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  Exile's Valor

  ( Valdemar (05) - 2 )

  Mercedes Lackey

  Herald Alberich is now the collegium Weaponsmaster by day, spy for valdemar by night, and is personal for ensuring the Queen's safety whenever the call is there. Selenay, now Queen Selenay, is on the throne but only just. Still in mourning for her father, the late King Sendar, the Council is putting pressure on her to marry for they don't beleive a young female can rule alone. But the last thing a young girl like Selenay wants is a state marriage with someone she doesn't know or someone that isn't even close to her own age. But a ray of light crosses the young Queen's path in the shape of Karathanalen, the prince of Rethwellan, and she finds her romance at last. But something strange is brewing and none of the Heralds or their Companions can quite figure out what it is. Alberich rumages throughout the slums of valdemar in his many disguises but finds only subtle clues and coded messages. Someone is plotting against the new Queen, but who it it?

  Exile’s Valor

  Mercedes Lackey

  Copyright © 2003 by Mercedes R. Lackey.

  1

  Muted light, richly colored, poured gold and sapphire into the sparsely-furnished sitting room in Herald Alberich’s private quarters behind the training salle.

  Now that the colored window was installed, and the protective blanket taken off, it made that little room look entirely different. Alberich hardly recognized it.

  The four Journeymen glass workers who had helped their Master install the piece were gone now, leaving Alberich alone with the artist himself.

  Both of them gazed on the finished product in silence, while behind them a warm fire crackled on the hearth. It was a staggeringly beautiful piece of stained-glass work; in fact, Alberich thought, it would not be exaggerating to say it was a masterpiece. Not that he had expected less than a fine piece from the Master of the Glassworkers Guild, but this was over and above those expectations.

  The artisan responsible for its creation stepped forward and gave the top right-hand corner a final polish with a soft cloth, removing some smudge not visible to ordinary eyes. He flicked off an equally invisible dust mote as well, and stepped back to view the expanse of blues and golds with a critical eye. A man gone gray in his profession, he was tall, but not powerful, with wiry, knotty muscles rather than bulging ones. His expression was unreadable, a square-jawed, hook-nosed fellow whose face might have been stone rather than flesh.

  “It’ll do,” he grunted finally, his long face betraying nothing but a flicker of content.

  “A work of power and beauty, it is,” Alberich replied, unusual warmth of feeling in his voice. “It is exceeding my expectations, which were high already. Your skill is formidable, Master Cuelin.”

  “It’ll do,” the artisan repeated, but with just a touch more satisfaction in his own voice. “I’ll not praise myself, but it’ll do.”

  This was such understatement that Alberich shook his head. In so many ways, this was a piece of artwork that went far, far beyond even the monumental works that only the great and wealthy could afford, be they individuals or organizations. It was the care to every detail, as much as the design, that showed that expertise. For instance, to protect the fragile leaded glass, made up of pieces no larger than a coin, the panel had been installed against the existing window. Now, the bars holding those old panes in place could have cast distracting lines across the new pattern—except that Master Cuelin had taken that into account in his design, and the shadows had been integrated in such a way that unless you looked for them, you did not notice them.

  Yet Master Cuelin seemed no more than mildly pleased that everything had worked out as he had planned. Alberich knew that tone; not only from working with Master Cuelin on this window, but from working with others who shared the same obsessive drive to excellence that marked the man’s work. No point in heaping him with effusive praise, for it would only make him uncomfortable, and he would begin to point out “flaws” in the work not visible to anyone but him.

  “Very happy, you have made me,” he said instead. “Never shall I weary of this piece.” And although he had paid Master Cuelin already, when he shook the man’s hands in thanks, a heavy little purse that had been in his hand slipped quietly into the Master’s. That was the way of doing business, in Karse, when one was pleased with special work. Some things, Alberich felt, were probably universal—an extra “consideration” for work that exceeded expectation being one of them.

  Evidently the custom held true in Valdemar, because Master Cuelin did not seem in the least surprised; he said nothing, only pocketed the purse with a nod of thanks. He dusted off his hands on the side of his brown leather tunic—all of his clothing, tunic, breeches, even his shirt, was leather, because leather wasn’t likely to catch fire.

  “Well, if you’re that satisfied, Herald Alberich, I’ll be off,” the Glassmaster said. “I’ve that lazy lot of ’prentices to beat back at my studio, for no doubt they’ll have ruined the cobalt plate I laid out for them to cut for the new ’Pothecary Guild window, aye, and muddled the designs I set them to copy, and complain I’ve assigned them too much work.”

  Alberich shook his head, in mock sadness. “It is ever so,” he agreed, and sighed. “The younger generation—”

  “We were never like that, eh?” Master Cuelin barked a laugh and slapped Alberich’s back. The Weaponsmaster allowed a hint of a smile to show, and the Glassmaster winked. “Well, ’tis heavy work we have before us—you know what the old saw is, ’A boy’s ears are on his backside, he heeds better when he’s beaten!’”

