Mercedes Lackey: Exile's Valor

Mercedes Lackey

Copyright © 2003 by Mercedes R. Lackey.

Muted light, richly colored, poured gold and sapphire into the sparsely-furnished sitting room in Herald Alberich’s private quarters behind the training salle.

Now that the colored window was installed, and the protective blanket taken off, it made that little room look entirely different. Alberich hardly recognized it.

The four Journeymen glass workers who had helped their Master install the piece were gone now, leaving Alberich alone with the artist himself.

Both of them gazed on the finished product in silence, while behind them a warm fire crackled on the hearth. It was a staggeringly beautiful piece of stained-glass work; in fact, Alberich thought, it would not be exaggerating to say it was a masterpiece. Not that he had expected less than a fine piece from the Master of the Glassworkers Guild, but this was over and above those expectations.

The artisan responsible for its creation stepped forward and gave the top right-hand corner a final polish with a soft cloth, removing some smudge not visible to ordinary eyes. He flicked off an equally invisible dust mote as well, and stepped back to view the expanse of blues and golds with a critical eye. A man gone gray in his profession, he was tall, but not powerful, with wiry, knotty muscles rather than bulging ones. His expression was unreadable, a square-jawed, hook-nosed fellow whose face might have been stone rather than flesh.

“It’ll do,” he grunted finally, his long face betraying nothing but a flicker of content.

“A work of power and beauty, it is,” Alberich replied, unusual warmth of feeling in his voice. “It is exceeding my expectations, which were high already. Your skill is formidable, Master Cuelin.”

“It’ll do,” the artisan repeated, but with just a touch more satisfaction in his own voice. “I’ll not praise myself, but it’ll do.”

This was such understatement that Alberich shook his head. In so many ways, this was a piece of artwork that went far, far beyond even the monumental works that only the great and wealthy could afford, be they individuals or organizations. It was the care to every detail, as much as the design, that showed that expertise. For instance, to protect the fragile leaded glass, made up of pieces no larger than a coin, the panel had been installed against the existing window. Now, the bars holding those old panes in place could have cast distracting lines across the new pattern—except that Master Cuelin had taken that into account in his design, and the shadows had been integrated in such a way that unless you looked for them, you did not notice them.

Yet Master Cuelin seemed no more than mildly pleased that everything had worked out as he had planned. Alberich knew that tone; not only from working with Master Cuelin on this window, but from working with others who shared the same obsessive drive to excellence that marked the man’s work. No point in heaping him with effusive praise, for it would only make him uncomfortable, and he would begin to point out “flaws” in the work not visible to anyone but him.

“Very happy, you have made me,” he said instead. “Never shall I weary of this piece.” And although he had paid Master Cuelin already, when he shook the man’s hands in thanks, a heavy little purse that had been in his hand slipped quietly into the Master’s. That was the way of doing business, in Karse, when one was pleased with special work. Some things, Alberich felt, were probably universal—an extra “consideration” for work that exceeded expectation being one of them.

Evidently the custom held true in Valdemar, because Master Cuelin did not seem in the least surprised; he said nothing, only pocketed the purse with a nod of thanks. He dusted off his hands on the side of his brown leather tunic—all of his clothing, tunic, breeches, even his shirt, was leather, because leather wasn’t likely to catch fire.

“Well, if you’re that satisfied, Herald Alberich, I’ll be off,” the Glassmaster said. “I’ve that lazy lot of ’prentices to beat back at my studio, for no doubt they’ll have ruined the cobalt plate I laid out for them to cut for the new ’Pothecary Guild window, aye, and muddled the designs I set them to copy, and complain I’ve assigned them too much work.”

Alberich shook his head, in mock sadness. “It is ever so,” he agreed, and sighed. “The younger generation—”

“We were never like that, eh?” Master Cuelin barked a laugh and slapped Alberich’s back. The Weaponsmaster allowed a hint of a smile to show, and the Glassmaster winked. “Well, ’tis heavy work we have before us—you know what the old saw is, ’A boy’s ears are on his backside, he heeds better when he’s beaten!’”

Since there was nearly the identical saying in Karse, Alberich nodded, and with another exchange of pleasantries, he escorted the Glassmaster out. Indeed, some things were universal.

But since it was not yet time for the next class of Heraldic Trainees to arrive for their weapons’ training, he returned to his sitting room in the back of the training salle to admire his newly installed possession once more.

This was more than mere ornament; while there was a Temple of Vkandis Sunlord down in Haven proper—though for obvious reasons, it was referred to even by Karsite exiles as “the Temple of the Lord of Light”—Alberich seldom was able to get there for the daylight ceremonies. Certainly he was never able to arrive for the all-important SunRising rite.

Contrary to what the current Karsite priesthood wished their followers to think, it was very clear in the Writ—now that Alberich had seen copies of the old, original versions—that any follower of the Sunlord could perform the rites, with or without a sunpriest. It was what was in the heart, not the words, that mattered, and prayerful meditation at any time was appropriate. And now Alberich had an image here, a proper image, that would put him in the proper frame of mind.

There had been a plain glass window here, but the presence of such an expanse of clear glass had made Alberich, on reflection, rather uneasy. It was fine for the former Weaponsmaster, Herald Dethor, to have such a thing, but Dethor didn’t have to think about potential Karsite assassins peering through it—or the far more common, but equally annoying habits of the young, idle, and foolish offspring of Valdemaran nobles daring each other to spy on the dreaded Weaponsmaster from Karse. Not that they’d see anything except Alberich reading, pacing, or staring at the fire, or occasionally entertaining a visitor, but it made him irritated to think of them watching him. It wasted their time, annoyed the Companions, and made the back of his neck prickle for no good reason. If he sensed someone watching him, he wanted to know there was danger, not adolescent curiosity behind it.

But he hadn’t wanted to block off the window either. Very useful light came in there by day, although the view was nothing spectacular, just one of the groves of Companion’s Field. It had been Herald Elcarth who had suggested the stained-glass panel when he had mentioned the annoyance of looking up to see lurkers in the bushes one night.

It had nearly been former lurkers in the bushes, and it was a good thing for them that he had Kantor out there to warn him it was only some Unaffiliates and a Bardic Trainee, because his hand had been on the one-handed crossbow he kept under the table, and he had no problem with shooting out a window. Especially not his own window. A bit of broken glass was a small price to pay for your life.

He hadn’t mentioned that to Elcarth, however, though he thought he saw some understanding in the other’s nod. Perhaps that was why the Herald had suggested the stained-glass panel. And at that moment, Alberich had realized how he could bring a kind of Vkandis chapel into his own home, make this place truly his home, and solve that problem of the huge window in a single stroke.