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

by Mercedes Lackey

  His time to act would come later.

  “No, and no, and no!”

  Selenay was in a temper; losing patience with her maid-servant entirely, she pulled the useless gowns out of the traveling chest, wadded them up, and threw them on the floor. She did not want the creature to try and foist the blasted things off on her again.

  “I will not take those gowns, or these gowns, or any gowns at all!” she snapped, as the maid snatched the dresses up with an expression of shock and offense, and smoothed them hastily. Selenay felt a pang of guilt over the crumpled and wrinkled state of the delicate white silks and satins, raimes and linens—but not enough to show that she felt any guilt. “How many times must I tell you? I’m going to a battlefield, not a fete, a ball, a state visit, or a festival!”

  “But, Highness, you will be surrounded by highborn young men!” the maid protested indignantly. “Your Highness cannot possibly wish to appear the hoyden—”

  Great good gods! What part of “battlefield” doesn’t she understand? Selenay suppressed a groan, and wondered what demon had possessed her to accept this foolish woman as her personal servant.

  Because Uncle Lord Orthallen sent her to me, of course. And now I can’t dismiss her because he’d feel as if he’d let me down. And I did need a proper lady’s maid, one that knows about hairdressing and all that sort of thing. . . .

  Unfortunately, the creature did not know about Heralds, nor did she care. She cared only about the trappings of rank, the care of gowns, the importance of self-importance, and she could not seem to fathom that there was another set of duties of the Princess and Heir that went far beyond looking handsome, finding a husband of suitable rank, and following the appropriate court etiquette. Yes, she was sheer genius when it came to dressing well and looking exquisite. But that was all she was good for. On the whole, the woman was far more hindrance than help, especially now, and finally Selenay sent her on a fool’s errand into the attics just to get rid of her, knowing that she would be packed and gone long before the woman got back.

  Then she did something she would normally never have done. She pulled out everything the maid had packed, and tossed it out, all over the furniture, the floor, wherever it happened to fall when she dumped the packs. The maid could do something useful for a change when she returned; she could pick it all up, see that the gowns were pressed and brushed, sort out all the hairdressing nonsense and cosmetics, and put it all away. Selenay could braid her hair by herself very well, and the only “cosmetic” she was likely to use “out there” was soap.

  With the maid out of the way, it took just over a quarter of a candlemark for Selenay to pack. It wasn’t difficult, she’d learned how to pack for the field long ago, and had watched her friends as they packed up to go out countless times. Wistfully, she had watched them then; she had known it wasn’t possible for her to go, but she had wanted to, so badly.

  Well, now she was going; and she didn’t want to. Alberich probably thought that she would be excited about being in the front lines, and anticipate being in the thick of fighting, right up until she got her first real look at it, and only then would she lose her taste for war. He was wrong. She had already lost her taste for war, and she knew far more about it than she thought he realized. She had been making it her business to visit the wounded in the House of Healing ever since all this began, to thank them. They seemed to appreciate her attention, though why, she couldn’t imagine. Maybe it was just that for most of them, it was their first (and probably last) close-up look at one of the royals.

  Well, she knew first-hand what war really meant, and she was absolutely terrified. And was not, under any circumstances, going to show it.

  She rang for a servant to help her with her trunks, but carried two of her packs herself. And she outdistanced the poor servants in her haste to get down to the stables. Probably she should have waited for an escort of Guardsmen, but she didn’t have time. And if she wasn’t safe at this moment, with the Palace and grounds alive with Guards, Heralds, and the last of the regiments to leave Haven, she would never be safe anywhere.

  She popped out of the nearest door onto the courtyard in front of the Palace, a place that was normally quiet and empty at this time of the morning. Not this morning. . . .

  The sun was just above the horizon, a sliver of red in a dusky sky; the air was a little damp, with dew slicking the cobbles rimming the pavement and birds filling the air with their morning calls. It seemed too beautiful a morning to be riding out to war.

