Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (57 page)

“Sendar was my King as well as my father,” she said simply. “He was outstanding at both tasks. It can't have been easy to rule this unruly land of ours, and at the same time govern an ungovernable child, being father
and
mother to her—but he did it, and did it well. I will spend the rest of my life missing him; wishing he could be here to see—so many things. I suspect Valdemar will miss his steady hands on the reins, too. I can only pray that I can be as wise and compassionate a ruler as he was; I doubt very much if I can ever equal him as a parent. And I would gladly give my own life to have our positions reversed.” She raised her head a little. “Nevertheless, such a sacrifice demands more than just words; it demands deeds. It demands that we
be
worthy of it; it demands that we all go beyond what we think is enough, making our own sacrifices in the name of a better life for all of Valdemar. That, in the truest essence, is what
he
did. That is what
I
will do. That is what he would expect of all of us; he deserves, and should have, nothing less than excellence as a fitting tribute to his memory. Only then can we be worthy of such a great and terrible gift—the life of a King.”

She sat down in silence. And it seemed to Alberich that she had surprised many of her listeners—nonplussed some—and actually startled others. They were not sure how to react to her. This was
not
the speech of a young woman, overwhelmed with grief, that they had expected to hear. . . .

More music filled the silence, then, a final prayer, and the service was over. A small and very intimate party followed the coffin down into the crypt for the final interment; Alberich was not part of that procession, nor did he wish to be. He had been an integral part of a funeral that had stretched on for far too long, from the Border to Haven, and—meaning no disrespect to Sendar's memory—he was weary of it, and wanted only to rest.

:Believe me, Selenay feels the same,:
Kantor told him, the weariness in
his
mind-voice clear as cut crystal.
:She's going straight to bed, and she told Caryo that she is going to sleep for a week. We're already bedded down, and Caryo and I intend to stay here and rest. I told Caryo to stay as long as Selenay stays asleep.:

:Good,:
he said, and meant it. He remained where he was only long enough to see them all emerge from the crypt, see that the Seneschal cut short the line of those wishing to offer condolences, and watch Selenay vanish through the private door at the rear of the chapel that led straight into the Royal Suite with Talamir, Crathach, and the Seneschal in close attendance. Then he made good his own escape. Perhaps he should have stayed to listen to the Court gossip and read what he could out of expressions and what was
not
said, but—

—but that, frankly, was Talamir's job.

Then he recalled what Talamir had looked like, and wondered if Talamir was even capable of descending to such mundane and petty depths now.
All right. I had better start to learn it. But not tonight.

The air in the chapel had been warm, and now it felt stifling; too hot, too heavy with the mingled scents of candle wax, incense, and lilies. He was only too glad to get out into the night. It was sultry and humid out there, but not as suffocating as the Chapel had been.

And he was unsurprised to be intercepted at the door by Dethor, who must have stationed himself right at the exit. He'd sensed the old Weaponsmaster lurking somewhere about, but he figured that Dethor would wait until
he
was free before greeting him.

“By your Sunlord, boy, it is
good
to see you,” was all the old man said, but Alberich felt something inside him warm at the welcome. He seized Alberich's shoulders in both hands, and stared into his eyes, while the last few mourners filed out of the chapel door behind them. “I wish I could tell you just how good it is.”

“I think that I may know, for as good it is to see you,” he replied quietly, and sighed. “A thousand things, I wish to tell you—”

“And all of them can wait. A good cleanup for you, and then your own bed,” Dethor told him firmly. “That's why I came here to get you. Falling on your nose won't honor Sendar or help his daughter, and besides, she's got all of the Collegium and every Herald that could get here to keep an eye on her tonight.”

He felt compelled to protest weakly. “But—duties I have—”

“Which are in Talamir's hands, at least as far as Selenay is concerned. Do him good.” Dethor gave him a little push to send him on the path down toward the salle. “As for your duties as Weaponsmaster, the Court and Collegia are in a week of official mourning. No Council meetings unless there's an emergency, no Court functions, no classes, no lessons. The only thing on anyone's plate is planning the coronation, and
that
is for the Seneschal and Bardic Collegium, not us. Not even Selenay, actually; all
she
has to do is go through what they plan out for her. For you lot, this is a week of rest.”

“Ah.” He absorbed that with relief—when something that Dethor had said at the beginning of the explanation struck him as odd. “Dethor—Weaponsmaster's Second, I am, not Weaponsmaster—”

“Not as of today, you're not,” Dethor said smugly.

“With the Dean's approval,
I
just retired, and
you
are Weaponsmaster.”

“Ah—” he said. It was all he could say. He felt completely stunned and utterly blindsided. This, he had
not
expected!

“Glad you agree,” said Dethor with satisfaction. “Which is just as well, since it's too late for you to back out. Come along. It's a shower bath for you, and then bed. Worry about whatever it is you're going to worry about
tomorrow.
”

:You might as well surrender now,:
Kantor said sleepily.
:He still outranks you. Retired Weaponsmaster outranks the current Weaponsmaster.:

And in fact, there was a sweet relief in doing just that, surrendering and letting someone else give the orders. He had
never
thought he would be comfortable in doing that—but he had never trusted anyone the way he now trusted these friends—these brothers—his fellow Heralds. As
they
trusted him; had trusted him with the safety and life of their Queen, and their own.

