones holding his cracked ribs in place. “Sir, I am going to take off the bandages on your eyes, and leave them off. The skin there is healed enough that you needn’t have them on anymore.”

  “I understand,” he said, stumbling over the foreign words. The Healer moved him as gently as could be, propped him up with cushions, and took off the bandages. Alberich blinked, and squinted in the sunlight, taking his first proper look at the room he’d been in for—well, he didn’t know how long.

  And now that he was thinking clearly, the very first thing he felt was a smoldering resentment.

  A shaggy-haired man in stained and well-worn green robes was coiling up bandages at the foot of the bed, but Alberich had very little interest in him, or in the room itself at the moment. It was the other occupant of the room, the one sitting right beside him, that captured his attention.

  This was a Demon-Rider.

  :This is Talamir, the King’s Own Herald,: Kantor corrected gently, speaking into his mind for the first time since he’d awakened.

  Alberich’s jaw tightened, but he tried to look at the man, rather than react to him. What he saw was a tall, a very tall, thin man with graying brown hair, perhaps forty or fifty years old, if Alberich’s judgment was any good. His was a careworn, lean face, overlaid with gentle good humor, but with a strong chin that suggested a stubborn streak, and a determination it would not be wise to invoke if you intended to quarrel with him. And, of course, he wore that dreaded white uniform, the emblem of the enemy—a more elaborate version than Alberich thought prudent or practical for a fighting man—

  :Those are Formal Whites. Talamir has just come from a Council session at the King’s side. Defending your presence here in Valdemar, in Haven, in the ranks of the Heralds themselves, may I add.:

  Alberich refused to be distracted from his careful scrutiny.

  The uniform—I would never don anything like this, he told himself fiercely—a silver-laced, white-velvet tunic, with silver embroidery at the hems, over a heavy white samite shirt with wide sleeves caught in deep cuffs at the wrists, and white satin breeches. A wide, white leather belt ornamented with hammered silver supported a dagger in a matching sheath. He’d have called it foppish, except that it wasn’t. But he could not imagine himself ever wearing anything so extravagant.

  The fabric alone, if sold, could feed a family for a year—

  :Ah. And, of course, the nobles of Karse, the wealthy merchants, the ranking Captains, and above all, the Voices of the Sunlord dress and live so very austerely,: came the unwelcome reminder.

  “Well, you have been here some two weeks, sir,” Talamir said, his hazel eyes scrutinizing Alberich just as closely as Alberich was examining him. “I’m sure you have been wondering.”

  “Wondering, yes,” Alberich replied, giving away nothing, conceding nothing, offering nothing. Talamir sighed.

  :You could be more gracious.:

  “Alberich—yes, we know what your name is—you must know that my Taver has been talking virtually nonstop to your Kantor, and what Kantor knows about you, so do I.” Talamir’s eyes became very penetrating. “I know very well that you have a good command of our tongue now, and furthermore, your Kantor can easily explain anything you don’t understand immediately. I should prefer not to spend this entire first interview fencing with you, if you please.”

  Well, that gave him the opening he’d been looking for. “My Kantor, it is?” he asked resentfully. “And when was there asking on my part, for this Choosing, this so-called honor?”

  Talamir shrugged. “You could be dead right now,” he pointed out. “Whether you consider it an honor or not, Kantor saved your life.”

  “For which blessing, to serve my enemy, I am bound?” There was a sour taste in his mouth, and his stomach muscles were so tight as to make his cracked ribs ache in protest. He’d not only been kidnapped, he had been reduced to simple-mindedness with drugs—but now that he was himself again, he had no intention of rolling over like a cowed dog and licking the hands of his captors.

  “I was not aware that Valdemar had personally done you harm,” said Talamir. “Nor was I aware that any citizen of Valdemar had hurt you. I was under the impression that everything untoward that had happened to you was the responsibility of the denizens of your own land. If you can point out to me who and what on this side of the Border has wronged you, I assure you it will be dealt with to your satisfaction.”

  “Even if it Kantor is?” he asked, and looked Talamir straight in the eyes.

  There was silence in his mind.

  “Kantor.” Talamir gazed on him with astonishment. “Your Companion.”

  “Who under false pretenses and a disguise attached himself to me. Who carried me off, who brought me here, where I would not have gone had I a choice been given. Who—perhaps?—had to do somewhat with my witch-sight coming so clear, and in front of a Voice?” He saw Talamir wince and felt his own mouth tighten in grim satisfaction. “Who therefore could the cause be, that the Voice to the Fires condemned me?”

  “You would be dead right now,” Talamir repeated uncomfortably. “You couldn’t have denied your Gift. With or without Kantor, sooner or later it would have betrayed you, and you would still have gone to the fires—”

  “But my own death it was, and mine was the choice to face, or to escape it,” he pointed out, anger and resentment coloring every word. “That choice, from me was taken. Perhaps the witch-sight I could have fought, taken from me also was the option to try. And in the first place, had not the witch-sight come upon me when and where it did, condemned I should not have been.”