  The courtyard was awash in white: white Companions, Heralds in their white field uniforms. Selenay fit right in; her uniform was not a whit different from theirs. That was a conscious decision. There was nothing about their clothing to distinguish her or her father from the other Heralds. Of course, the moment she crossed the threshold she was joined by her two shadows, the Heralds Keren and Ylsa, who fell in behind her casually, as if they were just a couple of her best friends who’d been waiting for her to come out. She greeted them with a tense smile, and then spotted Caryo, already saddled and bridled with field tack, waiting with Keren and Ylsa’s Companions, who were completely ready, saddle packs and all.

  Her father was already in the saddle, but she saw with a touch of relief that she was by no means the last to arrive. It didn’t take long for her to sling her basic field packs across Caryo’s rump and fasten them in place; less time to get into the saddle herself. Her remaining packs and trunks would go on the wagons carrying the rest of the supplies, with her tent and her father’s.

  Caryo (with Selenay’s two shadows in close, but unobtrusive attendance) moved to Sendar’s side without prompting. The King nodded an acknowledgment to his daughter but didn’t stop reading the dispatch he’d just been handed. He held out his hand and a page on horseback slapped a graphite stick into it; he scrawled a reply on the same paper and held out his hand again. The page slapped a pre-inked seal stamp into it, which he impressed across his signature. He blew on the ink to dry it and rolled it up; this time he handed it to the dark-haired, somber-faced Herald who’d brought it to him, who in turn slipped it into a message tube.

  Then the Herald held the tube up at eye-level, frowning at it. One moment he held the tube, the next, his hands were empty. He looked a bit pale for a moment, but recovered quickly; Sendar slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Well done,” was all the King said, but the young man smiled, blushed, and backed his Companion off to rejoin his fellows.

  The young fellow was a Herald with the Fetching Gift, of course; either he, or a Mindspeaking Herald, had told Talamir that there was a message, probably from the front, that needed a written answer. The Fetching Herald had brought it in a heartbeat, and sent it back again in the same amount of time.

  Now, with this all-or-nothing war to be fought, the Heralds truly showed how invaluable they were; in fact, without them, Valdemar would have no advantage over the Tedrels at all. Heralds who were Mindspeakers rode with scouts and served to relay news, messages, and battle plans. Heralds who were FarSeers spied on the enemy without him even being aware he was being spied upon. Heralds with the Gift of ForeSight tried to predict what would come next; the two lone Weather Witches tried to predict when rain would fall on the enemy and when on their own troops. And those with the rare Gift of Fetching sent things to and from their commanders in the distant South.

  There were other, even rarer Gifts, which might or might not come into play, depending on circumstances. At the moment, for instance, the only Firestarters in the Heraldic ranks were not very strong, which was—well, some would think it was a pity. Certainly, if they’d had a Firestarter with the strength of the legendary Lavan Firestorm, they would hardly need an army. On the other hand—the finale of the Battle of Burning Pines had very nearly incinerated both the Karsite and Valdemaran armies together. Selenay was just as glad their Firestarter couldn’t do much more than ensure campfires from thoroughly soaked, green wood.

  The mood was subdued, as the sun rose a little
higher, and the dew began to dry. The Companions, unlike horses, were not restive; they stood rock-steady in their appointed places, with little more than the occasional head shake or switching of a tail. The Heralds themselves spoke very little, and only in a murmur. Perhaps most of them were occupied in Mindspeech—certainly Sendar was, for the King had that faraway look that Selenay knew meant he was deep in conversation with someone.

  :More likely a series of someones,: Caryo said quietly. :He’s been talking to the others since he woke.:

  Selenay bit her lip; on the one hand, she wished very strongly that her own Gift was powerful enough for her to hear what was going on. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She was already afraid; if she knew what her father knew—well, she wasn’t at all sure that she could keep up the brave face that she had to show.

  The last of the Heralds to accompany Sendar to the war ran into the courtyard, packs over their shoulders, to finish kitting their Companions and take their places among the rest. When the very last was mounted, Sendar held up his hand, and what little talk there had been ceased entirely.

