Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (5 page)

Another suppressed wince. He didn't really want to know anything about this—Companion—did he? No. He didn't. This was a place full of witches—

—and demons, and Vkandis only knew what other sorts of horrible creatures—wasn't it? Surely it was—

Actually, the unsteady realization of that had been trickling down into his mind for the past—however long it had been. It had probably started when he'd fallen into the arms of those white-clad riders just over the Border. If they'd been half as evil as the Priests painted them, he'd have been roasting in chains right now, with demons nibbling at his soul.

:Excellent. That's another thing that you aren't—stupid. Those weren't just any Heralds, by the way. One was the King's Own Herald Talamir, and the other was the Lord Marshal's Herald, Joyeaus. We stumbled onto the end of a rather sensitive diplomatic mission, it seems.:
There was a hint of a chuckle, and Alberich got the distinct impression that they hadn't merely “stumbled” into those particular Heralds—that Kantor had aimed himself quite deliberately in their direction.
:Well, no harm done.:

He gathered his wits, and
thought
a question.
:I do not suppose that the rank of our rescuers has anything to do with the speed with which I was taken to further help?:

The impression of a knowing smile.
:Not entirely. All Heralds are considered highly important. Even the newly Chosen.:

He let that settle into his mind.
:Even Karsites?:

:Well, since we've never had a Karsite Herald before, there's no basis for comparison.:
There was a definite undertone there. Alberich decided that he was getting rapidly better at reading around what Kantor was actually telling him to what Kantor would rather just—imply. The undertone was that not everyone would have been as . . . open to the possibility of an ally out of Karse . . . as Heralds Talamir and Joyeaus.

:Excellent again. I do believe we are rather well-matched, Chosen. I would not go so far as to say that other Heralds would have run you through on sight—but we
have
been fighting a rather nasty undeclared war with you for some time, and there are some hard feelings on our side of the Border as well as yours, even among Heralds.:
A sense of pondering followed that statement.
:In truth,
especially
among Heralds, since your lot enjoys killing us so very much. Now no Herald would ever slaughter someone who had been Chosen out-of-hand—but there are many, many of them who are not going to welcome you as a long-lost sibling.:

Just his good fortune that he'd never led troops against anything other than bandits, then. At least no one would be holding a
personal
grudge against him.

He licked lips that were dry and cracked, and stared into the darkness behind his bandages. Inexorably, it was creeping up on him, acceptance that he could never go home again.

He
was
in the enemy's land, he
was
exiled inexorably from his own. He
had
witch-powers, and they were not the curse he'd been taught that they were. And one of the Hellhorses—which were not hellish at all, apparently—had selected him to become one of the Demon-Riders.

:Please, Alberich.
Heralds,
not Demon-Riders. And as for my being hellish—:
a pregnant pause,
:—well, although the people of Valdemar would say that we Companions are the sweetest, most marvelous of creatures, I suspect that the several of your men who got in my way
would
agree that I am “hellish.” Assuming any of them survived the experience.:

Oh.

On the other hand, if one of them had been that Voice—

:He was,:
came the reply, with a certain grim glee.
:Though I am not certain that anyone like that Voice of yours—someone who goes about blithely burning people alive—has any right to make any judgments about who is “hellish” and who isn't.:

Ah. . . .

:The fact that you have never personally fought against us will be useful towards having you accepted,:
Kantor agreed.
:And there is at least one thing I can promise you. We will never,
ever,
under any circumstances, ask or require you to do anything against your conscience with regard to your homeland. I shan't promise we won't ask you to act against those in power there—:

Just at the moment, he'd rather like to have the skinny or fat necks of some of those in power between his hands.

:Well put.:
Kantor seemed satisfied with his answer.
:Now, the Healers will have my tail for a banner if I don't let them drug you again, so I'll ask you to mull this discussion over while you drowse, and we'll have another little talk in a bit.:

He couldn't have objected if he'd wanted to, and he didn't want to, because the pain was getting unbearable and he heard the welcome footsteps of someone bringing him relief. After a quick, nasty-tasting draught, he was drifting again, cast loose from consciousness and what he'd always thought of as “The Truth” . . . . a state in which it was easier to contemplate a new set of truths—or at least, truisms—in place of the old.

 

 

 

He dreamed.

He sat in the midst of a vast expanse of flowering meadow, flooded in a haze of right that made it difficult to see for any great distance. He was warm, comfortable, without pain of any kind, and—completely alone. He rose, and started to walk, wading knee-deep through wildflowers and herbs that gave off a hundred luscious scents as he brushed them aside. No matter how far he walked, however, the scene never changed, and he never found a path. The only living things were the plants; there were not even insects or birds. He felt no hunger, no thirst, no weariness; this fit every description of Paradise that he'd ever heard—except that there was no one in this Paradise but himself.

As beautiful and peaceful as this place was—he was trapped here. And he came to realize, as he walked on in the thick golden light, that the peace came at the price of
being
unable to escape, and completely alone. Not Paradise. Not even close.

That was the end of the dream. As abruptly as it had begun, it was over, and Alberich dropped out of the meadow and into the usual fever dreams that he had fought since being brought here.

From fever dream, he moved into welcome dreamless-ness, and from then into the pain that always woke him when his medicines wore off. But it was not as bad as it had been, and he knew that the drugs being given him were not as strong as they'd been at first. Someone gave him a different-tasting drink, then, and he drowsed for a bit.

Sometime later, he woke to the sound of someone—no, two people—walking into his room.

