Exile's Honor

On the other hand, Vkandis did not move to interfere in the lives of His worshipers often, but when He did— there was a reason. And who was Alberich to try and understand or second-guess the motives and actions of the One God? That would be hubris of the worst sort. If a Sunpriest thought he saw the Hand of the Sunlord in this, he might be right. In that case, the wisest and best thing that Alberich could do would be to humbly bow his head and accept what Vkandis intended for him.

But Gerichen was young. He might be right; he might be divinely inspired, but he might well be merely enthusiastic.

As for 'settling in,' that was proving far more difficult than any Valdemaran would be willing to accept. Alberich felt—well, he couldn't put a name to it. 'Dislocated and adrift' was part of it; 'unsettled' far too mild. 'Utterly alien' came close, but didn't address the feeling of having no support beneath him. As if he were at the halfway point of a blind leap. It was far too late to go back, but he wasn't sure he'd land safely and he certainly didn't know what he'd find if he did. And that went for how he felt about the One God, too. For the first time, he'd had leisure to think about his religion and his own faith. He had questions. A great many of them. And none of them had answers.

For instance, if Vkandis wished to make peace between Karse and Valdemar, why not simply appear as He used to in the Great Temple? Why go to the trouble of having one single minor officer in the Sunsguard Chosen? It seemed an unreasonably convoluted path to follow to him.

But on the other hand—once again, the biggest stumbling block—who was he to be asking questions like that? He was only one man, one among many, who wasn't even a priest. How could he possibly know what was best for Karse?

But why had Vkandis Sunlord left His land to fester on its own for so long? What had happened to all the miracles, the appearances, of the ancient days? Where was the Sunlord, that he allowed his shepherds to turn wolf and prey upon their flocks?

He wrenched his mind away from the doubts and questions, and turned it squarely to face the here-and- now.

'You say, 'the rest of my instructors,'' he repeated carefully. 'And it will take how long to learn to a Herald be?'

If I ever wish to do so, that is.... There was one clear answer to why this Jadus had been chosen to play guide to him. There was nothing intimidating at all about the man, and nothing of duplicity either. At least they were holding to their promise; they would let him decide for himself with no pressure on their part.

The Herald rubbed the side of his nose with one long finger. 'For the usual Chosen, who come in here at about age thirteen or fourteen, and who are—lacking in a lot of skills you already have—it takes about five years. For you, though, I don't know,' Jadus replied honestly. 'Nobody will know until we find out just how much you know, plus there is a very great deal about the Heralds and this land that you absolutely must know before you can serve in the field and—' He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he had suddenly come up with a novel idea. 'Actually, that may not quite be true. Something just occurred to me—and we might as well see if my option is a sound one right away.' The Herald smiled warmly. 'Let's trot you around, Alberich, and see what comes of it. The person I want you to see is on the way to the Collegium anyway.'

'Well enough,' Alberich replied with resignation. 'Lead, I follow.'

It was not his first excursion out into the grounds within the Palace walls, but it would be the farthest he had gone since he'd been encouraged to start leaving his bed. The Healers and his own caution kept him close to the building; he had not wanted to risk running into anyone who had the potential to be overtly hostile. He'd already had enough sour or sorrowful looks from some of the Healers and Healer-trainees he'd encountered. Once it was widely known that he was Karsite, well—no one was claiming that Valdemarans were without prejudice or incapable of holding a grudge, though in this case, he could hardly blame them.

So he had gone out, but hadn't taken the kind of long, arduous hikes he would have done, had he been conditioning himself at home. Not that he was weak and shaky; he'd been putting himself through a course of physical exercise since that first hour of getting himself out of bed and looking out the window. He knew, far better than the Healers did, what he was and was not capable of, and he knew very well that he was still young enough that his body would respond to being pushed to the limit by increasing where that limit stood. So at this moment he was as fit as he had ever been, if a bit thinner and paler.

As it turned out, it was a very good thing that he was.

Jadus led him through the gardens to a long, low building set off by itself. He had very little attention to spare for what were probably quite lovely gardens, once he realized just what that building was.

There was really no mistaking it, not when he saw the practice field laid out beside it, with archery targets, pells, and other equipment. Then the lack of ordinary windows, and the placement of clerestory windows instead, made sense.

This was a salle, a building devoted to the teaching and practice of arms. The kind of building that had been home to him for longer than any actual 'home'—three years in the little hut he'd shared with his mother, then the rest of the time in the little inn where she worked as a serving girl and cook's helper.

Indeed, he must have spent half his life in a similar building. As a cadet, he had divided all of his waking hours among formal classes, reading and studying on his own, and weapons-work. He had never really taken any