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....
Honor. Dethor asked me what I cherished above everything else, and I said, 'honor.' But what did I mean when I said that?
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.
