Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (6 page)

He closed his eyes, his own heart contracting at the hurt and pain in that voice, armoring himself against it with the anger and resentment in his. “A better way, there could have been found,” he said aloud.

“In a sense,” Talamir replied quietly, “this is between you and Kantor. But ultimately, all of us are responsible, so I must apologize as well. We take such pride in our freedom here—and then we turned around and robbed you of yours. With the best intentions in the world—”

“Even the Voice that to the Fires sent me, good intentions may have had,” Alberich retorted, opening his eyes again. “If not to save
my
soul, then those souls about me.”

Again, Talamir winced.

“Served my people, did I, and served them
well,
” he continued, bitterness overflowing at the thought that he had been forced to abandon those villagers who depended on him to stand vigilant guard over their safety. “Who now, protect them will? The Voices? Ha! Those who willed, in my place to stand?” He glared, daring Talamir to answer him.

“I do not know,” Talamir admitted quietly. “But I have already offered any remedy that you could ask. What do
you
suggest? Name it, and I will do my personal best to see it done.”

In the face of such a reasonable answer, Alberich's anger suddenly collapsed, like an inflated bladder with a pin put to it. “I—” he began, and rubbed his eyes, faced with uncertainty of monumental proportions. “I know not.”

“Would you have us undo what we have done?” Talamir persisted.

Alberich snorted. “And how? Return, I cannot.
Notorious,
I am, doubtless. If ever a time for remedy was, it now long past is.”

Talamir sighed. “We tell our youngsters that Companion's Choice is irrevocable, and for life, but that is not—altogether—true. The bond can be broken between you, if you both want it broken badly enough. It will leave you—damaged. But it can be broken.”

That held him silent for a moment. There was a bond between them? And if breaking it would leave
him
damaged, what would it do to Kantor? He thought about the pain in Kantor's mental words when the Companion apologized, and winced away from the very idea. No matter what had happened to him, he could not be responsible for creating more pain. “This moots nothing,” he replied, stalling. “Nowhere to go now, have I.”

Talamir nodded. “Well, in light of that—
would
you consider giving us—giving life here—a trial period? Surely no choice can properly be made without
all
the information you need. Once you know us as we are,
I
believe you will choose to remain in Valdemar, to choose the Heralds.”

He opened his mouth, and closed it again, because, logically and unemotionally speaking, he honestly could not think of a good reason why he
shouldn't
do as the Herald asked.

:I wish you would,:
said the wistful voice in his mind.

“In the Sunlord, I
still
believe—” he began, bringing up the only remaining stumbling block that occurred to him

“That is not an issue.” Talamir waved that objection aside. “It never was. But perhaps you would rather hear that from a true Priest of the Sunlord?”

He blinked. “A Voice of Vkandis? Here?”

“Not a Voice, Alberich—but I should let him speak for himself.” Talamir murmured something to the Healer, who nodded and went to the door of this room. He passed out of it, and another, much older man stepped inside, accompanied by a second about Alberich's age.

Talamir rose, and offered his seat to the older man, who took it. “This is Alberich, Father Henrick,” he said. “Alberich, this is Father Henrick, and Acolyte Gerichen, his assistant.”

Alberich eyed them both with caution. Neither wore the red robes of a Voice, nor the black of an ordinary priest. Instead, the older man sported a similarly cut gown of fine, cream-colored wool, and the younger, a plainer robe of unbleached linen. Both had the familiar disk of the Sunlord on a chain that hung down over the breast of their robes, however.

“You serve Vkandis Sunlord?” he asked, rather doubtfully.

Father Henrick nodded gravely. “I was born in Asherbeg, Captain,” he said, in unaccented Karsite. “I was taken into the service of the Sunlord when I was eight, and made a full priest at twenty. Even as you, I am a child of Karsite soil and I still serve the Sunlord. And at twenty-one—I was ordered to Cleanse three children from the Border village to which I had been assigned.”

