Unlike the untimely arrival of that unlikeliest of Trainees....
"Now, what about that tannery that Lord Wordercan wants to put in?" Sendar continued. "He's been nagging at me for the last week. I know it's something he wants, but I'm not sure the market can absorb that much more leather."
Talamir bent his mind to the business of the Kingdom, allowing himself to put the matter of Trainee Alberich aside for the moment—untimely, unlikely, and oh so inconvenient as he was....
3
ALBERICH looked dubiously into the mirror at himself. The Healers had done a better job on his face than he ever would have thought possible, but nevertheless, he was scarred, and scarred badly. He looked as if someone had beaten his face with a red-hot whip several years ago. At least the scars weren't a livid, half-healed red, or he'd be frightening children and horses. His weathered tan had faded as well in the time he'd spent recovering, and he was thinner, not that he'd been carrying any extra weight before. His cheekbones seemed especially prominent, and his mouth—
Still stubborn, and they'd damned well better read it that way.
He was wearing what was, apparently, the standard uniform for a Valdemaran cadet—
:A Herald-trainee,: Kantor corrected. :I don't believe that you will find that cadets and Trainees are at all equivalent.:
This uniform was very new, and in fact, had been made to his measure while he was still staggering about trying to get his strength back. Some strange little fellow had invaded his sickroom one day, asked him to stand, measured him all over, took tracings of his feet, and vanished again. Today, one of these uniforms had appeared, along with a gentle-faced Herald he didn't know, and Herald Talamir.
The cut and design of this uniform was identical to the Heralds' uniforms—well, all of the ones he'd seen other than Talamir's. The difference was the color—a dark gray. Alberich approved of that color; it was a great deal less conspicuous than spotless white. It also suited his own somber disposition.
"You cut a good figure," Talamir said approvingly. "But then again, we don't often tailor a Trainee's new outfits to him; it would be a waste of time and effort, since most of them are youngsters, still growing."
"This isn't the usual color for a Trainee," the strange Herald (who had been introduced as Jadus) said apologetically. "We're apparently out of the usual materials at the moment, and I'm afraid that you're a bit larger than our run of usual newly-Chosen, so you wouldn't fit into the old ones from the common stock." The man was older than Alberich, approaching middle age, with sandy hair, and expressive features so open and honest that Alberich knew he would never hold his own in a game of chance. But the one thing that Alberich noticed most about him were his hands, graceful, flexible, strong, but not powerful. They were not the hands of a fighter, not even an archer.
The new Herald smiled and shrugged. "I suppose you're lucky, actually. When I say 'common stock,' it's because the uniforms are all parceled out by general sizes. Hand-me-downs, to be honest, worn until they aren't fit to wear anymore, and cycled among all of those who wear the same size. We find that it's not a bad thing, given that highborns or their families might be inclined to embellish any uniforms that were actually their property, which negates the whole point of having a uniform in the first place."
"Keeping to these, I think I will be," Alberich replied, and shrugged. "Conspicuous already, I am."
"True enough," Talamir agreed. "And perhaps by making you a trifle more conspicuous, we will at least make it evident that we aren't trying to hide you."
Alberich flexed his arms and legs experimentally. It might be new, but this uniform had been laundered several times to soften the fabric. Linen shirt, a fine pair of well-fitting boots, heavy canvas-twill trews and tunic. At least it was a comfortable uniform, practical and easy to move in. It could have been much worse.
He supposed that these garments would have to be made to take a considerable beating if they were to serve several sets of Trainees in their usual lifespan. Certainly Sunsguard Cadets were hard on their uniforms, and he doubted that Valdemaran boys would be any different.
:And girls,: Kantor reminded him.
Talamir excused himself; he had, after all, only come along to effect the introduction of Alberich to Jadus. That left the two men alone, in an awkward moment of silence. Alberich stared at the older man, wondering what he saw. Alberich could no more disguise what he was than Jadus could disguise what he felt.
