The old man rose. “I’ll be going now, but if you need me, they know where to find me, or where to send you if you’d prefer, once you’re on your feet. For that matter, I’m sure your Companion would have no difficulty finding me wherever I happened to be without you having to ask anyone but him.”
With that, he nodded to Talamir and shuffled out, followed by his acolyte. The door closed behind them, and Alberich stifled a sound that was midway between a sigh and a groan.
His sacred duty to join the Heralds, was it?
Hard words, thrown in the face of one who had lived his life by cleaving to duty, sacred or not.
Hard words, spoken by one who had been forced to abandon a potentially better life than anything ahead of Alberich, because he could not reconcile orders with duty. If anyone had a right to be bitter, it was the priest, but there was no bitterness behind that rough-hewn exterior manner. And no duplicity either. Nothing but unvarnished, unadorned truth, as the old man had seen it.
As he sees it—
But with forty years more experience of this place than Alberich had.
He swore under his breath.
“Pardon?” Talamir said. “I didn’t quite hear what you said.”
Alberich was going to growl “Nothing—” and then changed his mind.
“I said, make a trial of you, I shall,” he answered—so brusquely, even rudely, that he was surprised that Talamir didn’t take offense.
But the Herald didn’t. “Good,” he said instead, and moved to follow in the steps of the priest and his helper. But he turned when he got the door opened.
“In that case, there is one thing I should like to ask you to do,” he said, with another of those measuring looks. “Before the Healer returns, I should like you to open your mind to Kantor. Completely. I think—I hope it will make a difference to you.”
He left the room then, without waiting for Alberich’s answer.
But then, given that the priest had virtually ordered Alberich to do the same thing, he probably didn’t need to wait. He already knew that—eventually, at least—Alberich would make a trial of that, too.
Eventually. In his own time.
2
THE Healer fussed over him for a bit, then prepared to leave; on a low table, within easy reach, were a pitcher of water, a cup, and a vial of one of the pain-killing potions. “Take it when you need it and are ready to sleep,” the Healer told him. “Or not at all, if that’s your choice. But drink the water.”
Alberich couldn’t tell if the man’s brusque manner was his ordinary demeanor, or due to discovering where Alberich had come from. It could be both . . . and maybe, now that he knew Alberich was from Karse, he might be having second thoughts; maybe that wasn’t just an ordinary pain-killing potion.
On the other hand, the man was leaving him with the potion and giving him the option of drinking it, or not. Unlikely that it was poison—why waste all that time and effort in healing him just to poison him? If the situations were reversed, a “guest” of the Sunpriests would likely not be treated at all, much less given a comfortable room and pain-killing drugs.
“The potion will wear off about dinnertime if you choose to drink it,” the Healer continued. “It’s about time for you to start feeding yourself again instead of having someone ladle broth into you.”
Evidently, they were ready to see the last of him. Well, the feeling was mutual. Alberich was more than ready to do without Healers altogether. Already he’d had more attention for his injuries now than he’d ever had for every other injury in his life combined.
Then the man left, closing the door behind him, leaving Alberich alone in his tiny cell of a room.
Not that his quarters in the barracks—when he’d actually been in them, which was rare—were any larger. But the two rooms could not have been more different.
The outer wall of this room held a large window with actual glass panes in it; the wall directly opposite held the door. The other two walls were blank, and the room was tiled in a pale gray-green. A restful color, if a trifle dull. Tiles on a wall, though; that was something odd.
For furnishings, well, there were the bed he was on, a little three-legged table, and a stool to match. Not much need for a clothes chest in a sickroom, he supposed. He was, he discovered, wearing only smallclothes beneath his blankets and sheet. And they weren’t even his smallclothes. Everything about him that was Karsite was gone.
On the other hand, perhaps that was just as well. The less to mark him as the enemy, the better.
From where he was lying in bed, all he could see was a single white cloud, a mere wisp of a thing, drifting from one side to the other. Not a very inspiring view. In fact, there was nothing much in this place to occupy the mind.
Suddenly, he wanted to actually look out that window. He wanted to see more than just sky and clouds. He felt stifled; this was the longest period of time that he had spent without seeing the outside world since—well, he couldn’t remember. Even when he’d been a cadet, he’d been outside, riding, exercising, training. Even when he’d been hurt before, he’d been in his own quarters, able—indeed, expected—to get about and take up light duties.
His hands were still bandaged, but lightly, and they didn’t hurt so much anymore. He could use them—carefully. Well, the sooner he got out of bed, the sooner he’d finish healing. Gingerly, he slid his legs out from under the covers and put his feet on the cold tiled floor, sitting straight up on the edge of the bed. There was a painful twinge in his chest; an ungentle reminder of broken ribs.
Nothing wrong with my legs, anyway. There were some pink patches—healing burns—but at least no one had broken any foot or leg bones when they’d beaten him. A good thing, too—if his leg had been broken, he’d never have been able to get onto Kantor’s back, now, would he?
