Exile's Honor

No, he wasn't tired, not physically, and certainly not mentally. He hadn't heard anything in the back of his head from Kantor for a while, not since that class of children at archery practice. On the whole, that suited him. Kantor was very facile, very persuasive, and he didn't want any interference with his own thoughts right now. He wanted to work through them on his own.

He turned away from the fire, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace up and down the long sitting room. He didn't trouble to light any of the lamps; he was used to firelight, and his night vision was very good.

A suite of rooms—even a bed—I haven't slept in a bed for so long that it's going to feel strange. The last time he'd been in a bed—the one at the House of Healing didn't count—had been just over a year ago, and he hadn't had possession of it for more than a single watch before he'd been turned out by the man he was relieving. It hadn't been much of a bed, just a sack filled with straw in a box on four legs, but it had been better than sleeping in the mud that had passed for ground around there.

Beds, hot meals, willing pupils to teach. Pupils who, with rare exceptions, were singularly devoid of 'attitude.' Oh, this place, these people—they were so very seductive! If he could have said, 'This is what is wrong with my life, and this, and I would change this, and this is what I want above all else—' and then have all of that come to pass in a single stroke, this is what he would have picked as the way to spend the rest of his life.

The only trouble was, he wasn't where he 'should' have been, and he was irrevocably bonded to a White Demon.

He wasn't in Karse. These people were not his people; their gods were not his God. All right, it wasn't a White Demon, it was a Companion, but Kantor was still keeping out of his sight, because he still got a reflexive chill whenever he saw the creature unexpectedly. And yet—

And yet—

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....

Yes, indeed, when tax- and tithe-collectors strip folk of all but the bare essentials, leaving them sometimes not even that. And what of the Sunpriests and their Fires, hmm? Shouldn't you have thought about ridding the world of them, too?

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