Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor Read online

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  HE had been expecting it for months, with a feeling of heavy dread and sick anticipation that put him off his food and kept him staring at the ceiling at night. All winter he’d worried and wondered. Were the Tedrels going to break with their pattern and attack in the winter? After that strange evening when Geri briefly spoke for—Something Else—how could he not have felt that the storm was about to break?

  He’d wished for an inkling that he was doing the right thing—and he’d gotten it. Nothing inimical could have used Geri as a mouthpiece, not a Sunpriest, and not inside the sacred confines of the temple. Everything in the temple was sacred, no matter how homely it seemed. Vkandis was the Lord of All, from the Sun-fire to the hearth-fire, and he did not scorn the small and commonplace. So even if what had spoken through Geri was not Vkandis Himself, it was certainly some spirit that was doing so on behalf of the Sunlord.

  Be careful what you ask for. Well, now he had it, and now he knew, well in advance of everyone else, that Sendar and Selenay would go into combat, no matter who tried to stop them. Now he knew . . . and didn’t dare tell anyone.

  Now he knew but didn’t know when. He only knew it would be soon. But how soon? Every night he went to sleep on edge, and every morning he woke with the feeling that a storm was coming. And certainly this was what everyone including the now-successful agents had been working toward, all this time—to lure the Tedrels into thinking that the Valdemaran defenses were a hollow shell, and a single concerted drive would crack through. And thanks to the four that he had planted, when that time came, Valdemar would know as soon as the Karsite troops themselves did. They would know days, weeks earlier than they would have before his four demi-Karsites got planted successfully on the other side of the Border.

  Yes, he was expecting it. But when the word came, it still hit him like a blow to the gut.

  It was Talamir who delivered the blow; that didn’t make it better, but at least it was from the hand of a friend and delivered as calmly as that worthy could manage.

  It was early spring—or tail end of winter, take your choice. Raw weather, in any event, the trees still leafless, though there were a few, far too optimistic for his way of thinking, that were swelling into bud. The snow was gone, but a bite in the air and the snarl of the wind suggested that it wouldn’t be too wise to tempt fate by rejoicing aloud that it was gone. Half the days were clear and cold, half raining, that miserable, dripping rain that would come up without warning and then stay a week, and by the time it crawled away, half the Collegium would be down with head colds. It never stayed clear long enough for things to dry up, in any event, and it was a good thing that the Trainees’ uniforms were gray, because you couldn’t help ending up with mud from the eyebrows down by midday, no matter what you did. Tail end of winter, he would call it, for all that the days were longer, and you could, if you searched diligently, find a few foolhardy crocus and snowdrops coming up in the gardens.

  Spring, and he hated to see it, because it meant at least another season of war. And Spring came sooner, the farther South you went. True, in the mountains at the Border, it actually came later, but once out of the mountains, or when you stuck to the valleys, Spring was well on the way.

  Spring was no longer a season of hope and renewal, and had not been for some time. But would this be the last season of war, or only the latest? That was the question that hung suspended over his head like a sword.

  For the past fortnight, he’d been running a cross-class with the Horsemanship teacher, an accelerated course in fighting while mounted, and each day it had taken most of a candlemark to clean Kantor up afterward; all the Companions had been mired to mid-flank and spattered above that line. He was cold as a frog, tired, and every time he licked his split lip, he tasted mud and blood. There was no other way of learning how to fight in this kind of muck except to do it, though, no matter how much everyone hated it. He was looking forward to a hot bath with utter longing, and he trudged into the quarters behind the salle, expecting only to see Dethor and perhaps get a little commiseration before he went back to see about that long soak in hot water.

  It took him aback to see Talamir there—Talamir, sitting in one of the hearthside chairs, and the sun still in the sky, for Talamir never was free enough to come back here before sundown. Talamir’s expression told him the worst even before the King’s Own opened his mouth; he froze, feeling as if something had just petrified him in place. He knew; he knew. And it didn’t take a Gift to tell him.

