Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (15 page)

If Kantor wasn't the best friend he had never had before, he was certainly the next thing to it. Uncanny, that was—the way they fit together. It was not unnerving, but that was only because Kantor's personality seemed to fit into his without a single rough edge. Strange, yet completely familiar, and the longer that this day had gone, the less possible it seemed that he could ever properly live without the Companion's presence in the back of his mind.

He paused, staring blindly out the window. Full dark it was out there, and as a consequence, what he saw was himself, outlined by the fire, reflected in the glass. Outlined in fire—well,
that
was appropriate. In a sense, he had gone from one fire into another. . . .

As for the life he'd been offered—well. It was all there, virtually everything he could have asked for. Even the fact that he was
not
being asked to fight anymore. At least, not for the moment, though that could change, and he was too wise in the ways of conflict not to know that.

He hated fighting. Oh, not the physical exercise, that he loved; he loved the feel of a solid hit, the surety of a stroke, the way that his body knew what to do without his head having to tell it. Perhaps it would be better to say that he hated killing, despised hurting people. Even when he was ridding the world of bastards that pillaged and raped helpless villagers left without even the means to defend themselves, he hated it. Intellectually speaking, there had to be a better way of dealing with those mad, two-legged dogs than killing them.

Practically speaking, there wasn't, of course, not really. It was kill them or face the consequences of not killing them, and know that they would go on doing what they had been at before you caught them—knowing that even if you locked them up, eventually they'd either get loose or kill themselves and probably others
trying
to escape. Then the deaths of people who absolutely did not deserve it were on
your
head. So he had long ago resigned himself to that fact, and concentrated on ridding the world of murderers as expediently, dispassionately, and humanely as possible.

But there was a part of him that had uncomfortable questions about that, questions he had tried not to think about until this moment. Brigands were not the only creatures that preyed on his people. . . .

The fire popped and crackled as he passed it, as if his thought of the Sunpriests' Fires had somehow roused it. He shuddered, as the memory of flame licking over his own flesh interposed itself between
then
and
now.

Before this moment, before he had crossed the Border into this strange land, he had shied away from that question; he had told himself that priestly business was none of his concern—well, except for the uneasy knowledge that they
might
one day come for him. But, in truth, he had tried not to think about that at all, tried to focus on his duty, his men, the job at hand and getting on with it.

Was that cowardice? He had to admit that it probably was, and he was ashamed of it. But what could he, one single man, have done, more than he had
been
doing, other than declare himself against the priests, be denounced, and sent to the Fires himself?

And that was even if they hadn't learned what he was, the powers he harbored. Anathema. Unclean.
If thine eye gaze upon the forbidden, put it out with thine own hand, lest ye be tempted.
That was the Writ and Rule, and he had not obeyed it. Yet how could he have eliminated something over which he'd had no control, except by denouncing himself? And if he'd done that—he'd have done the enemy's work for it, taking a competent fighter, a good officer, out of the fighting.

Had
he put so much effort into being a perfect soldier in Vkandis' service so that he might, somehow, expiate the fact that he had those witch-powers?

Which aren't evil. You
know
they aren't evil, and you knew it then, no matter what the priests claimed. You had no control over those dreams and visions—and what was more, the things they showed you actually helped you to protect Vkandis' people. So why would the Sunpriests
say
they were evil—unless there was something about those powers that they were afraid of? Was it that they feared one day you might see something about
them
that you shouldn't?

It was twenty paces from one end of the sitting room to the other, and he measured it a hundred times with his restless walking.

He had prided himself to a certain extent on being brave. He just hadn't been brave enough. . . .

He fretted and gnawed at his own soul, tearing into it obsessively, digging deeper than he had ever done before. He had never had so much time to think. Yes, he'd done a fair amount of contemplation while in the keeping of the Healers, but most of
that
had been spent in fighting the assumption that everyone else here had taken as a given that he should be
pleased,
even thrilled, with this whole business of being Chosen. He'd been so concerned with resentment that he hadn't really put any time into thinking about his position. Kicking against the traces—

Oh, what an image that conjured up! The warhorse pulling the cart, and fighting every step of the way.

And such a cart as he was hitched to now; the entire burden of
accepting
Companion, title of “Herald,” and all! But it included something he had wanted for so very long.

Yes, I hitched myself to it. I walked into the harness, willingly, because the harness was so handsome.
To become a Weaponsmaster—Sunlord! If anyone had ever asked him what he would have chosen to be above all things—to emulate the men he had most admired, from the day he had stepped into the cadet corps.

Those competent, strong men who, when he was a cadet, had offered their own austere brand of distant affection to him, who had counseled him and given guidance and an example to follow—who had given him, when he was forced to bid farewell to his mother, enough to feed his hungry heart.

They must have taken the place of the father he had never known. And he wanted to be like them; had wanted it then, and wanted it now. Others had called them heartless, but he knew, and he had always known, that they were anything but heartless. They held themselves apart, not because they did not care, but because they feared to care too much. Even for him—though that resolution had not been proof against his need and theirs.

There had been two of them; two he would have done anything for, men he would have rather died than disappoint.