He’d been hurt in the line of duty often enough to know to pause after every movement to see how badly he felt. There was no point in undoing the work of healing by passing out and falling on the floor because he tried to leap out of bed like a healthy person. So he hesitated for a moment with his feet chilling on the tiles, testing for a sign of weakness, waiting for his vision to blur or fade out. But other than those twinges, he was fine. So far, so good.
Now the true test; standing up. If that didn’t make him pass out, nothing would. . . .
It didn’t. Now to get to the window.
Moments later—moments that had felt like far longer, as half-healed bits of him protested his movement vehemently with every step—he stood at the window, sweating, shaking, but looking out.
What he saw was not what he had expected.
He supposed he would look out on an enclosed courtyard, certainly something with high walls around it. Surely they would not have put him inside anything less secure. Instead, he saw gardens, wonderful gardens, and they were extensive enough that he couldn’t see the walls that must certainly be there. These were no common pleasure parks or bits of waste ground for just anyone to stroll about on.
Directly beneath his window was a graveled path, bordered on either side with a low herbaceous hedge. To either side of that were trees in ornamental clumps, with planted beds of foliage arranged around and among them.
The gardens themselves must have been very old, for the trees looked ancient, the grass as smooth and even as plush, the bushes and flowering plants as if they had been there since the beginning of time. There were stone benches and individual seats placed to best enjoy sun or shade, and lanterns hung from wrought-metal stands beside the benches. Nowhere were there fences to keep people away from the plantings, or even confine them to the paths, except for that little hedge, and it wasn’t even knee-high. Once or twice, Alberich had seen gardens like this behind the homes of the wealthy, but never this extensive.
His room was on the second floor of this building, giving him an elevated view; it was a uniquely advantageous one for determining what his surroundings were like. There must have been a door directly below his window
, for the path led up to it, and people were entering and leaving from directly below where he stood. Young people, he saw with a start. They wore tunics and trews, or long robes, in a paler color of green than the Healer he had seen. Some of them couldn’t be older than ten!
:Those are Healer-trainees,: said Kantor tentatively. :Where we are—it’s Healer’s Collegium, where young Healers are taught, as well as being a House of Healing. You’re on the grounds of a complex that includes Herald’s Collegium, where the Heralds are trained, Healer’s Collegium, and Bardic Collegium. And the Palace. That’s why all the gardens, of course; the pleasure gardens for the Palace, the herb gardens for the Healers, and kitchen gardens. They’re open to everyone within the walls.:
The Palace! They allowed him, a Karsite, to be within the same walls that enclosed the Palace? Granted, he was hurt, but still—if he were an assassin, he wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop him! And most of the time he was un-watched, unguarded—how could they possibly trust him?
:You’re with me,: Kantor replied simply.
The simple, bald statement took him utterly by surprise. He was “with” Kantor—and these people considered that to be enough to trust him within reach of the rulers of their land.
He recalled the attitude of the Healer and revised that. Some of them considered that to be enough.
Or maybe he is just like that with all of his patients.
He looked out on the gardens for a little, before answering. :So these people train Healers in one central place?:
:Mostly. Sometimes they apprentice with an older Healer, or are trained at one of the Temples of Healing, especially if they are uneasy about leaving their homes, but that’s rare. We prefer that our Healers come here to learn so that we know that they’ve gotten a standard education—and any special training that their Gifts and talents might warrant.: Kantor paused. :Would you rather that I not speak to you this way?:
He thought about it for a moment; it seemed to him that this sharing of thoughts should have seemed like a violation, yet it didn’t. He couldn’t account for that very foreign feeling—unless, perhaps, he’d gotten used to it while he was semiconscious, so now it just didn’t raise the instinctive alarm in him that it ordinarily would have. And he could not deny how useful it was to be able to silently speak and ask questions about this place and these people. :No—I would rather you helped me. I said that I would give all of you a trial; I don’t know that I can manage that without you. But—where are you?:
:Right here.: He would not have believed that anything as big as a horse could have hidden itself virtually in plain sight—but there was just a little movement, and Kantor stepped into view through a screen of bushes. He was followed by two more of the white Companions, then another two. They all stood just below his window, to one side of the path, looking up at him with eyes so vivid a blue that even from here they struck him with their intensity. :We’re all five of us waiting for our Chosen to heal in there,: he said, with wry humor. :Heralds have a habit of winding up in the hands of Healers.:
These people permitted horses in their formal gardens? He could just imagine the mess that would have caused in the garden of the Son of the Sun. . . .
:We aren’t exactly horses,: Kantor reminded him. :And here, at the Collegia, people know they can trust us not to step on or eat the roses—or in this case, rosemary. Everyone here knows exactly what we are, and we can pretty much go where we wish and do what we want. Even into the Palace, if we need to.:
Alberich looked down on them with reluctant interest. Now, with four more of these “Companions” to compare Kantor with, it was very clear that Kantor was distinct among his kind. It hadn’t been obvious how powerful he was when Alberich had only been comparing him with ordinary horses—
:There was some illusion on my part as well,: Kantor admitted sheepishly. :I hid my eye color, for one thing.:
—but the other four were—well, like graceful acrobats or dancers. Kantor was far more muscular, his head perhaps a bit blockier, his neck arched and strong, his hindquarters and chest definitely deeper and with fantastically developed muscles.