Alberich went very still. “And?” he asked.

The priest made a rude noise. “What sort of monster do you take me for, Captain?” he asked. “I couldn't of course; they were
children,
guilty of nothing more than having powers that the Voices find inconvenient! Instead of Cleansing them, I took them and escaped over the Border with them, where I met with a Herald who in turn took me to the temple here. We don't call it the Temple of Vkandis, of course; we refer to it as the Temple of the Lord of Light—but those who attend know it, and us, for what we are.”

“Powers?” Alberich said, feeling very stupid all of a sudden, as his anger and resentment drained away, leaving nothing behind. “Inconvenient?”

Father Henrick looked as if he had gotten a mouthful of green mead. “Those abilities that
you
have been taught are witch-powers, and signs of the contamination of demons, are nothing more than—than inborn powers that a child has no more control over than he does over whether or not he will be a great musician, or a great cook, or a great swords-man.”

“He doesn't?” Alberich asked, dumbly.

“Of
course
not,” the priest snapped. “And when these powers are something that the Voices find
useful,
if the child is young enough to be trained, it is whisked into the temple rather than being burned! It is only those whose powers are of no use to the Son of the Sun, or who are too old to be molded into a pleasing shape, that are sent to the Flames!”

Alberich was glad that he was propped up by pillows, else he would have been reeling. The priest looked as if he had plenty more to say, but his assistant placed a cautionary hand on his arm. “Father, enough,” the younger man said in Valdemaran. “This poor fellow looks as if you had just stunned him with a club.”

In truth, that is exactly what Alberich felt like. “I—” he faltered. “I—had no notion.”

“You are not a stupid man, Captain,” the old priest said roughly. “And you have a mind young enough to be flexible, if you will it. Try opening it.”

He flushed at the rebuke, and felt horribly uncomfortable. This priest reminded him all too clearly of the old priest of his home, a crusty old man who had the respect of everyone in the village, and whose speech was as blunt as his common sense was good. So well was he regarded, despite a short temper and curmudgeonly demeanor, that when a Voice wished to have him replaced by a younger man, the entire village rose up in protest, and the scheme was abandoned.

“But—” he began, in an attempt to explain himself that he knew before he started would be futile.

“But, indeed. You have been given a great gift, Alberich of Karse, a gift that can serve you
and
our people, an opportunity that will lead—well, I cannot tell where it will lead.” The old man glared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. “There is a reason for all of this, I am
sure
of it, as sure as I am that it is men, and not the Sunlord, who have made Karse and Valdemar enemies. You say that you want to help our people? Our people are led by frauds and charlatans! Half, if not more, of the Voices are false, and every high-ranking priest is corrupt! And now this happens, a soldier of Karse is Chosen to be a Herald of Valdemar, and I doubt not it is by the will of the Sunlord himself. Does that not seem like the Hand of the Sunlord Himself to you?”

Alberich was covered in confusion. “I cannot tell—”

“Well, then trust that
I
can,” the old man snapped. “This is a gift, an opportunity beyond price. If you piss it away, I shall be
most
angry with you. And rest assured that when the time comes and you stand before Vkandis' Throne,
He
will ask you why you threw away the gift He placed in your hands. For the God's sake, man, can't you see your sacred duty when it stares you in the face?”

Faced with that stern face of authority—of
legitimate
authority—what could he do or say? He tried to wrench his gaze away from the priest's eyes so that he could think—and found that he couldn't. “But I was given no
choice—
” he tried to protest.

The priest snorted. “Don't be daft,” he retorted. “You could have stayed there to die, and you didn't. You made your choice when you sensibly took the rescue that was offered. And as for having your life interfered with, balderdash. If your Companion had never sought you out and
that
particular Voice hadn't discovered your Gift—the thing you call a witch-power—another would have. Only this time, there would have been no rescue. And what is more, your so-called guilt
could
have been used to bring others to the Fires, others who were innocent of anything except supporting you.”