  For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. For a moment, he was stunned. The blow had fallen.

  The Tedrels were moving.

  “This is the season,” Talamir said, and that was all he needed to say. So the bait had been taken, the misinformation believed, This season, as soon as the rains stopped, the rivers subsided, and the ground was firm instead of mired, the Tedrels would make their all-or-nothing push.

  He’d wanted it and dreaded it in equal parts, and now it had come.

  He nodded, for there wasn’t much that he could say at this point. Other than: “Know where, do we? When?”

  “When—well, they’re going to take a little longer than usual. They’re going to try and browbeat the Karsites into adding troops, and if they can’t get troops, they plan to demand money so they can hire whatever non-Guild scum they can hold together under a banner.” Talamir sounded quite certain of that information, which meant that someone had overheard something he (or she) technically shouldn’t have. “They want shock troops to take the brunt of battle, so their own can move in behind, undamaged. And they’ll want a bigger base to move from than before, one that will hold all of their people and possessions in it, ready to move into Valdemar as soon as they take it.”

  “But where?” he persisted. That was critical. When they knew where the Tedrels were going to come across, they could set up their own defensive lines on ground of their choosing.

  “Not yet,” Talamir admitted. “Other than that we don’t think it’ll be Holderkin lands. The last taste of them that the Tedrels got didn’t seem to agree with them.”

  Alberich’s lip curled a little. He didn’t much care for the Holderkin, but they had surely proved to be too tough for the Tedrels to digest. And it wasn’t that they’d actually formed any kind of a defensive army either. By law and custom, they kept enough food in storage at each of their Holdings to keep everyone minimally fed for two years—and in that way, no single bad year could bring them to their knees. So when the Tedrels descended last summer, instead of fighting them, the Holderkin had locked every man, woman, child, and beast into their fortresslike compounds and sat the Tedrels out. After looting what little hadn’t been locked up, and burning the crops, there wasn’t much the mercenaries could do, except circle the walls, trying to get in. That wasn’t a very successful strategy, and they wound up getting shot full of arrows for their pains any time they got within range. The places were too small to justify the amount of effort it would have taken to breach those walls, and there was no real loot of any kind if you did. The Tedrel recruits being what they were, they fought for the loot as well as the promise of a land of their own. Yet you couldn’t leave the hundreds of Holds intact if you intended to occupy the land; that wasn’t merely asking for trouble, it was inviting trouble in and offering it a cup of tea, so to speak. So last season when the Tedrels had tried to take Holderkin territory, the season had been singularly profitless and unsatisfying for them. Perhaps that had added to the impetus that impelled them to put in their final push now. They could not afford two lootless seasons in a row; too many of their recruits were not fighting for a new homeland, and would break ranks and desert if they saw no profit coming for a second year. You couldn’t even tempt them with the Holderkin women; if the walls were breached, as had happened in one or two instances, the ones that didn’t kill themselves were slain by their menfolk.

  Given that the Holderkin would only follow precisely the same strategy a second time, it was vanishingly unlikely th
at the Tedrels would attempt the conquest of the entire country of Valdemar from there. It was far more likely that their plan was to conquer all of Valdemar and then cut off the Holderkin, dealing with them one Holding at a time at their leisure.

  “I haven’t much else to tell you,” Talamir admitted. “Only that they’ve fallen for our ruse, that they believe we have been beaten down and depleted, and that they are gathering every resource they can for that final campaign.”

  “ForeSeers?” Alberich asked. He hoped the ForeSeers were getting something, although his own rogue and unpredictable Gift hadn’t even warned him of this news.

  Then again—hadn’t it? How much of the dread he’d felt these past several moons had been due to his Gift? It didn’t always give him visions; sometimes it only gave him warnings.

  “The ForeSeers just confirm that the agents are right. But since the decision was evidently made in their council a few days ago, and only just announced to the general troops, I expect that will change.” Talamir sounded confident, and he had every right to be.

  Mutable and unknowable Future. . . .