"So," Alberich observed finally. "My keeper, you are?"
To his surprise, Jadus laughed. "Hardly that. No, actually, I'm one of your instructors, and since I have a smattering—a mere smattering, mind you—of Karsite, I was nominated to take you around to the Collegium, get you settled in, and introduce you to the rest of your instructors."
Alberich tried to keep his expression a neutral one, but he still wasn't at all happy about this whole "Collegium" business. He was the one giving them a trial, after all—so why all this business of putting him into the Collegium? Why couldn't he simply observe, quietly, so he could make an informed decision about what he would do next? Why start him on classes, when in a moon or two he might be shaking the dust of this place from his shoes? It seemed to be an exercise in futility, and one that might have a negative effect on people who would be wondering how much effort they should put into teaching him when the next day he might be gone.
Yet even as he thought that, he wondered. As he recovered, he'd had several visits from the earnest young Gerichen, who seemed convinced that none of this had been an accident, that the Sunlord Himself was behind all of this for some inscrutable purpose known only to the One God. He was trying, in his own self-deprecating fashion, to convince Alberich of this notion. Alberich was in something of a quandary over this.
On the one hand, he had difficulty imagining why the Sunlord would choose to put one of His Karsite people in Valdemar as a Herald, when there were better candidates who were born here. Surely someone who was Valdemaran was a better choice! He'd speak the language already, he'd know all about Heralds and probably be thrilled to be Chosen, and there would be no question of his being accepted by other Valdemarans.
On the other hand, Vkandis did not move to interfere in the lives of His worshipers often, but when He did—there was a reason. And who was Alberich to try and understand or second-guess the motives and actions of the One God? That would be hubris of the worst sort. If a Sunpriest thought he saw the Hand of the Sunlord in this, he might be right. In that case, the wisest and best thing that Alberich could do would be to humbly bow his head and accept what Vkandis intended for him.
But Gerichen was young. He might be right; he might be divinely inspired, but he might well be merely enthusiastic.
As for "settling in," that was proving far more difficult than any Valdemaran would be willing to accept. Alberich felt—well, he couldn't put a name to it. "Dislocated and adrift" was part of it; "unsettled" far too mild. "Utterly alien" came close, but didn't address the feeling of having no support beneath him. As if he were at the halfway point of a blind leap. It was far too late to go back, but he wasn't sure he'd land safely and he certainly didn't know what he'd find if he did. And that went for how he felt about the One God, too. For the first time, he'd had leisure to think about his religion and his own faith. He had questions. A great many of them. And none of them had answers.
For instance, if Vkandis wished to make peace between Karse and Valdemar, why not simply appear as He used to in the Great Temple? Why go to the trouble of having one single minor officer in the Sunsguard Chosen? It seemed an unreasonably convoluted path to follow to him.
But on the other hand—once again, the biggest stumbling block—who was he to be asking questions like that? He was only one man, one among many, who wasn't even a priest. How could he possibly know what was best for Karse?
But why had Vkandis Sunlord left His land to fester on its own for so long? What had happened to all the miracles, the appearances, of the ancient days? Wh
ere was the Sunlord, that he allowed his shepherds to turn wolf and prey upon their flocks?
He wrenched his mind away from the doubts and questions, and turned it squarely to face the here-and-now.
"You say, 'the rest of my instructors,'" he repeated carefully. "And it will take how long to learn to a Herald be?"
If I ever wish to do so, that is.... There was one clear answer to why this Jadus had been chosen to play guide to him. There was nothing intimidating at all about the man, and nothing of duplicity either. At least they were holding to their promise; they would let him decide for himself with no pressure on their part.
The Herald rubbed the side of his nose with one long finger. "For the usual Chosen, who come in here at about age thirteen or fourteen, and who are—lacking in a lot of skills you already have—it takes about five years. For you, though, I don't know," Jadus replied honestly. "Nobody will know until we find out just how much you know, plus there is a very great deal about the Heralds and this land that you absolutely must know before you can serve in the field and—" He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he had suddenly come up with a novel idea. "Actually, that may not quite be true. Something just occurred to me—and we might as well see if my option is a sound one right away." The Herald smiled warmly. "Let's trot you around, Alberich, and see what comes of it. The person I want you to see is on the way to the Collegium anyway."
"Well enough," Alberich replied with resignation. "Lead, I follow."
It was not his first excursion out into the grounds within the Palace walls, but it would be the farthest he had gone since he'd been encouraged to start leaving his bed. The Healers and his own caution kept him close to the building; he had not wanted to risk running into anyone who had the potential to be overtly hostile. He'd already had enough sour or sorrowful looks from some of the Healers and Healer-trainees he'd encountered. Once it was widely known that he was Karsite, well—no one was claiming that Valdemarans were without prejudice or incapable of holding a grudge, though in this case, he could hardly blame them.
So he had gone out, but hadn't taken the kind of long, arduous hikes he would have done, had he been conditioning himself at home. Not that he was weak and shaky; he'd been putting himself through a course of physical exercise since that first hour of getting himself out of bed and looking out the window. He knew, far better than the Healers did, what he was and was not capable of, and he knew very well that he was still young enough that his body would respond to being pushed to the limit by increasing where that limit stood. So at this moment he was as fit as he had ever been, if a bit thinner and paler.
As it turned out, it was a very good thing that he was.
Jadus led him through the gardens to a long, low building set off by itself. He had very little attention to spare for what were probably quite lovely gardens, once he realized just what that building was.
There was really no mistaking it, not when he saw the practice field laid out beside it, with archery targets, pells, and other equipment. Then the lack of ordinary windows, and the placement of clerestory windows instead, made sense.
This was a salle, a building devoted to the teaching and practice of arms. The kind of building that had been home to him for longer than any actual "home"—three years in the little hut he'd shared with his mother, then the rest of the time in the little inn where she worked as a serving girl and cook's helper.
Indeed, he must have spent half his life in a similar building. As a cadet, he had divided all of his waking hours among formal classes, reading and studying on his own, and weapons-work. He had never really taken any time for the recreation that the others did. As a low-born bastard, he was not the social equal of any of the others in his year, and he had figured out quite early that if he excelled in fighting, no one would bother him. He had already had a certain advantage in knowing all the dirty tricks he could pick up in the alleys and stables; it wasn't long before the rest of the cadets knew better than to pick on him. And while no one was particularly friendly with him, they treated him with respect. Two of the weapons instructors, seeing his diligence, actually unbent enough to act as his mentors. It wasn't exactly paternal, since they were still very strict with him, but friendly, in a distant fashion, and certainly encouraging. When it came down to it, probably he'd spent the best times of his cadet period in the salle….
There was a line of solemn-faced children in gray uniforms practicing archery under the supervision of an older boy. He clearly knew what he was doing, Alberich noted with approval—correcting the stance of one, the grip of another, the aim of a third. But he hadn't been brought here to watch them; Jadus led him into the building itself without a pause. It was of a pattern with every other salle that he had ever been inside, from the sanded wooden floors to the mirrored wall to the clerestory windows above. It was superior to the salle he had been trained in, for the mirrors were silvered glass rather than polished metal. But the furnishings were exactly the same: dented and chipped wooden benches and storage boxes that doubled as seating. Practice armor, of padded leather, hung on the wall; racks of wooden blades were beside the armor. Even the smell was the same: clean sweat, leather, leather oil, a hint of sawdust.
The salle was empty except for a single Herald, an old, gray-haired man, slightly twisted and with swollen, arthritic joints. He sat on a bench with some of the padded armor over his legs, a threaded leather needle in his hand, and looked up as they entered.
"Jadus," he acknowledged. "That's the new one?"
"Weaponsmaster Dethor," Jadus nodded. "This is Herald-trainee Alberich, Chosen of Kantor."
"Kantor, hmm? Sensible lad, that one; can't see him making a mistake. Well, Jadus, what did you have in mind besides the usual?" The Weaponsmaster stood up, and Alberich winced inwardly. The man was in pain—hiding it, but clear enough to Alberich's eyes. He'd seen this before, in men who'd fought too many fights. The joints would only take so much damage; too much, and as the years set in and the pains of old age crept on, all the places that had been abused would suddenly become doubly painful, swelling until it hurt to move even a little.
"Since he was a Captain of the Karsite light cavalry, I did have a notion about him. Test him, and we'll both see if I'm right," was the enigmatic reply. "Isn't Kimel about? He's usually here this time of day."
Instead of answering directly, the old man barked, "Kimel! Need your arm out here!"
Alberich expected another Herald, but instead what appeared from a door at the back of the room was a man in a midnight-blue uniform, similar to the Heralds' in cut, but trimmed in silver. "I was about to go back to the barracks, Weaponsmaster," the man said. "Unless you've found someone to bout with me after all?"
The old man jerked his chin at Alberich. "Don't know. Need this one tested. Jadus seems to think—Well, just arm up, and we'll see."
The man glanced at Alberich, then did a double-take, eyes widening. Alberich braced himself for a negative reaction, but the man showed nothing. "Interesting to see which rumor is true, sir," was all the man said, and motioned to Alberich. "If you would suit up and—"
"Standard sword and shield, first," the Weaponsmaster directed, and put his mending aside, his eyes narrowed and attentive in a lean, lined, hard face. Alberich might look just like him one day. He hoped he would not have the swollen joints to match....
He pushed that thought aside and selected leather practice armor and a wooden sword. There was more of the former to choose from than he'd thought; evidently, this man Kimel wasn't the only adult coming out here to practice. The wooden swords and shields were much of a muchness, nothing to choose among them except for weight, and Alberich picked ones that were the most comfortable for him.
Then he walked warily to the center of the room to face his opponent.
Alberich then went through the most exhausting weapons session he'd had since he'd graduated from cadet training. It began with sword and shield, progressing through every other practice weapon stored in the salle and
their corresponding styles. Then, as he waited to see what else the old man wanted him to do, the Herald directed Jadus to lock the doors.
Alberich was sweating like a horse at this point, a bit tired, but by no means exhausted, and he gave the Weaponsmaster a startled glance.
"Live steel next," the old Herald said shortly, in answer to the unspoken question. "I don't want some idiot child wandering in here with live steel out and two real fighters having at each other."
"Ah." Alberich was perfectly satisfied with that answer; the Weaponsmaster was right. If mere untutored children had access to the salle, and he assumed they must (since having a Weaponsmaster implied that all of the young Trainees got some sort of weapons training), there was always the chance that one would blunder into the place at the worst possible time. Even in a bout rather than a real fight, he knew his concentration was focused, and he wouldn't necessarily notice anything but his opponent until it was too late. He followed Kimel to the cabinets on the wall and took out real armor and real weapons.
Working with live steel always gave him an extra—the pun was inevitable—edge. His awareness went up a degree, and everything seemed just that much clearer and sharper. Even his reflexes seemed to improve. He suited up, took the rapier in his hand, and faced his opponent with energy renewed.
He assumed that he was expected to pull his blows when necessary, and given the way that the bouts had gone so far, he knew it was going to be necessary. Kimel was good; very, very good in fact. Alberich was better. And Kimel was tiring faster. He wasn't going to be able to ward off everything that Alberich could throw at him.
And he didn't. Alberich had chosen the rapier for that reason; the lightest of the "real" swords, it was the easiest to "pull" when a blow actually fell instead of being countered.
The Weaponsmaster called a halt to the bouting when Kimel was clearly on his last legs. "That enough practice for you, my lad?" he asked, a certain ironic amusement in his voice.
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