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

by Mercedes Lackey

  The last turned out to be the first; Crathach was nearby, and heartily approved of Selenay’s wish to sleep early. Most of the rest were trivial and easily discharged. That left the organization of what were essentially funeral corteges through every hamlet, village, and town on the road to Haven. But rather than solve that one himself, he asked Kantor to have all the Heralds that were left in camp—save only Selenay’s bodyguards—meet him back at the command tent, and bring with them the remaining highborn, officers, and Bards. The latter because Bards tended to be very good at concocting ceremonies, and he suspected they would have some ideas.

  They did. And it didn’t take very long either, since this was only going to be a procession. The greatest amount of time was spent in deciding what the order of precedence was going to be, and then, what places in the procession would belong to whom. He left them at it, after about a mark; his place would be with Selenay, and if they settled their differences without any interference from him, even if not everyone was happy, they couldn’t attach any blame to him or the Queen.

  And nothing would be required of her except to follow the wagon carrying the coffin on foot, with Caryo walking beside her. Certainly no speeches. The focus of attention wouldn’t be on her, but rightfully, on the King’s remains, which should be something of a relief. So he hoped, anyway. If she wept, all the better. He hoped she would weep; she hadn’t done nearly enough.

  By this time, it was full dark, and the camp was quiet; with an early start planned for the morrow, most people had, if their duties allowed, made an early night. He moved down the now-familiar lanes of tents in the light of the torches stuck on either side of his path, thinking that this place would look very odd when all of the canvas had been struck and there was no sign of what had stood here but trampled grass.

  :I’m glad to be leaving,: Kantor said.

  :So am I.: At least in Haven, there would not be the ever-present reminders that this was the place where they had lost a King.

  His tent had been moved inside what had been the royal enclosure to adjoin Selenay’s, and out of habit, he glanced at hers to see if there was any light showing.

  There wasn’t, and with a feeling of relief, he nodded to the guards at the tent door, and entered his own. They didn’t trouble to leave guards inside the tent anymore; Selenay’s little pages all slept in bedrolls spread out across the floor, and anyone trying to get in would probably step on one of them. He certainly wouldn’t get in quietly; those children slept lightly and the least little sound sent half a dozen heads shooting up. Any intruder would set off more noise than disturbing a flock of geese.

  A lantern had been lit for him, and hung from the center pole, showing that most of his baggage had already been packed up and presumably put on the wagon. There wasn’t much left; only a bedroll, a set of clean linen and the towels and soap he’d need in the morning, and Kantor.

  Most Heralds’ tents were big enough for their Companion, Myste’s being an exception, but she had obviously gotten last choice on accommodations. Somewhat to his surprise, it wasn’t at all unusual for Heralds to share their tents with their Companions, rather than using the canvas shelters. Kantor took up roughly half the space; that first night in his own tent again, bowed down by grief, he had craved Kantor’s company with a need that was almost physical, and Kantor had obliged by leaving the canvas shelter at the side and moving into the tent proper. And at first, despite that craving, it had still seemed unnatural in a way to have a—horse—in his tent. Now it was just as in the old days when he had shared tent space with another Sunsguard; it no longer seemed at all odd to see him there.

  :Excuse me. I believe I am far better company than any of the Sunsguard you ever shared tent space with,: Kantor said indignantly.

  He felt instantly contrite. :I beg your pardon. Indeed you are. Did anyone leave anything here for me to eat?:

  Selenay’s swarm of little ones had adopted him as well, and lately had taken to fetching food for him at the same time that they got meals for her, leaving them in his tent, well-covered and protected against the depredations of insects and other pests.

  :As a matter of fact, they did, and—I don’t suppose you’ll share?: Kantor asked hopefully.

  Since his appetite had suffered as much lately as Selenay’s, Kantor’s hope was well-founded. :I don’t know why not.: He sat down on the bedroll and saw that the usual covered platter and cup had been left for him, cleverly balanced on two more cups in a pan of water, which prevented insects from crawling into it.

