Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor Page 12

  The single word rang in his head like a gong, completely driving out everything else, so powerful was it. For a moment, it was as if he’d been punched in the gut, unable even to breathe. He was blinded and deafened, and when he was able to think again, he found himself on his knees, as if the Word had driven him there.

  He wasn’t the only one so affected; Kantor stood with head hanging and eyes glazed, and the others were shaking their heads, staggering about, looking utterly dazed. He had recovered first, and so he was the one who saw the final Companion come pacing into the meadow, striding as a king would stride across a royal carpet spread for his pleasure.

  This—this newcomer was the very essence of Companion. His shining coat glowed pearly and silken in the moonlight, his mane and tail fell like waterfalls of silver, and his eyes held the wisdom of ages past and the knowledge of ages to come—and Alberich knew, in that moment when he looked into the stallion’s eyes, that the knowledge held as much sorrow as joy. . . .

  The stallion swung his head about to stare at the others—all but Kantor, that is—with the kind of look that Aksel and Berthold would give pupils who had gone so far beyond merely disappointing their teachers that even the most irrepressible or arrogant of boys could not have gone unaffected.

  :What is this?: the newcomer asked—no—demanded, in tones of disgust. :What do I find here? Companions—threatening someone else’s Chosen? What were you thinking? How could you?:

  One of Alberich’s attackers raised his head and stared at the stallion; Alberich “heard” nothing, but he got the distinct impression that the other was trying to justify his actions, rather like a defiant little boy who knows very well he’s in the wrong, but simply cannot bear to admit it. The others were making no such attempts; if a Companion could have flushed or paled with shame, these would have done so.

  The stallion gave the defiant one short shrift. :Enough!: he said, but the effect on the other Companion was as if he’d been struck between the eyes with a hammer. He literally dropped to his knees, as the others winced. :You, Jasker,: the stallion said, more in sorrow than anger, :What you and yours have endured is no excuse. What happened to these others is no excuse either. You should have learned that by now.: The stallion swung his head around, and again Alberich felt the full force of his gaze. :You, Alberich—Chosen of Kantor—have you, yourself, ever brought harm to a single soul of Valdemar?:

  “Not unless bandits they were, and with a band of brigands riding,” Alberich said truthfully. “Claim I cannot, that my men and I did not make it so that others freed were, to come against your folk—but never a Valdemaran I touched, nor did any of those under my command.”

  :So I thought.: the stallion turned his attention back to the errant one, who had all but shrunk into a mere pony beneath that gaze. :Well.:

  It was very clear that the defiant one was the target of a scathing lecture. He was not to hear what the stallion said to the other, but it made the formerly defiant one shrink even further. And if something the size and shape of a horse could have been said to “slink on its belly,” then that was precisely what the Companion did—toward Alberich.

  :I beg your pardon,: the young one said—whispered, rather.

  :I can’t hear you,: the stallion rumbled, like a storm on the horizon.

  :I—most humbly beg your pardon and ask your forgiveness—: came the humiliated response. :Chosen of Kantor, I acted vilely. I am unworthy.:

  :I should say so!: Kantor snorted, ears laid back, and teeth bared. :Arrogant little beast, I should—:

  :Kantor!: the stallion said warningly.

  But Kantor only raised his head and looked the other in the face, with no sign of the profound shame they displayed. :I only said that I should, Taver. I should thrash this little cretin around Companion’s Field twice—but I won’t. I won’t ever. Because I’m stronger and a better fighter and it would be no contest between us, so long as it was a fair fight, and not a case of a mob against one—:

  Somehow, the other’s head drooped even lower.

  :Kantor, I beg your pardon, too,: came the sad voice—if a voice in the mind could sob, Alberich sensed that this one was on the verge of just that. Alberich decided that enough was enough.

  For whatever reason, this boy—and it might look like a horse, but it acted like a boy—had a grudge against all Karsites. Apparently he had decided on his own that Kantor had been deceived or subverted.