  A village might have gone under the sword, though—

  The silence that fell between them was as heavy and uncompromising as lead.

  But it was not Talamir who answered him.

  :I am sorry, Alberich,: said the voice in his mind humbly and full of contrition. :You are absolutely in the right. You had a life and choices, and I took them from you. I shan’t even bother to make all of the arguments that a Valdemaran would accept. You aren’t a Valdemaran, and there is no reason you should accept them. For you, my actions were nothing less than arrogance and a smug certainty that I was in the right to run roughshod over you. All I can do is apologize, and try to make it right with you.:

  He closed his eyes, his own heart contracting at the hurt and pain in that voice, armoring himself against it with the anger and resentment in his. “A better way, there could have been found,” he said aloud.

  “In a sense,” Talamir replied quietly, “this is between you and Kantor. But ultimately, all of us are responsible, so I must apologize as well. We take such pride in our freedom here—and then we turned around and robbed you of yours. With the best intentions in the world—”

  “Even the Voice that to the Fires sent me, good intentions may have had,” Alberi
ch retorted, opening his eyes again. “If not to save my soul, then those souls about me.”

  Again, Talamir winced.

  “Served my people, did I, and served them well,” he continued, bitterness overflowing at the thought that he had been forced to abandon those villagers who depended on him to stand vigilant guard over their safety. “Who now, protect them will? The Voices? Ha! Those who willed, in my place to stand?” He glared, daring Talamir to answer him.

  “I do not know,” Talamir admitted quietly. “But I have already offered any remedy that you could ask. What do you suggest? Name it, and I will do my personal best to see it done.”

  In the face of such a reasonable answer, Alberich’s anger suddenly collapsed, like an inflated bladder with a pin put to it. “I—” he began, and rubbed his eyes, faced with uncertainty of monumental proportions. “I know not.”

  “Would you have us undo what we have done?” Talamir persisted.

  Alberich snorted. “And how? Return, I cannot. Notorious, I am, doubtless. If ever a time for remedy was, it now long past is.”

  Talamir sighed. “We tell our youngsters that Companion’s Choice is irrevocable, and for life, but that is not—altogether—true. The bond can be broken between you, if you both want it broken badly enough. It will leave you—damaged. But it can be broken.”

  That held him silent for a moment. There was a bond between them? And if breaking it would leave him damaged, what would it do to Kantor? He thought about the pain in Kantor’s mental words when the Companion apologized, and winced away from the very idea. No matter what had happened to him, he could not be responsible for creating more pain. “This moots nothing,” he replied, stalling. “Nowhere to go now, have I.”

  Talamir nodded. “Well, in light of that—would you consider giving us—giving life here—a trial period? Surely no choice can properly be made without all the information you need. Once you know us as we are, I believe you will choose to remain in Valdemar, to choose the Heralds.”

  He opened his mouth, and closed it again, because, logically and unemotionally speaking, he honestly could not think of a good reason why he shouldn’t do as the Herald asked.

  :I wish you would,: said the wistful voice in his mind.

  “In the Sunlord, I still believe—” he began, bringing up the only remaining stumbling block that occurred to him

  “That is not an issue.” Talamir waved that objection aside. “It never was. But perhaps you would rather hear that from a true Priest of the Sunlord?”

  He blinked. “A Voice of Vkandis? Here?”

  “Not a Voice, Alberich—but I should let him speak for himself.” Talamir murmured something to the Healer, who nodded and went to the door of this room. He passed out of it, and another, much older man stepped inside, accompanied by a second about Alberich’s age.

  Talamir rose, and offered his seat to the older man, who took it. “This is Alberich, Father Henrick,” he said. “Alberich, this is Father Henrick, and Acolyte Gerichen, his assistant.”

  Alberich eyed them both with caution. Neither wore the red robes of a Voice, nor the black of an ordinary priest. Instead, the older man sported a similarly cut gown of fine, cream-colored wool, and the younger, a plainer robe of unbleached linen. Both had the familiar disk of the Sunlord on a chain that hung down over the breast of their robes, however.

  “You serve Vkandis Sunlord?” he asked, rather doubtfully.

  Father Henrick nodded gravely. “I was born in Asherbeg, Captain,” he said, in unaccented Karsite. “I was taken into the service of the Sunlord when I was eight, and made a full priest at twenty. Even as you, I am a child of Karsite soil and I still serve the Sunlord. And at twenty-one—I was ordered to Cleanse three children from the Border village to which I had been assigned.”

  Alberich went very still. “And?” he asked.