  Well, perhaps. What the Writ had to say on that subject was a matter of philosophy rather than reality—meant more to keep people from closing themselves off to all of the possibilities that free will gave them. And this was particularly true when Karsite Writ met Valdemaran reality, and the Gift of ForeSight—which, often as not, showed many futures, not just one.

  And if Vkandis really abhorred the knowledge of the future, would he have given me that particular Gift? For Alberich, like the Heralds, had used it to change the future he saw for a better one. . . .

  He began making calculations in his mind, trying to reckon how long it would take the Tedrels to coax or coerce the Sunpriests into adding Karsite troops to their numbers—or, more likely, come up with more gold and silver—how long it would take to get all the supplies together for such a campaign—establish a base four times larger than any they’d had before—

  Then he realized that there were better heads than his who were already working on that very problem, and that their agents-in-place would be able to give Valdemar infinitely better information about what was actually happening than he could with what was only speculation. But there was one thing he could and would do.

  “Two targets, and two only, they will have, should the King and Heir the field take,” he told Talamir and Dethor. “Sendar to slay, and Selenay to take or slay. Take Selenay, they would prefer, and sword-wed to—whatever leader survives. It is the land they want. Behead the leadership, they must, to take the land. Better still, to behead the leadership, and make all right by wedding the Heir. Live with their neighbors, they must—” Now he could deliver his warning, the warning that Geri had delivered to him.

  Dethor made a sound like a groan, and Talamir nodded. “Just what I thought, and I told Sendar as much,” the King’s Own replied bitterly. “But trying to keep either of them out of the fight at this point is impossible. Stopping the Tedrels now is going to take everything we have, and Sendar believes that if he and Selenay stay safe in Haven, we will lose the fight before it even begins. If they take the field, there isn’t a man or a woman who won’t fight better for their presence. And much as I hate to say this, I have to concur.”

  With a sense of sick agreement, Alberich nodded. The warning had been delivered and heeded, but it clearly would make no difference to the King and Heir. So—

  The warning was given to me. Therefore, it is I who must act on it.

  “Then this, I can do,” Alberich said firmly. “Heralds there will be, and Guards, to shield them in a battle guard. So, to me, bring them for training. To make the shield-wall for a King, a special skill is, and each man, his place must know, and know that the right- and left-hand comrade will firmly stand.”

  “And he has to know how to fill in when the man to his side falls,” Dethor seconded grimly. “Alberich’s right, Talamir. We haven’t had a King go into combat in—glory!—over a century. More, I think; I never was much good at history. We haven’t had a battle guard in all that time. I don’t know the strategy except from books.”

  “But trained the Sunsguard is, for such a thing,” Alberich told them. “Sunpriests, Red Robes, and Archpriests and Hierophants we must guard, if not the Son of the Sun—for into the vanguard they will go. When know you Sendar’s battle guard, to me send them. Selenay’s battle guard, I will choose. And Selenay’s battle guard and bodyguard, I will lead. Remain here, I will not.” He was slightly appalled to feel his spirits rising a little at the prospect of a fight at last, and something he could do. Action, rather than sitting.

  But that was just it, really; it was a fight at last. No one could deny him his right to be in the thick of it now. He would be the leader of Selenay’s battle guard; no one could stop him now.

  “So far as the Palace Guard members are concerned, I would just as soon that you chose for both Sendar and Selenay,” Talamir said thoughtfully. “You are the best judge of them, since you work with them all the time.”

  “Then, not solely Palace Guard it will be, but City, too.” He honestly didn’t think that there would be enough men in the Palace Guard who were young and fit enough to supply what he wanted for two sets of bodyguards. And that wasn’t being snide either—so many of the Palace Guard had resigned their posts to serve down South that men who had retired had come out of retirement to fill their places. Those old men were perfectly fit to stand indoor guard duty at a door; if their reflexes were a little slower than in their youth, they had a world of experience to take the place of fast reflexes. They might even be good enough to fight with the army as a whole. But they couldn’t march like younger men, couldn’t run like younger men, and hadn’t the stamina that was needed for this job.