  He took them out, and shoved the pan of water over to Kantor’s side of the tent. Taking the cover off the platter explained why Kantor had hoped he’d share.

  Selenay had asked for the impossible, gotten it, and had seen to it that he got some of the cook’s largesse. Perfect for the heavy weather and a failing appetite were two sallats, a savory one and a sweet, the former a bed of greens with cheese, bits of chicken, fragrant herbs and spiced vinegar, the latter of chopped fresh fruit and nuts, with honey-sweetened cream. How had she known he’d like such things, too?

  :Piff. She asked me via Caryo, of course; she doesn’t need being told something twice. I’d like some of that cress, please, and some spinach.:

  With the empty platter and cup left outside his tent door, he stretched out along his bedroll, and listened to the sounds of the camp. He had been a soldier for too long not to be able to sleep when he needed to, but he had also been a soldier for too long not to be able to assess the mood of the camp just from the night noises.

  Tonight, he sensed mostly weariness and relief. They had been here long enough, and, through work and time, what had been terrible anguish had muted to bearable sorrow. Now it was more than time to go home and take up their lives again. Except, perhaps, for Selenay, the time for grief was over, and the time to move on had come.

  And that was as it should be.

  When morning came, he was barely able to get dressed and out of his tent before Selenay’s servants swarmed all over it. Her tent had already been struck, and she was finishing a strong cup of chava and a buttered roll while in her saddle, as he escaped from the collapsing tent still tying the laces at the collar and cuffs of his shirt.

  One of the “pages” handed him a similar cup and roll and waited, impatiently, for the empty cup. Another brought Kantor a bucket of grain; the Companion immediately plunged his nose into it and began his own breakfast. Prudently, Alberich ate and drank before getting into the saddle; there wasn’t a chance he’d be given a chance to finish unless he did.

  The chava wasn’t scalding hot, as he had feared it might be, but the heavy admixture of cream and sugar, and the color, like thin mud, warned him that it was probably from the bottom of the pot.

  It was; even with the help of cream and sweetening, it nearly made his hair stand on end. But it certainly woke him up. He handed the empty cup to the page, who took it and vanished; the second whisked off the bucket the moment Kantor lifted his head from it.

  All around them, tents were falling in the thin gray light of predawn. Selenay gave her cup to a page just as Ylsa and Keren walked their Companions into what had been the royal enclosure. Alberich was in the saddle a moment later.

  Selenay looked around at the vanishing camp. “Is breaking camp always like this?” she asked, a little dazed.

  “A camp, we Sunsguard seldom had,” Alberich admitted.

  “I got the impression last night that everyone was pretty impatient to be out of here. But don’t take my word for it,” Keren shrugged. “I don’t usually serve with the army.”

  “That speech you should make before we leave, I fear,” Alberich told Selenay in an undertone. “But it will be the last, until Haven we reach. This, I can promise.”

  She grimaced, but nodded. “I hope you two know where I’m supposed to be?” she asked the other two.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Ylsa told her. “They sent us to fetch you.”

  Selenay gestured broadly with one hand. �
��Well, lead on, since you know where we’re going.”

  The procession—for procession it would be, even when it wasn’t going through a village—had already begun to form up on the road. Keren and Ylsa went straight to the front of it, where the rest of Selenay’s guards were waiting. The funeral wagon would not be immediately behind her, but would be the first of the string of wagons.

  Bard Lellian, in charge of the ceremonial part of the journey, came up and introduced himself.

  “Majesty, I have devised something I hope will meet with your approval,” he told Selenay, ignoring the rest of them in a way that told Alberich that his single-minded focus was due to anxiety, not an intention to slight them. “It will not be the ordeal that stopping for speeches would have been. You will merely have to drop back and take your place on foot behind the coffin when we reach any sort of town, along with the rest of the notables who have been deemed of high enough rank to follow you afoot. That is all; simply follow afoot, and—do whatever you feel impelled to do.”