  “You all heard my speech for the people of Haven,” he said, his voice sounding rough and tired to Selenay, but strong nevertheless. He squinted into the morning sunlight; there were dark rings under his eyes, and she wondered how much he had slept—if at all. “I won’t bore you with repeating it, and besides, none of you need to be told why we are doing this. Before winter comes, some of us will die; many of us will be injured. No less than myself, your King, you are primary targets for our adversaries. Our enemy knows very well how important the Heralds are to our strategy, and as you have been aware, he has made it his business in his past campaigns to eliminate as many of you as he could. Only the fact that I have made it my business to withhold as many of you from the front lines as I could has kept our losses to a minimum.”

  Selenay blinked; she hadn’t realized that, but of course it was true. It must be. There hadn’t been more than four or five Heralds killed in the Wars for each year that there had been fighting! Now she knew why—and knew that Sendar had not been lulled into thinking that the Tedrels would eventually go away. He had believed Alberich, believed the spies, and planned for this from the beginning.

  “This is the fight that I have been holding you for,” Sendar continued. “Now, in my turn, I am going to ask you for something very, very difficult. You would not be Heralds if you were not perfectly prepared to pay the ultimate price for Valdemar, so I need not ask you for courage. Instead, I ask you for caution.”

  Caution? Selenay thought, surprised, even a little shocked. She was not the only one; she saw eyes widen, lips purse, and brows furrow among those closest to her.

  “You are a finite resource,” Sendar continued, turning in his saddle so that he could meet the eyes of everyone near him. “It will take four long years, at a minimum, to replace each one of you, and that assumes that enough younglings will be Chosen to do so. And each and every one of you is desperately needed for our strategies to work. You cannot be spared. So I ask you for caution, care, and to remember that although your duty to Valdemar may mean that you face death—your duty also requires you to live and serve, no matter what the cost to you.” His voice took on a hard and implacable tone. “You must and will face the fact that there is worse than death on the field of combat, and be just as prepared to live with such a fate as you are willing to die. Valdemar can make use of a blind Herald—or an armless or legless one, and all you need to do is to recall the story of Lavan Firestorm’s mentor, Herald Pol, to know that this is true. Valdemar can make use of even a Herald who is confined to a litter with a broken neck. What Valdemar can make no use of is a dead Herald.”

  Selenay swallowed, and wondered what was going through the minds of those around her. She hadn’t thought about that. Had any of the others?

  She glanced to her left, and found herself looking into the grave and grim visage of Herald Alberich. He gave a slight, tight little nod.

  If no one else had, he’d thought of that. And probably reminded Sendar of it.

  The silence within the courtyard was so profound that the twittering of sparrows in the trees and bushes in the neat boxes around the courtyard seemed loud and intrusive.

  “This is no war like any we have ever fought,” Sendar continued. “The Tedrels have nothing to lose and everything to gain. If they are defeated by us here, they will have lost their last, best chance at the homeland that is their only goal. They have nowhere to retreat to. After the way they have treated their allies in Karse, the Sunsguard will fall on them and destroy them if they lose. That, so Alberich tells me, is the message implied in the two flanking forces along the Border. The Sunsguard will not only prevent us from engaging the Tedrels in a pincer movement across the Karsite Border, it will prevent them from coming back into Karse. And never believe that they do not know this. They are probably counting on it to keep their own mercenary shock troops in line and under control.”

  Oh. Selenay repressed a shiver. Never corner an enemy who has nothing to lose. How many times had Alberich drummed that into her head? And now the enemy had been put into a corner. A bad situation had just gotten infinitely worse.

  Sendar paused to let all that sink in. No one moved. No one spoke.