:I am a warrior, Companion to a warrior. My friends need speed and endurance more than they need strength; I need strength and sheer power as well as stamina. No matter where your duties take you, I will always be able to fight at your side and guard your back.: Kantor seemed very proud of that, and for the first time, Alberich felt himself warm to the creature, just a little. They had that much in common, at least.
A warrior, Companion to a warrior. . . .
At the moment, he felt rather less than half of that. There was a growing feeling in his gut, as if he should be trembling, as if, in a moment, he would. He knew that feeling; it meant he was coming to the end of his reserves. In fact, it was becoming rather urgent to sit down. He was not going to be able to stand at all, soon. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, considering all that had been done to him and how recently, but it did seem as if his reserves of strength were not what they should have been.
Then it dawned on him, why it was that he should feel weaker than expected—it had been a Healer, a real Healer, in the room with him. Presumably, the others who had cared for him were Healers as well. He hadn’t just been physicked and doctored, he’d been Healed, as he would have been under the skilled ministrations of a Healer-Priest in a temple.
And that shocked him. They had actually gone so far as to have him Healed, not just wait for him to get better on his own, as had always happened in the past, except for one single time when he had been badly hurt in training—a pure accident, when a bolt of lightning hit the training field, killed three horses outright, and sent the rest into a blind panic, and he’d been thrown and trampled.
So no wonder he felt shaky, and weak in the knees; Healing took of your own strength and resources, speeding up what normally took days and weeks into hours and days. He probably even weighed a great deal less than he had when they’d brought him here! Small wonder the Healer wanted him to start feeding himself; there was no way that he could get enough nourishment to sustain Healing on broth.
:You should go back to bed,: Kantor admonished.
:I believe that I will. And take that pain potion the Healer left for me while I’m at it.: He knew that part of the drill well enough; it wasn’t the first time he’d been hurt, though it was the first time it had been at the hands of his own people.
And that—
Well, just at the moment, he would rather go back to bed and to the oblivion promised by the pain potion than think about it.
Herald Talamir finished his informal report on the Karsite, and waited to see what his King would make of it.
“So. Our newest Trainee is not at all pleased about being Chosen, eh?” King Sendar asked—or rather, stated.
This was no formal audience, it wasn’t even witnessed by another Herald, unless one counted the presence of Sendar’s Heir, his daughter Selenay, who was halfway through her training as a Herald. They were all in Sendar’s study, in the Royal Suite in the Palace—the private study, not the one where those who were not intimate with the Royal Family would see the King privately. This room had been the Queen’s solar until Sendar appropriated it for himself; it faced south and looked out into the Queen’s Garden, a courtyard that had no other entrance than the one in this room.
Roses still bloomed out there, beyond the glass, late though it was in the season, and it was home to other flowers and plants that needed tender sheltering from the worst of winter’s wrath. It made a tranquil retreat for a harried monarch who wanted some peace—although there really was no way that Sendar could escape altogether from the troubles of the realm.
Talamir shook his head. “No, Sire, he’s not,” the King’s Own replied regretfully. “I must confess, I’m at a loss as to how to proceed with him. This was hardly the response I expected.”
He knew Sendar better than anyone else in Valdemar—probably better even than the late Queen had—but Sendar
surprised him with his dry chuckle. “I’m not,” the King said. “Truth to tell, I’m glad to hear it. I’m not certain I’d trust someone who would abandon everything he’s believed in until now just because a talking horse tells him that he’s been chosen to join the enemy.”
“Oh,” Talamir replied, blinking. “But—his own people nearly killed him in their Fires—I thought—”
“His own people had a perfectly good reason to burn him in their Fires, by their lights,” Sendar pointed out, raising his eyebrow. “And sooner or later, he’ll think of that for himself, assuming he hasn’t already. Fine. Perhaps Kantor has managed to insinuate enough into his head while he’s been Healing to make him a bit more receptive to us, but a thinking man doesn’t just suddenly go over to the enemy without reasoning things through for himself. And it will eventually occur to him that just because Kantor is Mindspeaking to him, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Kantor is telling him the truth. I would bet on that.”
Talamir sensed Taver’s surge of indignation at any such notion—and more remotely, sensed Sendar’s Lorenil’s amusement at both of them. Well, Lorenil always had possessed a strong sense of irony, not to mention a sense of humor that was positively sardonic. Rather like young Kantor in that regard.
“We’re going to have to win this young fellow to us, old friend,” Sendar said, as if he was completely comfortable with the notion. “We’ll have to be completely honest with him, or he’ll figure out we’ve been shading the truth for his benefit—but we’ll also have to show him why we’re trustworthy and his own people aren’t. He’ll have to come to the conclusion that we’re telling him the truth and that he has a real and compelling reason to give us his loyalty all by himself. Anything heavy-handed, and we’ll lose him.”
Sendar leaned back in his chair—a modest affair of simple design and unornamented wood and leather, chosen for comfort rather than ostentation, and bestowed a penetrating look on the King’s Own Herald. He and Talamir had known each other and been friends for a very, very long time.
Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor Page 5