  Since there was nearly the identical saying in Karse, Alberich nodded, and with another exchange of pleasantries, he escorted the Glassmaster out. Indeed, some things were universal.

  But since it was not yet time for the next class of Heraldic Trainees to arrive for their weapons’ training, he returned to his sitting room in the back of the training salle to admire his newly installed possession once more.

  This was more than mere ornament; while there was a Temple of Vkandis Sunlord down in Haven proper—though for obvious reasons, it was referred to even by Karsite exiles as “the Temple of the Lord of Light”—Alberich seldom was able to get there for the daylight ceremonies. Certainly he was never able to arrive for the all-important SunRising rite.

  Contrary to what the current Karsite priesthood wished their followers to think, it was very clear in the Writ—now that Alberich had seen copies of the old, original versions—that any follower of the Sunlord could perform the rites, with or without a sunpriest. It was what was in the heart, not the words, that mattered, and prayerful meditation at any time was appropriate. And now Alberich had an image here, a proper image, that would put him in the proper frame of mind.

  There had been a plain glass window here, but the presence of such an expanse of clear glass had made Alberich, on reflection, rather uneasy. It was fine for the former Weaponsmaster, Herald Dethor, to have such a thing, but Dethor didn’t have to think about potential Karsite assassins peering through it—or the far more common, but equally annoying habits of the young, idle, and foolish offspring of Valdemaran nobles daring each other to spy on the dreaded Weaponsmaster from Karse. Not that they’d see anything except Alberich reading, pacing, or staring at the fire, or occasionally entertaining a visitor, but it made him irritated to think of them watching him. It wasted their time, annoyed the Companions, and made the back of his neck prickle for no good reason. If he sensed someone watching him, he wanted to know there was danger, not adolescent curiosity behind it.

  But he hadn’t wanted to block off the window either. Very useful light came in there by day, although the view was nothing spectacular, just one of the groves of Companion’s Field. It had been Herald
Elcarth who had suggested the stained-glass panel when he had mentioned the annoyance of looking up to see lurkers in the bushes one night.

  It had nearly been former lurkers in the bushes, and it was a good thing for them that he had Kantor out there to warn him it was only some Unaffiliates and a Bardic Trainee, because his hand had been on the one-handed crossbow he kept under the table, and he had no problem with shooting out a window. Especially not his own window. A bit of broken glass was a small price to pay for your life.

  He hadn’t mentioned that to Elcarth, however, though he thought he saw some understanding in the other’s nod. Perhaps that was why the Herald had suggested the stained-glass panel. And at that moment, Alberich had realized how he could bring a kind of Vkandis chapel into his own home, make this place truly his home, and solve that problem of the huge window in a single stroke.

  Elcarth hadn’t known where to obtain such a thing, but Herald Jadus had. In fact, Jadus had pointed him to the particular glassworks involved in creating most of the stained- and etched-glass windows for the various Temples in and around Haven, whenever a generous patron was moved to donate such a thing.

  Until he went to the workshop and saw some of the designs, Alberich hadn’t been entirely certain of the exact shape and image of the design, only that it should have some link, somehow, to the Temples that he had felt most comfortable in. As soon as he realized what Cuelin specialized in, heraldic (rather than Heraldic) designs, he had realized what his window surely must show.

  The Sun-In-Glory of the God of Karse, of course; Vkandis Sunlord in a form that few in Valdemar would recognize as such, and no one who mattered would likely take offense to. Particularly as this Sun-In-Glory would be laid out, not on the usual field of reds as in a similar window in Karse, but on a field of Heraldic blue.

  If Master Cuelin realized just what the pattern was, he hadn’t said anything. Alberich would not have wagered on his being ignorant, though. He had been doing religious glass-work for far too long not to have learned virtually every symbol of every deity worshiped in Haven, and every possible variation and nuance of each symbol. Vkandis was worshiped here, and by Karsite exiles—just not under that name. The “Lord of Light” was what He was called here; all things considered, a title and a name less likely to evoke hostility from the good neighbors of those exiles.

  Alberich would not have taken it much amiss had Master Cuelin delegated the work to his apprentices either—but he hadn’t. He’d attended to it all himself. And the result was glorious, well worth the cost of the one indulgence that Alberich had permitted himself since he’d been made Weaponsmaster.

  :Very nice for us, too,: his Companion Kantor commented, as Alberich sat down and allowed himself to drink in the color and composition. :We get the best view of it at night, when the light is coming from inside. Clever of you to station lanterns with reflectors shining outward at the bottom corners. Gives us a lovely piece to look at.:

  :And prevents any shadows falling upon it and telling people what goes on in my sitting room,: he pointed out. :After paying no small fortune for such a piece, I’ve no mind to have it shattered by an ill-considered crossbow bolt from outside, because I was foolish enough to show a target.:

  Since there was no graceful reply to that, Kantor wisely declined to make one.

  The leaded glass was thicker and heavier than the window it had been mounted against, and Alberich realized after a moment of sitting there that the drafts he’d become accustomed to were gone. Well! An unforeseen advantage!

