Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (42 page)

We cannot simply turn them back,
he thought with anguish.
If we do, they will only turn on
my
people—

And of all of those here in this camp, he was the only one who would care if they did.

But what else could he have done, except to act as he had? He hauled his divided attention back to where it belonged, and kept it on Selenay and those around her. The tents were dark, thanks to the felt lining them; the only light came from the entrance and the unlined canvas tops. The bases had been rolled up to ankle-height to allow air to circulate. The interior of the one they were in was sparsely appointed—that would change when the baggage train caught up with them—and for now, the only seating was on folding stools. Sendar was offered one of these and refused it; Selenay did not.

Talamir called for food and drink, and when it came, made sure that both the King and Heir availed themselves of it. Sendar was, of course, completely immersed in all the reports of the commanders, even though there was nothing new in them. Selenay was looking wan, but Alberich did not suggest that she retire to her own tent. She had to harden herself; they
all
had to harden themselves, to go beyond what they thought they could do until there was no more strength left, then find more strength, somewhere, somehow.

As if she had heard his thought, she turned her head toward him and met his eyes. Then she rose and took her place at her father's side, paying every bit as much attention to the reports as he was. Although the King did not even glance at her, Alberich watched as he placed his hand on her shoulder, tacitly welcoming her presence, and showing any who doubted that she belonged there.

Good. Now no one would suggest that she get some rest, dismissing her as irrelevant to their discussions.

A movement—an
odd
movement—caught his eye. Without turning his head, he identified the movement as someone pulling slightly away, rather than leaning
toward
the group. His peripheral vision was excellent, better perhaps than anyone guessed, for he had no trouble telling who it was without betraying his interest by looking at the man.

It was Orthallen, who was serving as the commander for the militia of his sector. His brows were furrowed, his posture tense.

And he was frowning at Selenay.

O
RTHALLEN—

There were some singular holes in Alberich's intelligence regarding Orthallen. At that moment, Alberich wished that he'd spent a little more time trying to fill them.

But in the very next instant, Orthallen's frown vanished, to be replaced by his usual, affable expression, apparently leavened by worry. And if Alberich hadn't
seen
the transformation, he would have thought that the expression was genuine. Now, however, he was aware that it was a mask, one that Orthallen could don in the blink of an eye, and very seldom dropped.

Alberich forced himself to be charitable.
All
he saw was a frown, which might have been occasioned by anything. That Orthallen didn't approve of anyone as young as Selenay being privy to every bit of war planning going on. That Orthallen didn't like the prospect of a Queen instead of a King. That Orthallen didn't approve of a female being involved in war planning. That Orthallen had indigestion.

Perhaps not that last, although being on the doorstep of the final campaign of a nasty war was enough to give anyone worse than indigestion.

The likeliest was that Orthallen had suddenly been confronted with the fact that he would one day be serving a Queen instead of a King. And given the urgency of the current situation, “one day” might be a great deal closer than he thought. And he didn't like the prospect.

It had been some time since Valdemar had had a Queen; there wasn't anyone now alive who remembered the last one—it had been a good long time, after all, and
she
had been a co-Consort, ruling with her King, Sendar's grand-father.

Sendar's Queen, who'd had no interest in being co-Consort, had died when Selenay was a mere infant, and Orthallen had a good reason to be wary of the problems associated with a female ruler. Women
did
die in childbirth, and even if Selenay wedded someone Chosen, who could be a co-Consort, there could be trouble if she died; the Kingdom had been left to the Council to rule while Sendar had gotten over his beloved wife's death. If that had happened when there was a crisis like
this
one looming, the result could have been a disaster.

Could have been, but
would not
have been. Perhaps Orthallen couldn't understand that; he wasn't a Herald, he didn't know what deep wells of comfort the Companions were, and he might not understand just how totally Heralds were driven by duty. If Sendar had had to deal with a crisis, even in the moment of his beloved's death, he would have. That he gave himself over to mourning was only because he knew he had the luxury of doing so.