  Selenay’s relief at the simplicity of the arrangements was obvious.

  “Then, when you have dropped back, the riders here at the front will all divide to either side of the road, let the wagon and the walkers pass, and fall in behind the last of the walkers, except for two Bards with muffled drums,” the Bard finished. “Those will ride in front of the wagon.” He peered anxiously at her; he was not a young man, but he didn’t seem to know Selenay very well. “I hope that meets with your approval?”

  :He’s a specialist in this sort of thing,: Kantor confided. :Funeral dirges, memorial ballads, funerary rituals—rather a melancholy profession, I would think, but apparently it suits him. This is the first time he’s had anything to do with the Royals, though, and he’s nervous.:

  “I think it is very fine,” she told him, and he smiled with relief. “You must have worked terribly hard to come up with something this—appropriate—at such short notice.”

  Now he blushed with pleasure, and murmured a disclaimer. She raised her head to assess the state of preparations even as he thanked her.

  :We seem to be ready to move out,: Kantor told his Chosen.

  “Would you sound a call for silence, please?” Selenay asked the Bard, who snatched up the trumpet at his saddle bow, and played a four-note flourish.

  Silence fell immediately, and Selenay rode Caryo up onto the bank beside the road so that everyone could see her.

  “This seems to be a moment that requires a speech,” she said, into the waiting silence. “But a speech, to me, means something that has been prepared for the ears of strangers, and after all that we have been through together, I think that none of us are strangers now.” She paused and looked up and down the road, and Alberich knew that she was making certain each and every one of those in this cortege felt she had made eye contact with him. “Perhaps some day, when our losses are not so fresh, our wounds are not so raw, we will be able to look back on our victory as a victory, with more pride than sorrow. And we should. It was not only my father’s sacrifice that won the day, it was the sacrifice of every single person who perished or was wounded, and every one of you who held a weapon, who wielded your Gifts, who tended a beast, kept us fed, or served any other task here. The victory belongs to all of you, and never, ever let anyone tell you differently.”

  She took a breath, blinked hard, and continued. “And even if the enemy had won here, he would never have taken Valdemar, for Valdemar is more than land; Valdemar is the people, and the spirit that lives in those people, and that spirit can never be conquered.” Now she looked at the sealed coffin, draped in black, and covered with a pall upon which the arms of Valdemar were embroidered—a pall that had once been Sendar and Selenay’s battle banners, and which were still stained with blood. Not just Sendar’s blood either, but that of all those who had been with him, whether wounded, or fallen. “He knew that, and he trusted to that spirit to carry on, no matter what happened to him. You have shown that spirit is alive in all of you, and he could have no better tribute than that, nor would he have asked for anything more.” Another pause. “And I do not ask for anything less.”

  :Well said, my Queen,: he Mindspoke to her, and was rewarded by a brief flicker of her eyes in his direction.

  “Now it is time for all of us to tender him our final service,” she finished. “Now—let us bear him gently home.”

  And she rode down the bank to her place at the head of the procession, and lifted her hand in signal.

  Alberich took his place at her side, with Keren and Ylsa to the right and left. She dropped her hand, and they moved forward on the road to Haven.

  And though there had not yet been a ceremony, or a coronation, everyone in that procession knew that this was the moment when the Heir truly took up the reins of power. And so, in silence but for the sound of hooves and feet and wheels on the road, the reign of King Sendar ended, and the reign of Queen Selenay began.

  20

  THE journey north accomplished for Selenay what the cleanup of the battlefield had done for everyone else; it allowed her to indulge in the full expression of her mourning—in public. Until the moment of departure, she had held her grief firmly in check, perhaps feeling that with so many others suffering, she should not further burden them with her own grief. If she wept, she did so only in private; everyone knew she mourned, but she did so quietly. But on this journey, her public duty was to mourn, to be the symbol of Valdemar’s grief, and at last she could give free rein to all of the anguish she had held inside.

  It seemed that everyone along their route wished to pay their final respects to the King; farmers left their fields, shepherds their flocks, tradesmen their crafts. Villagers and townsfolk lined both sides of the road, and the road itself was carpeted with rushes, flowers and herbs whenever they entered a town, so much so that the wheels of the wagons were muffled and cushioned against bumps. People carrying baskets and great bouquets of blossoms, and even hand-woven garlands and blankets of flowers, brought them up and placed them on the wagon as it crept past them at a slow walk, until it overflowed with blooms and foliage, and nothing of the black-draped coffin could be seen. And they wept, which had the effect of freeing Selenay’s tears.

  It was exhausting for her, but at the same time, it was exactly what she needed. Alberich and Crathach saw to it that she got plenty to drink, plenty of clean handkerchiefs, and the occasional arm about her shoulders. The Healer concocted soothing eyewashes to rinse her sore eyes and face with whenever they stopped. She ate with growing appetite, which was no bad thing, and was so emotionally exhausted by the time they camped for the night that she slept soundly and without waking. Her little pages saw to it that she had everything she needed, faithful as hounds. And each day that passed saw a little easing of the tension within her that had kept her so near to the breaking point.

  It was not that she ceased to care, or became numb, as the days passed. It was more as if the worst of her grief was a finite thing, a barrel that had only seemed bottomless until she began allowing it to flow freely.

  By the time they reached Haven, and the procession made its slow and solemn way through the city to the Palace, that pinched and overstrained look had left her. She wore her sorrow and her loss like a cloak, with grave dignity, rather than being bowed down beneath their intolerable burden.

  She needed that release, for as the journey reached its end, she was about to undertake her final ordeal; the entrance to Haven marked the day of Sendar’s official funeral. Haven had been waiting too long to put it off for even one more day—and that wasn’t a bad thing. The funeral, though it would be exhausting for all concerned, especially Selenay, would put closure to everything.

  They all camped overnight just outside the walls at the Royal and Home Farms, and servants from the Palace brought them all formal mourning garments, Formal Whites, Greens, and Scarlets. The line for the bathing facilities and even to use the horse troughs and pumps for a bath, was a long one, and Alberich (as did many ot
hers) elected to bathe in the river instead; the faint, weedy fragrance of the river water was no match for the strong horse soap they used on themselves as well as their mounts. When they arrived at the gate of the city in the early morning, they looked as if they had all come straight from the Palace itself, and the wagons carrying tents, belongings, and a small mountain of dirty clothing had already gone up the hill, leaving only one single wagon, the one that had carried Sendar to his final rest.

  The Court joined them at the first gate; the Lord Marshal, the Seneschal, and the heads of Bardic, Healers’ and Heralds’ Circles all walked with her behind the coffin, while the rest joined the riders. The coffin itself was transferred by a hand-picked group of the Guard, with great solemnity and ceremony, to a more ornate carriage used solely for state funerals before Sendar made his last journey through the streets of his capitol.

  And Talamir joined them as well; Alberich was glad enough to relinquish his place at the young Queen’s side and join the rest of her bodyguards.

  But Talamir did not so much ride to meet Selenay as appear. It was a very strange moment for Alberich, when the official greetings were over and suddenly, in a pause and a pocket of silence that seemed created for him, there was Talamir.

  And Talamir was changed, vastly changed.

  It was more than just the twenty years that had been added, overnight, to his appearance. It was more than just that his hair had gone silver-white, like the mane of a Companion. After all, Alberich had found gray roots to the hair at his temples this very morning, when he had stolen a moment at an unoccupied mirror. It was much, much more than that. There was an otherworldly stillness about the Queen’s Own, a distant look in his eyes as if he was always listening to something no one else could hear, and a faint translucency about him, as if his flesh was not quite solid enough to contain all of the light of his spirit. And a sadness that had nothing to do with the all-too-mortal grief he displayed so openly for his King.