  And he elected to take out his grievances on this Karsite—Alberich—who had somehow come within his reach. Why the child felt this way, Alberich had no idea—but it was apparently a driving passion, and had driven him to gather up a pack of his cronies to act when Alberich had unwittingly put himself in a position where he could be attacked with relative impunity.

  But there was also no doubt in his mind that the boy—colt?—had been forcibly shown the error of his ways. And that his contrition was real, his repentance sincere, his shame overwhelming. And there was only one answer that Alberich could make to that.

  He stepped forward, and put a hand under the colt’s chin. The Companion started at his touch, and began to shake, his skin shivering with reaction, as Alberich forced his head up so that he could look into the colt’s eyes.

  “Pardon I give, freely,” he said, as he felt the colt fighting to keep from bolting. “But more. Forgiveness I give also.”

  :Jasker?: prompted the stallion.

  The youngster blinked, and Alberich was startled to see two crystal teardrops form in his eyes and slide down his pale, moon-silvered cheeks. :I am so sorry—thank you—:

  “From you, I will have a promise in exchange,” Alberich replied grimly. “Never again to act without due thought, or so terribly without honor!”

  :I promise!: the young one replied fervently—but Alberich was not finished.

  “And you—the rest!” he continued, raking them with as stern a gaze as the stallion’s. “Never, ever again to let one with passion lead you to unreason!”

  He “heard” murmurs of assent, so subdued that he could only hearken back to the day when Berthold had discovered that some of the cadets had slipped into his personal quarters to assuage their curiosity and had been caught rifling through his possessions. Not Alberich—but he had witnessed the tail end of that confrontation, when the miscreants had been brought up before the entire corps.

  “Then your punishment to this gentleman, I leave,” he said. “My forgiveness you have. His—you must earn, I suspect.”

  The stallion nodded gravely. A few more moments passed, during which there were, no doubt, a few more silent exchanges. Then the others slunk away.

  The stallion turned his attention toward Alberich and Kantor. :Brave, Kantor. And very wise, to call me, rather than take them on yourself.:

  :I am glad you took no longer to arrive!: Kantor bowed his head. :Taver, they are children—and we both know how Jasker. . . . Well. One of us elders should have seen to him before this. We are fortunate that nothing worse came of this.:

  :Probably.: The stallion’s flanks heaved with a sigh. :One cannot foresee everything.:

  :No. One cannot. Thank you, Taver.:

  The stallion turned to Alberich, and suddenly he knew why he had that nagging sense of familiarity—

  “You are of Talamir bonded, no?” he asked.

  :I am. And the chief of the Companions; and as such, it was by my neglect that this child was able to menace you. So I, too, ask your forgiveness—:

  But Alberich interrupted him with a shaky chuckle. “Nah, who can tell, what in a boy’s head will be? No need, there is. And no harm either. But, I think, good it would be to return to my place.”

  Taver’s ears pricked forward. :You are gracious—:

  “I am tired,” Alberich corrected. “And late, it is. Good night, I bid you.”

  :Good night. And know that after this, you will find a warmer welcome among us. No matter who else troubles you, you will always be welcome among the Companions.: The great stallion ghoste
d off after the others, leaving Alberich alone with Kantor.

  “Thank you,” he said to his Companion. Kantor tossed up his head and looked satisfied, if still a bit ruffled.

  :Jasker—underwent much horror at the hands of the Sunpriests,: Kantor explained. :He, and all his family. All lost, and in great fear and pain—:

  Family? Companions have families? He supposed, on second thought, they had to come from somewhere. And to lose one’s whole family—

  :Night-demons?: he asked, with a shiver. He had seen what Night-demons left behind, or at least, that was what he had been told had happened, and had heard the things, only once, off in the far distance. He never wished to come that close again. The Sunpriests claimed that Night-demons were sent only against the traitors and heretics and enemies of Karse—but Alberich could not imagine how those ravening horrors could determine just who was a traitor, or a heretic—

  :Yes,: Kantor replied, simply.