  The priest made a rude noise. “What sort of monster do you take me for, Captain?” he asked. “I couldn’t of course; they were children, guilty of nothing more than having powers that the Voices find inconvenient! Instead of Cleansing them, I took them and escaped over the Border with them, where I met with a Herald who in turn took me to the temple here. We don’t call it the Temple of Vkandis, of course; we refer to it as the Temple of the Lord of Light—but those who attend know it, and us, for what we are.”

  “Powers?” Alberich said, feeling very stupid all of a sudden, as his anger and resentment drained away, leaving nothing behind. “Inconvenient?”

  Father Henrick looked as if he had gotten a mouthful of green mead. “Those abilities that you have been taught are witch-powers, and signs of the contamination of demons, are nothing more than—than inborn powers that a child has no more control over than he does over whether or not he will be a great musician, or a great cook, or a great swords-man.”

  “He doesn’t?” Alberich asked, dumbly.

  “Of course not,” the priest snapped. “And when these powers are something that the Voices find useful, if the child is young enough to be trained, it is whisked into the temple rather than being burned! It is only those whose powers are of no use to the Son of the Sun, or who are too old to be molded into a pleasing shape, that are sent to the Flames!”

  Alberich was glad that he was propped up by pillows, else he would have been reeling. The priest looked as if he had plenty more to say, but his assistant placed a cautionary hand on his arm. “Father, enough,” the younger man said in Valdemaran. “This poor fellow looks as if you had just stunned him with a club.”

  In truth, that is exactly what Alberich felt like. “I—” he faltered. “I—had no notion.”

  “You are not a stupid man, Captain,” the old priest said roughly. “And you have a mind young enough to be flexible, if you will it. Try opening it.”

  He flushed at the rebuke, and felt horribly uncomfortable. This priest reminded him all too clearly of the old priest of his home, a crusty old man who had the respect of everyone in the village, and whose speech was as blunt as his common sense was good. So well was he regarded, despite a short temper and curmudgeonly demeanor, that when a Voice wished to have him replaced by a younger man, the entire village rose up in protest, and the scheme was abandoned.

  “But—” he began, in an attempt to explain himself that he knew before he started would be futile.

  “But, indeed. You have been given a great gift, Alberich of Karse, a gift that can serve you and our people, an opportunity that will lead—well, I cannot tell where it will lead.” The old man glared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. “There is a reason for all of this, I am sure of it, as sure as I am that it is men, and not the Sunlord, who have made Karse and Valdemar enemies. You say that you want to help our people? Our people are led by frauds and charlatans! Half, if not more, of the Voices are false, and every high-ranking priest is corrupt! And now this happens, a soldier of Karse is Chosen to be a Herald of Valdemar, and I doubt not it is by the will of the Sunlord himself. Does that not seem like the Hand of the Sunlord Himself to you?”

  Alberich was covered in confusion. “I cannot tell—”

  “Well, then trust that I can,” the old man snapped. “This is a gift, an opportunity beyond price. If you piss it away, I shall be most angry with you. And rest assured that when the time comes and you stand before Vkandis’ Throne, He will ask you why you threw away the gift He placed in your hands. For the God’s sake, man, can’t you see your sacred duty when it stares you in the face?”

  Faced with that stern face of authority—of legitimate authority—what could he do or say? He tried to wrench his gaze away from the priest’s eyes so that he could think—and found that he couldn’t. “But I was given no choice—” he tried to protest.

  The priest snorted. “Don’t be daft,” he retorted. “You could have stayed there to die, and you didn’t. You made your choice when you sensibly took the rescue that was offered. And as for having your life interfered with, balderdash. If your Companion had never sought you out and that particular
Voice hadn’t discovered your Gift—the thing you call a witch-power—another would have. Only this time, there would have been no rescue. And what is more, your so-called guilt could have been used to bring others to the Fires, others who were innocent of anything except supporting you.”

  Talamir was standing very patiently to one side, pretending to pay no attention to what was going on. Although—Alberich had to wonder, given what he’d said about the Companions talking to one another and to him, if he wasn’t managing to follow the entire conversation despite having no working knowledge of Karsite.

  The priest glared a moment longer, then abruptly, his expression softened. “Lad, you’re angry and resentful that your life has been turned upside down; you wouldn’t be human if you weren’t. You’re bitter and in despair at being betrayed; you should be, but be bitter at the right people, not those who want only your welfare. If you’re not frightened at being caught up in something you don’t understand, I’d be very much surprised, and I’d suspect that one of those blows to your head had addled your wits. Now you think you’re utterly alone. Well, you’re not.”

  “I didn’t know about you until a moment ago,” Alberich began.

  The old man shook his head. “That wasn’t what I meant. I’ve been living here for better than forty years, and I’ve learned a thing or two about Heralds. No—I meant something else entirely. Open your heart—and I mean, really open it—to your Companion, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Alberich meant to shake his head in denial, but another stern look from the priest killed the gesture before he could make it. “Don’t argue,” he said. “Don’t think of an excuse. Just do it. And while you’re at it, open your mind as well as your heart.”