Nevertheless, Alberich did not like that frown on Orthallen's face; there was something about Orthallen's expression that he couldn't pin down, and his instincts said it was more than just one older man concerned about the possibilities that a young woman Heir represented.

It must have come as a distinct shock to him, seeing her here, seeing her being briefed instead of being sent to a tent to rest. It's one thing to see “the child” sitting at a Council table, it's quite a different thing to see her sitting here.
After all, just because Selenay had a Council seat, it didn't follow that she was truly a part of the Council's deliberations. The seat
could
have been nothing more than show, for certainly Selenay's vote went with her father's every time. Given Orthallen's patronizing attitude toward the Heir, the shock of realizing that she
was
a power to be reckoned with and had a mind of her own must have been unpleasant. But was it unpleasant enough to cause that particular
kind
of frown? It hadn't been the look of a man surprised and a little offended; it had been the expression, calculating and angry, of one who had not realized that there was a roadblock to his plans. Or so Alberich
thought,
but everything he thought he'd observed was all in retrospect, for the expression hadn't been there more than a moment. It was distinctly frustrating not to be able to quantify his feelings, but since he'd been working in the slums of Haven, his instincts had sharpened, and he'd come to depend on what they told him.

Therefore, he would keep an eye on Lord Orthallen.

So he delegated a portion of his mind to doing just that, and turned the rest of his attention back to the briefing that Sendar was getting. The Lord Marshal and his Herald Joyeaus were getting to the end of things Alberich already knew, and they looked as if there was more to say. A great deal more. And that it was bad news.

“The ForeSeers are reporting difficulty, Majesty, as are the FarSeers,” Herald Joyeaus said. Her thin face was set in an expression of solemn thoughtfulness, for this development was something new—though not unexpected, at least, not to Alberich. The fact was, he was surprised that it had taken so long for the Tedrels to block attempts to FarSee what they were doing. Possibly they had not realized that the Heralds could do such a thing with the amount of accuracy they had. Possibly they had been blocking attempts to scry magically, and had not until now reckoned on the Gifts. Possibly they had been saving their mages for this moment.

Or possibly it had taken them this long to buy or coerce magical expertise. . . .

It seemed to take the rest by surprise, though, all but the Lord Marshal, who looked grim. “Exactly what do you mean by ‘difficulty,' Joyeaus?” Sendar asked.

Joyeaus' mask didn't slip, but Alberich didn't have to be an Empath to know that she was very worried. “As you know, Majesty, my own strongest Gift is FarSeeing, and although when I Look elsewhere I have no difficulties, when I Look across the Border, I might as well be Looking into fog. In concert with two others, I made further attempts, but we managed no more than glimpses, which were confusing at best. The ForeSeers tell me that they are unable to See
anything
when they attempt to scry into the future—”

“But as we all know, ForeSeeing is chancy at best,” Sendar finished for her. “The most probable answer to that is that there are so many possibilities branching from this moment that they are unable to see even one clearly. I am more concerned by the report from the FarSeers. Can FarSeeing be blocked?”

Officers and Councilors began murmuring nervously among themselves and shifting their weight. Alberich pulled at his collar, feeling stifled suddenly and wondering if he was the only one who found the rising tension in the tent to be edging close to panic.

“I—” Joyeaus hesitated. Alberich was astonished that she did so. How could she not
know
that it could be blocked? How could she not have
expected
that enemy mages would do so? And yet, from the way she looked, and the way Sendar acted, it seemed that the possibility had never even occurred to them.

Alberich didn't want to step out of the shadows and draw attention to himself, but he didn't seem to have a choice. No one else saw the blindingly obvious. He cleared his throat; the sound was shocking in the silence that had followed Sendar's question. Every head in the tent swiveled in his direction.

“Herald Alberich?” Sendar prompted.

“Senior, high-rank Sunpriests, such powers have,” he said carefully. “And unscrupulous others with magic for hire are, in the Southern Kingdoms. Among the Tedrels, there may be magicians, though specifically I have not of such heard.”