“Is he awake?” asked a voice that was strange to him.

“He should be. I gave him a draught that should—well—sober him up completely,” replied one that was more familiar —one of the Healers who spent a great deal of Alberich's waking time with him. There was a touch on his chest, where there were no bandages other than the ones holding his cracked ribs in place. “Sir, I am going to take off the bandages on your eyes, and leave them off. The skin there is healed enough that you needn't have them on anymore.”

“I understand,” he said, stumbling over the foreign words. The Healer moved him as gently as could be, propped him up with cushions, and took off the bandages. Alberich blinked, and squinted in the sunlight, taking his first proper look at the room he'd been in for—well, he didn't know how long.

And now that he was thinking clearly, the very first thing he felt was a smoldering resentment.

A shaggy-haired man in stained and well-worn green robes was coiling up bandages at the foot of the bed, but Alberich had very little interest in him, or in the room itself at the moment. It was the other occupant of the room, the one sitting right beside him, that captured his attention.

This was a Demon-Rider.

:This is Talamir, the King's Own Herald,:
Kantor corrected gently, speaking into his mind for the first time since he'd awakened.

Alberich's jaw tightened, but he tried to
look
at the man, rather than react to him. What he saw was a tall, a very tall, thin man with graying brown hair, perhaps forty or fifty years old, if Alberich's judgment was any good. His was a careworn, lean face, overlaid with gentle good humor, but with a strong chin that suggested a stubborn streak, and a determination it would not be wise to invoke if you intended to quarrel with him. And, of course, he wore that dreaded white uniform, the emblem of the enemy—a more elaborate version than Alberich thought prudent or practical for a fighting man—

Alberich refused to be distracted from his careful scrutiny.

The uniform—
I would never don anything like this,
he told himself fiercely—a silver-laced, white-velvet tunic, with silver embroidery at the hems, over a heavy white samite shirt with wide sleeves caught in deep cuffs at the wrists, and white satin breeches. A wide, white leather belt ornamented with hammered silver supported a dagger in a matching sheath. He'd have called it foppish, except that it wasn't. But he could not imagine himself ever wearing anything so extravagant.

:Ah. And, of course, the nobles of Karse, the wealthy merchants, the ranking Captains, and above all, the Voices of the Sunlord dress and live so
very
austerely,:
came the unwelcome reminder.

“Well, you have been here some two weeks, sir,” Talamir said, his hazel eyes scrutinizing Alberich just as closely as Alberich was examining him. “I'm sure you have been wondering.”

“Wondering, yes,” Alberich replied, giving away nothing, conceding nothing, offering nothing. Talamir sighed.

“Alberich—yes, we know what your name is—you must know that
my
Taver has been talking virtually nonstop to
your
Kantor, and what Kantor knows about you, so do I.” Talamir's eyes became very penetrating. “I know very well that you have a good command of our tongue now, and furthermore, your Kantor can easily explain anything you don't understand immediately. I should prefer not to spend this entire first interview fencing with you, if you please.”

Well, that gave him the opening he'd been looking for. “
My
Kantor, it is?” he asked resentfully. “And when was there asking on my part, for this Choosing, this so-called
honor?
”

Talamir shrugged. “You could be dead right now,” he pointed out. “Whether you consider it an honor or not, Kantor saved your life.”

“For which blessing, to serve my enemy, I am bound?” There was a sour taste in his mouth, and his stomach muscles were so tight as to make his cracked ribs ache in protest. He'd not only been kidnapped, he had been reduced to simple-mindedness with drugs—but now that he was himself again, he had
no
intention of rolling over like a cowed dog and licking the hands of his captors.

“I was not aware that Valdemar had personally done you harm,” said Talamir. “Nor was I aware that any citizen of Valdemar had hurt you. I was under the impression that
everything
untoward that had happened to you was the responsibility of the denizens of your own land. If you can point out to me who and what on this side of the Border has wronged you, I assure you it will be dealt with to your satisfaction.”

“Even if it Kantor is?” he asked, and looked Talamir straight in the eyes.

There was silence in his mind.

“Kantor.” Talamir gazed on him with astonishment. “Your Companion.”

“Who under false pretenses and a disguise attached himself to me. Who carried me off, who brought me
here,
where I would not have gone had I a choice been given. Who—perhaps?—had to do somewhat with my witch-sight coming so clear, and in front of a Voice?” He saw Talamir wince and felt his own mouth tighten in grim satisfaction. “Who therefore could the cause be, that the Voice to the Fires condemned me?”

“You would be dead right now,” Talamir repeated uncomfortably. “You couldn't have denied your Gift. With or without Kantor, sooner or later it would have betrayed you, and you would still have gone to the fires—”

“But my own death it was, and mine was the choice to face, or to escape it,” he pointed out, anger and resentment coloring every word. “That choice, from me was taken.
Perhaps
the witch-sight I could have fought, taken from me also was the option to try. And in the first place, had not the witch-sight come upon me when and where it did, condemned I should not have been.”

A village might have gone under the sword, though—

The silence that fell between them was as heavy and uncompromising as lead.

But it was not Talamir who answered him.

:I am sorry, Alberich,:
said the voice in his mind humbly and full of contrition.
:You are absolutely in the right. You had a life and choices, and I took them from you. I shan't even bother to make all of the arguments that a Valdemaran would accept. You
aren't
a Valdemaran, and there is no reason you should accept them. For you, my actions were nothing less than arrogance and a smug certainty that I was in the right to run roughshod over you. All I can do is apologize, and try to make it right with you.: