Exile's Honor

Queen's ear; make sure no one breaks them up into little groups right away—let 'em sort themselves out. They've made up little family groups of their own, and it's all they've got. Make sure none of us take that away from them.'

'I shall,' he promised. It wasn't a difficult promise to make.

The caravan moved on, ghosting through the darkness. And even at the slow pace, they reached the Border again a little after sunrise.

The children were awake by then, and peering eagerly ahead. Alberich had elected to come into the camp, not from the south directly, but indirectly from the west, saving the children the sight of the battlefield. They might have run tame in the Tedrel camp for most of their lives, and they might be inured to the aftermath of battle, but he didn't think they had ever seen a battlefield. Even now, there would still be much of horror about it. The result of so great a conflict was not cleaned up in a day or two... and it was no sight for these little ones.

So they actually made a detour upcountry, leaving the trampled 'road' that the Tedrels had left until they struck an old track that crossed the Border at a ford, and joined up with one of the Valdemaran roads used by Border patrols. The old track showed some wear, so someone was still using it; it was rutted and gave the teamsters some hard times, but they took it in good part, knowing they were nearly home. Whenever a wagon got stuck, the children (if it was one that was carrying children) all piled out and the largest children mobbed it, put their young shoulders to it, and helped in the front by hauling on the horse's harness. No wagon remained stuck for long, with that kind of help.

For Alberich, crossing the Border brought on a mood of melancholy and depression. Not despair—but his heart sank with every pace they came nearer the camp. For a little, he had been allowed to forget, but only for a little and now—

They had all lost so much... so much.

And yet, just as they approached the camp with what seemed like half the inhabitants waiting for them, and in the very moment that the blackest depression descended on him, the children changed the complexion of everything.

They had been clinging to the sides of the wagons, peering over and around each other, trying to see ahead —when they saw the lines of white-clad Heralds and Companions, they could not hold themselves back. They boiled out of the wagons, spilled over the sides, tumbled to the ground, laughing and shouting, and ran to those who waited. 'White Riders! White Riders!' they shouted (virtually the only Karsite they knew), pouring into the camp and running up to anyone who looked even halfway friendly, as if these were not strangers, but friends and beloved relations.

There were a great many of these children, he realized, as more of them spilled out of the wagons and carts. More than the 'thousand' that Laika had promised. But no one seemed to mind. Certainly no one called him or Selenay to account for it, not then, and not at any time thereafter.

And in the days following, as the bodies were burned or buried, as the wounded were taken north, as the encampment was disassembled and troop after troop of fighters sent north again, it was the children who kept them all sane. They were everywhere, poking their noses into everything, trying to learn Valdemaran, trying to help where they could, and just being children, some for the first time in their short lives.

Not even Selenay was proof against their sheer exuberance at being here, a place that they seemed to consider an earthly paradise, and before long she had 'adopted' a half dozen (or they adopted her), making them her pages and promising that they would be allowed to join her Royal Household in that capacity once they all reached Haven. Nor was she the only one; every wagon going north seemed to hold a handful of children going to a new home. Fighters, teamsters, Heralds—servants and highborn—everyone who could take in two, three, or four children did so.

'I never would have believed it, no matter who had told me, if anyone had claimed that bringing these children here was the best thing we could have done,' Selenay told him on the third afternoon of the return, watching a child dash away with a message to be given to the next dispatch rider going out of the camp. Her eyes were still shadowed with sorrow, but her lips curved in a faint, fond smile. 'I thought that it was something that had to be done, but truth to tell, I was dreading the mess they'd make for us.'

They'd taken down the black felt linings for the tents, and the painted canvas glowed with afternoon light. That, too, was a mixed blessing. More light raised the spirit a little—but the black felt had gone for use as shrouds....

'And I,' he agreed. 'Most unnaturally helpful, they seem.'

She had to smile at that, just a little. 'You don't see them at their worst. They're still children, they still fight, and get into things they shouldn't and have tantrums. But for all of that, I'm afraid that in years to come, they're going to be held up as the good examples that every naughty child in Valdemar should behave like.'

'Or perhaps, as children being, a year from now and they will no better nor worse than others become,' Alberich suggested.

She flicked a fly away with the feather end of her quill. 'Perhaps.' She put pen to paper, and signed another order. 'Who knows? I'm no ForeSeer.'

'And I—See not that far, when I See at all,' he admitted ruefully. If I had been, could I have