Berthold.
Aged Berthold, white-haired but still strong and vigorous, able to hold his own with men half his age—he was the man who was Weaponsmaster to the youngest boys, the ones who barely knew which end of a blade to hold. He was patient, but unforgiving when it came to slackers. He had seen how Alberich was trying, watched him, though Alberich hadn't known it at the time, when Alberich had slipped into the unoccupied salle for extra exercise and practice. He had “chanced upon” one of those practices, and from that moment on, had made certain that Alberich never had to practice alone. A pat on the back or the head, a few well-chosen words of praise or condolence—that was all the physical demonstration of affection he ever allowed himself, but Alberich would have gone through fire for such rewards.

And when Alberich passed out of the junior class into the senior cadets, so Berthold had seen to it that
his
student, Aksel, took up Alberich's education where Berthold had left off.

Aksel, a powerful little man as flexible as he was strong, probably knew more about fighting styles and weapons than any twelve ordinary fighters in the Sunsguard. His first words to Alberich were, “Berthold thinks you have it in you. If it's there, we'll bring it out together.”

Alberich had never known just what “it” was supposed to be, but Aksel offered instruction and approval in equal measure, and Alberich had drunk it in as thirsty ground drank rain. They were the finest two men that Alberich had ever known. . . .

And
they
taught me what honor was.
Which might be why, when Dethor had asked what he most valued, it was “honor” he had seized on instantly.

He had learned from their example as much as from anything they actually said to him.

Honor was never taking the easy way when it was also the wrong one. Never telling a falsehood
unless
the truth was painful and unnecessary, or a lie was necessary to save others. Never manipulating the truth to serve only yourself. Protecting the weak and helpless; standing fast even when fear made you weak. Keeping your word.

Perhaps that was all part of the problem; serving the Sunpriests had turned him away from the path of honor. How was it protecting the weak and helpless, when he and his troops were turned aside from their duties on the Border to shepherd a tithe collector and his treasure boxes from village to village? How could he keep his word when those about him were making idle promises that
he
was expected to fulfill, promises that again, took him away from real duty to satisfy some idiotic whim or moment of vainglory? How could he speak the truth when the truth would simply have gotten him thrown to the Fires?

In the simpler world of the cadet corps, no such compromises had ever entered into his personal equation. They only came when he left that world.

Perhaps that was why Aksel and Berthold hadn't left it, themselves . . . perhaps they had known, in their heart of hearts, that going out into the world would only begin a long train of broken vows.

Vows like the ones he broke when he accepted his place here, his position as the partner of a Companion.

But a vow went both ways. He had pledged himself to the service of Karse and the God; only later were vows required that he pledge to obey the word of any priest, and he'd had misgivings, but it was too late to try and back out at that point. At that same ceremony, though, there had been another set of vows—the priest who administered the oaths to the new officers had pledged on behalf of
all
priests to regard the new officers as Vkandis' chosen, to stand beside them if accused, and succor them in need.

And he had quickly learned how little they honored
those
oaths.

The Sunpriests broke their vows to me long before I ever broke mine to them.
Did that mean the pact between him and them was also broken? Was it wrong of him to feel that
their
betrayal released him from his oath? Or was he just trying to rationalize his own sins?

He realized, belatedly, that all this pacing was probably keeping poor Dethor awake. A glance outside showed him that the moon was well up, and there was plenty of moonlight silvering the grass outside; more than enough for him to pace all he wanted to without tripping over something in the dark.

With a silent apology, he let himself out through the salle, pacing across the wooden floor by the light entering through the clerestory windows, opening the outer door and stepping out into the waiting embrace of the night.

The chill air carried a hint of damp and a scent of grass; from the distance came the sounds of voices, too far off to be more than a murmur. But the very cadences were strange to his ear, and he felt an involuntary shiver of alarm he couldn't suppress.

Oh, these Valdemarans! Not four marks into his first real day among them—he couldn't count the time spent with the Healers—and look what had happened. They had told him the one thing he longed to hear, and had not realized that he longed to hear it—that he was
needed.
They offered for his inspection a gaggle of green children,
good
children, and told him that these young people would go out, unprepared, against the kind of animals
he
had fought against—unless he helped train them. And how—
how
—could he
not
have responded to that?

To defend the weak and helpless—how much better could he do that by training others to do the same job? How could he allow anyone to
send
the weak and helpless—well, all right, the half-trained—out to throw themselves down and be trampled on, when he knew he could remedy the situation?

There was nothing dishonorable about taking that job. There was nothing honorable in refusing it.

Yes, but these are not
your
people . . . so where does your honor come into it? Or is there some reason why it doesn't further break your vows to train Valdemarans?

But then came additional questions. When he already knew, from the evidence of his own experience, how utterly
wrong
some of the things he'd taken as truth were, why should it? When had that definition of “honor” ever demanded absolute adherence to the Sunpriests of Karse?

Just because the Sunpriests would have put any Valdemaran they found to the Fire and sword—well, he knew how wrong the Sunpriests could be. He had found a Sunpriest here, an upright man who everything in him cried out to trust, who had
told
him in no uncertain words that the Valdemarans were good and true, and that it was his duty to Vkandis Himself to ally himself with them. So where did that leave his vows and his honor?

He did not realize how fast he had walked, or how far, until an angry
snort
brought his attention back to his surroundings.

He looked up, and found he was in the middle of a meadow or clearing, ringed with trees. From where he stood, he could see some lights, a few, through the trees to his right, but otherwise he could just as well have been in the middle of a meadow in farming country.