  :Then I understand.: The Night-demons did not leave very much to bury; often it was only enough to tell whether the victim had been male or female, and sometimes not even that much. :I hope that Taver will not be too hard on him. Shall we go back to the salle?:

  :You do have the first class in the morning,: Kantor reminded him, :I believe it would be wise.: Then, very quietly, :You are a man of much honor, Chosen.:

  Alberich started. Then, slowly, smiled.

  “I hope I may be,” he said after a moment, “I only hope I may be.”

  6

  ALBERICH contemplated a substantial pile of books waiting beside his chair in the sitting room with a sigh. If he’d seen half that number of books in the past several years, he’d have been very much surprised. Lessons. Classes! At his age—

  Still, only a fool wishes to stop learning. And he needed these classes if he was going to understand these Valdemarans.

  He had two of these classes (not three!) for now, both of which entailed an enormous amount of reading. In the interests of preserving his authority as Dethor’s Second, however, he was not having his classes, his lessons, with the rest of the Trainees. That idea had been suggested and discarded within two days of being officially appointed and functioning as the Weaponsmaster’s Second—-four days after actually accepting the job. Dethor had been the one insisting on some alternate form of tutoring, though; Alberich hadn’t had anything to do with that particular decision. Not that he’d been particularly enamored of squeezing himself into a desk beside a lot of children. It wasn’t just that it was undignified, it was that he needed to impress those same children with his authority, and he wasn’t going to do that if he was bumbling through classes as one of their “peers.” Evidently Dethor felt exactly the same, and had gotten rather testy about it.

  In fact, he hadn’t even seen the Collegium yet. All of his time had been spent in or around the salle; when he wasn’t kicking youngsters into shape, he was catching up on the thousand and one little things that Dethor hadn’t been able to get to for the past few years since the bone-aches got into his hands. He tried, Sunlord knew, but he had to do things slowly and the work built up faster than he could do it. And often enough, he couldn’t do it at all.

  There was a shed full of practice armor and real armor discarded by the Guard and Heralds that needed only a bit of mending to be useful again. Shoulder plates and elbow and knee protection just needed broken leather straps or the padding replaced, the bit of chain lying about could be repaired with a few new rings and some patient weaving. Practice armor of leather and canvas generally had to have the same treatment, or tears mended. It took a little bit of skill and strong fingers, nothing more.

  Then there were practice weapons in need of mending, and archery targets to be salvaged. The things that got mended soonest tended to be in the sizes that everyone could use, which left children who were smaller, taller, or thinner than the usual struggling with poorly fitting armor. He was fixing the odd-sized items first, and had the satisfaction of seeing at least two of his smallest pupils looking comfortable in practice.

  In the shed he had also uncovered two or three crates of oddments. The oddments were very odd indeed and, unlike the things needing mending, had been packed carefully away. Alberich hadn’t had a chance to do more than look into the crates, but it almost appeared as if the Weaponsmasters of the past had been collecting and storing anything that ever came into their hands that might have been a weapon, on the chance that someday, someone might be able to add it to the weaponry lessons.

  Now, Alberich just might be that someone, for Weaponsmaster Aksel had learned a great many strange forms of weaponswork over the years, and had passed it all on to Alberich—at least in the form of knowing what a particular piece was for and how it was handled, if not in expertise. He wanted very badly to go delving into those chests . . . but the Collegium had other ideas for his so-called “free time.”

  Those lessons, for instance. The first of which was History; not only of Valdemar, which he had expected, but also some of the history of their neighbors. It was a good thing that the understanding of the written language had come part and parcel with the spoken word, or he would have been floundering. Though how something that looked like a horse could come to know how to read—or have any reason to—was beyond him. At the moment, he wasn’t asking many questions of his world; he was just taking things at face value and trying not to think too hard about them. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the answers, it was that the answers only led to more questions, and those to more in their turn. He needed to budget his time carefully; he needed to concentrate his mind (and his questions) on the matters at hand.