Talamir was standing very patiently to one side, pretending to pay no attention to what was going on. Although—Alberich had to wonder, given what he'd said about the Companions talking to one another and to him, if he wasn't managing to follow the entire conversation despite having no working knowledge of Karsite.

The priest glared a moment longer, then abruptly, his expression softened. “Lad, you're angry and resentful that your life has been turned upside down; you wouldn't be human if you weren't. You're bitter and in despair at being betrayed; you should be, but be bitter at the right people, not those who want only your welfare. If you're not frightened at being caught up in something you don't understand, I'd be very much surprised, and I'd suspect that one of those blows to your head had addled your wits. Now you think you're utterly alone. Well, you're not.”

“I didn't know about you until a moment ago,” Alberich began.

The old man shook his head. “That wasn't what I meant. I've been living here for better than forty years, and I've learned a thing or two about Heralds. No—I meant something else entirely. Open your heart—and I mean, really
open
it—to your Companion, and you'll see what I mean.”

Alberich meant to shake his head in denial, but another stern look from the priest killed the gesture before he could make it. “Don't argue,” he said. “Don't think of an excuse. Just do it. And while you're at it, open your mind as well as your heart.”

The old man rose. “I'll be going now, but if you need me, they know where to find me, or where to send
you
if you'd prefer, once you're on your feet. For that matter, I'm sure your Companion would have no difficulty finding me wherever I happened to be without you having to ask anyone but him.”

With that, he nodded to Talamir and shuffled out, followed by his acolyte. The door closed behind them, and Alberich stifled a sound that was midway between a sigh and a groan.

His sacred duty to join the Heralds, was it?

Hard words, thrown in the face of one who had lived his life by cleaving to duty, sacred or not.

Hard words, spoken by one who had been forced to abandon a potentially better life than anything ahead of Alberich, because he could not reconcile
orders
with
duty.
If anyone had a right to be bitter, it was the priest, but there was no bitterness behind that rough-hewn exterior manner. And no duplicity either. Nothing but unvarnished, unadorned truth, as the old man had seen it.

But with forty years more experience of this place than Alberich had.

He swore under his breath.

“Pardon?” Talamir said. “I didn't quite hear what you said.”

Alberich was going to growl “Nothing—” and then changed his mind.

“I said, make a trial of you, I shall,” he answered—so brusquely, even rudely, that he was surprised that Talamir didn't take offense.

But the Herald didn't. “Good,” he said instead, and moved to follow in the steps of the priest and his helper. But he turned when he got the door opened.

“In that case, there is one thing I should like to ask you to do,” he said, with another of those measuring looks. “Before the Healer returns, I should like you to open your mind to Kantor. Completely. I think—I hope it will make a difference to you.”

He left the room then, without waiting for Alberich's answer.

But then, given that the priest had virtually ordered Alberich to do the same thing, he probably didn't need to wait. He already knew that—eventually, at least—Alberich would make a trial of that, too.

Eventually. In his
own
time.

T
HE Healer fussed over him for a bit, then prepared to leave; on a low table, within easy reach, were a pitcher of water, a cup, and a vial of one of the pain-killing potions. “Take it when you need it and are ready to sleep,” the Healer told him. “Or not at all, if that's your choice. But drink the water.”

Alberich couldn't tell if the man's brusque manner was his ordinary demeanor, or due to discovering where Alberich had come from. It could be both . . . and maybe, now that he knew Alberich was from Karse, he might be having second thoughts; maybe that wasn't just an ordinary pain-killing potion.

On the other hand, the man was leaving him with the potion
and
giving him the option of drinking it, or not. Unlikely that it was poison—why waste all that time and effort in healing him just to poison him? If the situations were reversed, a “guest” of the Sunpriests would likely not be treated at all, much less given a comfortable room
and
pain-killing drugs.