  “But we have everything to gain by defeating them, and not just for ourselves. When this war is over, and we have defeated the enemy, no one will ever face a single Tedrel Company again, much less the entire nation,” Sendar said, into the waiting silence. “They will be finished, for all time. And we will defeat them!” His voice took on a strength and a surety that suddenly made even Selenay’s spirits rise. “We will defeat them for although they call themselves, and think of themselves as a nation, they are not. They have a body, with no heart. They think that the land is the nation. We know better. We know that Valdemar is not the land—and it is not just the people. Valdemar is a spirit, a community of spirit that binds a hundred disparate peoples with a hundred different religions and ways of life into a company and a greater whole. It is not a unity, for that would be denying our diversity, and in our diversity and our tolerance is our strength. Even if this enemy succeeded in driving us from this land—which he will not—Valdemar would live on. If he slew all of us—which he will not—Valdemar would live on. That spirit is what you fight for, and will live for, Heralds of Valdemar, for you are at the heart of that spirit—a spirit of tolerance, compassion, understanding and care—all things that our enemy cannot and will never understand. And in the name of that spirit—we ride!”

  The cheer that rose was as spontaneous as it was heart-felt; Even Selenay felt a cheer bursting out of her throat, and she was so used to the effect that the King’s speeches had on people that she had thought herself immune by now. Even grim-faced Alberich was cheering, and his expression had as much of hope in it as she had ever seen. Keren and Ylsa cheered with tears running down their faces, and they weren’t the only ones.

  Sendar and his Companion surged forward, down the drive that led out the Palace gates, buoyed on the wave of sound, and the rest of the Heralds followed.

  And Selenay with them, for once nothing more than another Herald, another weapon, to serve Valdemar to the last of her strength, and even beyond.

  14

  THE King and his company of Heralds and bodyguards swiftly outdistanced the baggage train, those Council members who elected to go to the front lines, and the Royal regiment. They would have outdistanced anything, as Alberich soon discovered, because they were all mounted on Companions—even the bodyguards, who were being carried as a matter of courtesy by unpartnered Companions. Carried, just like sets of cooperative baggage—because these Companions would not tolerate even the excuse for a bridle that the partnered ones wore. Alberich had known, as a matter of theory, just how swiftly the Companions could cover ground. Now he discovered it as a matter of practice.

  They could have been performing a sort of precision drill, for they all u
sed a pace that was as fast as a canter, and as smooth as a running walk. So smooth, in fact, that it was perfectly possible to strap oneself into the saddle and doze, if one were tired enough. Their hooves didn’t pound, as Alberich had noted before this; they chimed. Not as loud as bells, and not precisely like bells, but the effect of so many of them hitting the ground together was a bit unsettling. Like being in the same room as a thousand wind chimes. . . .

  Alberich was astonished; it was his first experience of this ability, unique to Companions—

  —or to be honest, it was his first conscious experience of this ability. Kantor must have used this pace to get him across the Border into Valdemar from Karse.

  Now he knew why Dethor had packed his sleeping roll in his saddlepacks and not with his tent. He wouldn’t see his tent—or anything else in the baggage train—for days or weeks. Neither would anyone else in this group; they would have to depend on the army for shelter for a while when they got to the front lines. And he supposed that they would have to hope that the weather stayed good on the way. . . .

  It didn’t matter; Dethor had overseen his packing, and everything he truly needed was with him. He hoped that someone with similar experience had packed for Selenay and the King.

  :Selenay and the King already knew how to pack for this sort of trip,: Kantor said, and left it at that.

  Once out of the capital, they moved down the road with a purposefulness that was positively frightening. There was no way to properly convey the effect—they weren’t menacing, but they seemed to exude a sense of needing to go somewhere in a hurry, a sense that somehow made everyone move out of their way without noticing that it was happening. It was uncanny. The first time he saw it working, he felt the hair go up on the back of his neck, and Kantor’s wordless reassurance.

  This could have looked like some sort of parade, all of the Companions and their uniformed Heralds, with the single spots of Healer Green and Guard Blue among them. It didn’t; Alberich could tell by the faces of those who gathered to watch them pass through their towns and villages that they gave no such impression. The expressions that the common folk wore were uniformly grim. Perhaps the people of Haven had not yet grasped the seriousness of the situation, but the people of the towns and villages knew it. There was no cheering, and the hope he saw in their faces was tinged with desperation.