  His History tutor was yet another Herald, a little bird of a man called Elcarth, who had probably read more books in the past year than Alberich and any two other Karsite officers combined had seen in their lives. He did have a knack with history, though, being able to get at the story behind the history—and breezing right past the things that didn’t have a lot of relevance to what was going on in the world at the moment. He’d concentrated on the Founding of Valdemar in regard to Baron Valdemar’s issues with the Great Empire and his decision to flee with his people, then skipped over all the years between settling and the coming of the Companions with a dismissive “hardship, suffering, sacrifice, the usual sort of tales of our heroic ancestors that you’d expect to see, and you can read about it all later.” Then, stopped on the tale of how Valdemar had prayed to all gods for help in ensuring that his Kingdom was well led after his death. The answer had taken the form of the Companions . . . which had given Alberich a double shock, for Elcarth had unearthed a dusty account of the event, too tattered and ancient to have been created just for Alberich’s benefit. If it didn’t date all the way back to King Valdemar, it was old enough to have been copied directly from a document of that time. And in that account was the supposed litany of all of the gods that Valdemar had prayed to. One of them had been Vkandis Sunlord. . . .

  Which implied that either Valdemar had been familiar with Alberich’s God, or the author of the account had been. Now, in either case, the further implication was that Vkandis would be favorably inclined to Valdemar and her King. Oh, there were a lot more implications than just that one, but that single suggestion was enough to undermine everything he had thought of as “history.”

  But Alberich wasn’t allowed to dwell on that, for Elcarth had accelerated past the rest of Valdemar’s reign, and that of the next few of his descendants with “there are a great many legends, songs, and tales, and you can look into them at your leisure,” settling into the point where Valdemarans first encountered folk who were as strong or stronger than they were, who were self-sufficient and self-governing, and had no interest in uniting with them. Up until that point, as they expanded their borders, all they had come in contact with were small and isolated settlements that were perfectly happy to have the protection of the Kingdom of Valdemar, or “countries” (more like “counties,” seeing that some of them could have been crossed in a day) th
at were willing to ally, and later be absorbed by, the greater nation. It was the Kingdom of Hardorn that they initially contacted, in a cautious probe back in the direction from which they had come, and that was the chapter that Alberich was dealing with now.

  The other class was concerned with the government of Valdemar and how it worked; a good bit drier, this was. He’d been given the books yesterday by Elcarth, with instructions to read the first twenty pages or so. Apparently, his tutor would turn up this afternoon when Dethor would be instructing the youngest of the Trainees in their first lessons in edged weapons.

  He’d read the first twenty pages as he’d been told and found it all rather . . . different. A complete contrast with Karse, which was ruled by the Son of the Sun who was in turn selected from the priesthood by the Sunlord Himself.

  Supposedly. Alberich had never been near the Great Temple himself, never seen any of the Priests of the upper hierarchies or their ilk, nor had anyone he had ever met. Not bloody likely he ever would have either; the common folk were not supposed to trouble themselves about such things. Writ and Rule said that the Son of the Sun was selected by the Sunlord, and that was the extent of his personal knowledge. He had suspicions, of course, that the Sunlord had as much to do with the selection of His highest representative in Karse as He did in selecting Dethor’s favorite hat. When had there last been a Son of the Sun selected from the village priests, for instance? They all seemed to come from among the high-ranking lot that never stirred out of Sunhame and were ever-increasingly out of touch with what was going on among the common people.

  Karse actually had a king, but the position was purely symbolic, and had been for centuries. King Ortrech largely presided over a court concerned with the social functions of the old nobility and moneyed classes; the Sunpriests made all the real decisions insofar as the actual running of Karse. The King merely ratified what the priests decided, and occasionally the priests would in turn implement some small thing that the King wanted, such as the creation of a new title or the granting of property to make a court noble into a landed one.