As they had trusted him to go home to Karse—and come out again.

“In your hands, I put myself,” he said, and gave in gracefully to the inevitable.

“I find it somewhat ironic,” Selenay said, a good two weeks and a bit later, as Alberich stood beside her, on her left. “That one of the first things I do is ask you to keep to your shadow-Grays, and yet circumstances keep forcing you into Whites.”

They stood outside the doors of the Great Hall, and from the other side came a hum of voices and a sense of expectation. On her right was Talamir, in that same set of Formal Whites Alberich recalled from the first moment he'd actually
seen
the Queen's Own. Now he wore a set of Whites every bit as elaborate as Talamir's, and very uncomfortable he felt in them, too. It wasn't as if they were ill-fitting; quite the contrary, they fit him better than any clothing he'd ever worn. They should. It had taken two cobblers, three tailors, and five fittings to ensure that they did, and the wonder was, it had all been done in just under a fortnight. No, it was that same reaction he'd had to Talamir's Whites; this was a set of clothing for a highborn courtier, not a common man like him.

:I believe at the time you were thinking, “a foppish highborn courtier,” or something of the sort,:
Kantor observed.

He refrained from tugging at his high collar. It wasn't tight; he only felt as if it
should
be. “Only for one day, it is,” he replied. “Tomorrow, Alberich the Grim I shall again be.” He did
not
add how much it would take to induce him back into the cursed Whites.

“Is that what the Trainees call you?” Talamir asked with interest. Talamir's health had improved vastly, and continued to do so, but there was still something that was otherworldly about him—more so at some times than others—as if only part of him was still here, among the living. And it wasn't as if he was absentminded, or that his mind wandered; actually, he was, if anything, sharper than ever. He noticed
everything
but said very little. Perhaps that was part of it; he stood aside from life, an observer rather than a participant. The things that irritated and annoyed other people, Talamir did not even comment upon; Alberich wondered if there was even anything he was afraid of anymore.

There were times when he seemed so distant and remote that he didn't quite seem human. . . .

Fortunately, today he was very much in the moment, and the most like his old self that he'd been since before the last battle.

“Oh, that they call me, other things among,” Alberich replied. “And ‘Great Stone-Face,' or ‘Herald Stone-Heart.'” He permitted himself a sardonic little smile. “They take me, perhaps, for granite.”

Talamir and Selenay both blinked at him. “Was that a
joke
I just heard?” Talamir asked, in utter disbelief. “A
pun?
”

“Not possible,” he replied blandly. “No sense of humor have I. All know this.”

It was too late for any retort, for the trumpets sounded just beyond the double doors of the Great Hall. The doors themselves were opened from inside, and Selenay stepped forward, followed closely by her two escorting Heralds.

The Great Hall was crowded as full as it could be with every highborn and notable who had been able to get here in time for the funeral and subsequent coronation. All six of Selenay's little Tedrel pages, decked out in the dark blue of the Royal livery, preceded her as she paced up the narrow path between the two halves of the audience, in time to the music. Each of them had a basket of fragrant herbs, which they scattered in her path with meticulous care. Initial rehearsals had them either dumping handfuls and running out halfway up to the dais, or being so stingy with each leaf that they still had full baskets when they got there, so they were taking immense care to do it
right
this time. The looks of fierce concentration on their little faces were quite endearing.

All of the doors and windows were flung open to the summer day outside the Hall, so at least it wasn't as close in here as it could have been. But the crowd glittered like the contents of an overturned jewel chest, garbed in so many colors that, after a fortnight of the stark blacks and whites of mourning, it hurt Alberich's eyes to look at them. The sunshine pouring in the windows glanced off gold and jewels, and the crowd glittered with every tiny movement.

Selenay set the pace, they only had to follow her; she looked meditative, as if she was taking a stroll in the gardens, not walking up to the throne that she would officially take in a few moments. Alberich thought that
she
looked as beautiful and fragile as a snow spirit in the gown that had been made for this moment, a gown of some soft, silky, draping stuff based on Herald's Whites, but with winglike sleeves and a train that trailed out behind her, glittering with tiny moonstones and gold beads, and a chaplet of moonstones and beads in her unbound hair. He would much rather that she had worn her armor, truth to be told. He would have preferred to see her marching up to the throne like a conquering battle maiden. Who would take this sweet young
girl
seriously as a monarch?

The army. Anyone who was with us on the battlefield. Perhaps those who heard her eulogy for her father.
But the others? Highborn and notables from across the land? They knew only what they saw—a girl, a mere girl, come to govern.

Well, she'd better learn how to handle them. It was her job to
make
them take her seriously.

With perfect timing, they reached the dais just as the music ended. And in a silence remarkable for a room holding so many people, the three of them ascended it.

Waiting for them there were the chief members of the Council, ranged in a half circle behind the throne—the Seneschal, the Lord of the Treasury, the Lord Marshal, and the chiefs of the Heraldic, Bardic, and Healer's Circle. Representing all of the various and varied religions of Haven was the Patriarch Pellion d'Genrayes; Alberich didn't know which sect and temple he represented, but he
looked
every inch the part—white-haired, bearded, in robes of purple and white that were absolutely stiff with white embroidery, and an imposing staff capped with a huge globe of amber.

“Who comes before the throne of Valdemar?” the Lord Marshal thundered, placing his hand on the hilt of his purely ornamental sword.