  “Whatever, whomever you want,” Talamir told him. “I’ll see to it that you get it. Or him.”

  “Or her. She-Heralds and she-Guards for Selenay, can I get them, half and half with men,” said Alberich, and grinned fiercely to see the surprise on both their faces. “Tcha! Think, you! No thanks from the Princess, would there be, for clumsy men in her tent trampling. And with her, they must be sleeping! And follow her other else-wheres, that a man should not go!”

  “You mean to guard her that closely?” Talamir asked, his face reflecting an interesting mix of shock and approval.

  “One man, with a knife, all our efforts can overset,” he pointed out to them. “Sendar your charge is, Talamir. Selenay is mine. And, say I, guarded she will be in every moment of every night and day. Battle guard there will be, but also bodyguards, will she, nil she, waking and sleeping.”

  He did not say that he expected Sendar would rebel over being so closely watched and would disregard anything Talamir had to say on the subject. But Selenay would listen and obey his orders once he’d explained them, thanks be to the One God. She wouldn’t like them, but she’d obey them.

  Unlike her father, she could not disregard orders. He could and would have her tied up and locked into a secure tower if he had to. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but at the moment, he thought he could count on her good sense. Especially when she saw her father being less than sensible.

  Tcha. All it takes for a youngling of that age is to see the parent doing one thing, and it is certain they will try and do the opposite. How refreshing to have youthful rebellion working for him instead of against him! And perhaps, when Sendar saw his daughter being sensible, he would be shamed into sense as well. Not likely, but he could hope.

  “You’ll want Heralds Keren and Ylsa,” Talamir said thoughtfully. “Neither of them will be in the least impressed with rank and birthright; they saw Selenay as a first-year Trainee and helped me whip her into shape.”

  “Women there are in the City Guard as well—” And he couldn’t help the wry smile. “Locasti Perken, Berda Lunge, and Haydee Dellas.” His spirit rose a little at the thought of recruiting those three to his bodyguard. Selenay would have to be a deal older and craft
ier before she could outwit or overawe them.

  Dethor raised an eyebrow. Talamir chuckled. “Oh, I believe I know those names,” the King’s Own said, matching Alberich’s smile. “They have night patrol around the Compass Rose and Virgin and Stars, don’t they?”

  “And just last week frog-marched young Lord Realard back to his father, then delivered a lecture to the old man that fair pinned his ears back,” Dethor said, with a nod. “Or so I heard.”

  “Correctly, you heard. Impressed with rank, they are not, either.” Two Heralds, three City Guards, that made five, and with the addition of a Palace Guardswoman who came to his practices who was called Lotte—if she had a surname, he’d never heard it—that would give him two women at Selenay’s side at all times. That would do for close bodyguards; for her battle guards, and Sendar’s, he’d want another ten or a dozen. Twenty or twenty-four good fighters; he’d have to think long and hard about who. . . .

  “These, I need—” he said, rattling off the names; Talamir nodded. “—those six at once. Special training, will they need. The rest, from Palace and City Guard, I will make a list.”

  “Have it to me in a candlemark,” Talamir said, getting to his feet. “Send it by page. I’ll have Sendar sign on it. That will cut through any objections. I’ll have your six women report in the morning, and the rest to you within the week.”

  He would have liked it to be sooner, but that was probably the best that could be done. Replacements would have to be found, schedules juggled, and all of that took time.

  Time—which was now working against them.

  “Selenay, I want as well,” he added. “Best it is, that she learn her guards to work with.”

  “Right,” Dethor agreed. “And if we can get Sendar down here to work with his—” He stopped at the grimace that Talamir gave.

  “Ask for the moon, and you’re more like to get it,” the King’s Own said grimly. “If he sees his bed for more than four candlemarks in a night now, I’ll be surprised, so don’t expect him to come down here for what’s ‘only’ a little arms practice.”