They looked at him as if he had spoken in Karsite, not Valdemaran. Maybe in a way he had. He cursed his lack of fluency, and the need to speak without composing what he was going to say.

He tried again, this time coming directly to the point. “Assume you must, that others than Heralds Gifted are. Surely Sunpriests are, for this I know! Surely Tedrels are, for they are a nation, and
some
must Gifted be!
Yes.
Blocked your Gifts
can
be!”

Joyeaus blinked, and looked as if she was coming out of a daze. “He's right, Majesty,” she said. “We have been remiss in assuming that
only
Heralds are Gifted—and that just because we don't know ways of blocking Gifts, it doesn't follow that someone else hasn't found a way.”

“So the Gifts are useless?” asked one Councilor, his voice sounding strained.

“No, no—only FarSight and ForeSight!” Joyeaus hastened to say. “Mindspeech works perfectly well, and Fetching as well, at least as far as we can tell. We've never
depended
on ForeSight, it's too rare a Gift and too erratic anyway.”

I can vouch for that,
Alberich thought grimly.

“And we've never depended
entirely
on FarSight either,” Selenay put in, her high, young voice carrying over the muttering (and, yes, there was rising panic in those voices) of those around her. “We'd be fools to depend on
any
single source of intelligence, gentlemen! You may depend upon it, there are other ways of finding things out at a distance. Including—” she added, with a touch of irony, “—common spies.”

“Animal Mindspeech,” replied someone. Alberich couldn't tell who, precisely, for the background chatter distorted the sound. The voice was female, though, and very confident. “The Chronicles say that the Hawkbrothers of the Pelagiris Forest use Animal Mindspeech with their birds as spies. Surely we can do the same? Or listen through the ears of a horse or hound?”

The muttering subsided, and what there was of it sounded less panicky. Sendar turned to Joyeaus. “Deal with it, Joyeaus. Find the Heralds with Animal Mindspeech; see what you can do. Ask Myste what's in the Chronicles. Perhaps the Heralds of our generation have not needed to worry about their Gifts being blocked, but there's no reason to think it hasn't happened in the past somewhere, and if anyone will know where, when, and what was done about it, it will be Myste.”

“Sire.” Joyeaus bowed and edged her way out of the crowd.

No wonder the voice had sounded familiar, and he felt that familiar apprehension whenever he thought of the half-blind Herald-Chronicler-in-training. Well, at least he'd given her enough skill to get herself out of trouble if she had to, and he could count on her strong instinct for self-preservation to keep her out of the fighting itself.

Unless, of course, there was no other choice. But if
that
happened, everyone in a white uniform with a mount that was even vaguely pale in color was going to be in danger. The Tedrels knew better than to let a single Herald escape alive.

It has to be Sunpriests that are helping them, though. No mage worth the name would serve Karse
or
the Tedrels. No mage worth the name will serve where the Mercenary Guild won't.
Even one of the blood-path mages wouldn't serve the Tedrels, in part because the Tedrels themselves would know better than to trust one of
that
sort. You didn't want a blood-path mage around; when sacrifices ran short, they tended to grab whoever was closest. . . .

That didn't make things any better, however. The Sunpriests had
power.
Everyone knew about the invisible creatures they commanded that stalked the night, able to see into a man's very soul and discern if he was a heretic and a traitor, and thus, their lawful prey. He himself had
heard
them, howling in the distance.

:Then why didn't they take you?:
Kantor asked, with none of the ironic humor he might have put into such a question.

:Because I am no heretic,:
he replied, with none of the sharpness
he
might have put into a reply, because Kantor was not teasing him, and deserved candor.
:I follow the Writ as well as I may; and though I often fail, failure does not make a heretic,
blasphemy
does. They hunt those who would deny Vkandis, not the sinner. If they hunted sinners, there would be no man or woman safe in Karse, and precious few children. And as for their other prey, I am no traitor to Karse or my people.:
There was heat in his last sentence, though; he couldn't help himself, and Kantor reacted to it.