  And a third—as he bathed in the golden light from the Sun-In-Glory, despite the fact that on the other side of the glass, there was a bleak winter landscape under overcast skies, he understood why Master Cuelin had insisted that the Sun dominate the panel. No matter what the weather outside, the light coming in would be warm and welcoming. Already Alberich felt his spirits become a little lighter.

  :For which my gratitude to Master Cuelin knows no bounds,: Kantor observed dryly. :Anything that sweetens your temper makes me grateful:

  :Indeed?: Alberich countered. :Alas, that he cannot do me the return favor of creating such a thing for you, since you spend your days out of doors. Perhaps I should query Bardic Collegium about the possibility of serenading you on a thrice-weekly basis to sweeten your temper?:

  :Then who would chastise the greenlings properly?: Kantor asked airily. :Disciplining the youngsters requires a certain acidity of temper to deliver correction with the appropriate degree of sting.:

  Alberich shook his head. He should learn never to try and exchange barbs with his Companion; Kantor would always win. Kantor was at least as old as his Chosen, probably a few years Alberich’s senior, and twice as witty.

  Not that there wasn’t some truth in what Kantor said; Kantor was to the young Companions what Alberich was to the Heraldic Trainees, in a way. Not so much the trainer in fighting technique, for a great deal of that was in the hands of the riding instructors, but as the disciplinarian of the Companion herd. Normally that would be in the hands—or rather, authority, backed by speech, and occasionally hooves and teeth—of the Companion to the Queen’s Own Herald, the Grove-Born Rolan. But Rolan’s Herald was Queen’s Own Talamir, who had very nearly died in the last battle with the Tedrels on the Border with Karse; Talamir’s original Companion Taver had died, and one never spent much time in Talamir’s presence without realizing that in many ways it had been no great service to Talamir that he had been brought back to life again. Though Kantor had never said as much in so many words, Alberich got the distinct impression that most of Rolan’s time was taken up in making sure that Talamir remained—well—sane. So a good portion of Rolan’s duties to the herd had been delegated to those best suited to the task.

  Not all of those duties had gone to Kantor either. Some were the provenance of some very wise old Companion mares, thus ironically echoing the hierarchy in a real horse herd, where the leaders were the oldest mares, not the stallion, as Alberich very well knew.

  :Hmm. And human herds, though ye know it not.:

  :Your point being—?: Alberich replied. :Though you’d best not let Queen Selenay discover you think of her as an old mare, wise or not.:

  He sensed Kantor’s snort of derision. :Selenay should be perfectly happy to be compared to a Companion mare.:

  Alberich let that one go. There was no use trying to explain to Kantor that no nubile young woman was going to appreciate being compared to a mare, ever, under any circumstances.

  Particularly not when her Councilors—some of them, anyway—were very diligently trying to make her into one. Of the brood-stock variety. . . .

  Which was one reason why he had welcomed Master Cuelin’s arrival this afternoon to install the window, as the perfect excuse to avoid the afternoon Council meeting. That particular item was on the table for discussion, and it was a subject that Alberich was particularly anxious not to get embroiled in. For one thing, no matter how publicly he’d been lauded and laden with honors after the Tedrel Wars, no matter how trusted he was by most—by no means all—Valdemarans of note, he was still the outsider. He was, and always would be so. It could not be otherwise. And for another, well—

  —well, it was a subject where nothing he said or did was “safe.” Someone would take exception, whether he urged that Selenay remain single, or weighed in on the side of those who wanted her to wed, and at this point, he didn’t need to add any enemies to a list that was already long enough.

  ***

  The atmosphere of the Council Chamber this afternoon was unwontedly subdued. Usually there had been at least three arguments by this time, and the kinds of icy, polite catcalling that made people who were not used to Council debates blanch and wonder if a duel was about to break out. Today, however, was different. The atmosphere hadn’t been so edgily cordial since the first, tentative sessions after Selenay’s coronation. Around the horseshoe-shaped, heavy wooden table not a voice had been raised. The representatives of the Bardic, Heraldic, and Healer Circl
es, in their red, white, and green uniforms respectively, had been extremely quiet, as had the Lord Marshal’s Herald and the Seneschal’s Herald, and of course, her own, the Queen’s Own Herald, Talamir.

  As for the rest—well, they had been nervous. They didn’t really know her, although she had been in their midst all of her life. They were her father’s Council, really, not hers. They were his friends, advisers, and peers, and none of them had expected to serve her at all, much less so quickly. So they often argued and battled among themselves, as if she wasn’t even there, or was no more than a token place holder.

  Except on the rare occasions when what they wished to do was going to have to involve her. Then they generally acted as they did today; becoming very quiet, and rather nervous. These elder statesmen and women were apparently unaware that they gave themselves away, acting as they did.

  Queen Selenay knew why they were nervous, of course. They didn’t know she knew, which might have been funny under other circumstances. In the throne that had been her father’s, with the chair at her right hand empty, Selenay watched her Councilors behaving as if they were good little schoolchildren debating beneath the strict disciplinarian eye of their teacher.