Mercedes Lackey - Exile's Honor

He licked lips that were dry and cracked, and stared into the darkness behind his bandages. Inexorably, it was creeping up on him, acceptance that he could never go home again.

He was in the enemy's land, he was exiled inexorably from his own. He had witch-powers, and they were not the curse he'd been taught that they were. And one of the Hellhorses—which were not hellish at all, apparently—had selected him to become one of the Demon-Riders.

:Please, Alberich. Heralds, not Demon-Riders. And as for my being hellish—: a pregnant pause, : — well, although the people of Valdemar would say that we Companions are the sweetest, most marvelous of creatures, I suspect that the several of your men who got in my way would agree that I am "hellish." Assuming any of them survived the experience.:

Oh.

On the other hand, if one of them had been that Voice—

:He was,: came the reply, with a certain grim glee. :Though I am not certain that anyone like that Voice of yours — someone who goes about blithely burning people alive — has any right to make any judgments about who is "hellish " and who isn't.:

Ah....

:The fact that you have never personally fought against us will be useful towards having you accepted,: Kantor agreed. :And there is at least one thing I can promise you. We will never, ever, under any circumstances, ask or require you to do anything against your conscience with regard to your homeland. I shan't promise we won't ask you to act against those in power there — :

Just at the moment, he'd rather like to have the skinny or fat necks of some of those in power between his hands.

:Well put.: Kantor seemed satisfied with his answer. :Now, the Healers will have my tail for a banner if I don't let them drug you again, so I'll ask you to mull this discussion over while you drowse, and we'll have another little talk in a bit.:

He couldn't have objected if he'd wanted to, and he didn't want to, because the pain was getting unbearable and he heard the welcome footsteps of someone bringing him relief. After a quick, nasty-tasting draught, he was drifting again, cast loose from consciousness and what he'd always thought of as "The Truth"…. a state in which it was easier to contemplate a new set of truths—or at least, truisms—in place of the old.

«»

He dreamed.

He sat in the midst of a vast expanse of flowering meadow, flooded in a haze of light that made it difficult to see for any great distance. He was warm, comfortable, without pain of any kind, and—completely alone. He rose, and started to walk, wading knee-deep through wildflowers and herbs that gave off a hundred luscious scents as he brushed them aside. No matter how far he walked, however, the scene never changed, and he never found a path. The only living things were the plants; there were not even insects or birds. He felt no hunger, no thirst, no weariness; this fit every description of Paradise that he'd ever heard—except that there was no one in this Paradise but himself.

As beautiful and peaceful as this place was—he was trapped here. And he came to realize, as he walked on in the thick golden light, that the peace came at the price of being unable to escape, and completely alone. Not Paradise. Not even close.

That was the end of the dream. As abruptly as it had begun, it was over, and Alberich dropped out of the meadow and into the usual fever dreams that he had fought since being brought here.

From fever dream, he moved into welcome dreamlessness, and from then into the pain that always woke him when his medicines wore off. But it was not as bad as it had been, and he knew that the drugs being given him were not as strong as they'd been at first. Someone gave him a different-tasting drink, then, and he drowsed for a bit.

Sometime later, he woke to the sound of someone—no, two people—walking into his room.

"Is he awake?" asked a voice that was strange to him.

"He should be. I gave him a draught that should—well—sober him up completely," replied one that was more familiar—one of the Healers who spent a great deal of Alberich's waking time with him. There was a touch on his chest, where there were no bandages other than the ones holding his cracked ribs in place. "Sir, I am going to take off the bandages on your eyes, and leave them off. The skin there is healed enough that you needn't have them on anymore."

"I understand," he said, stumbling over the foreign words. The Healer moved him as gently as could be, propped him up with cushions, and took off the bandages. Alberich blinked, and squinted in the sunlight, taking his first proper look at the room he'd been in for—well, he didn't know how long.

And now that he was thinking clearly, the very first thing he felt was a smoldering resentment.

A shaggy-haired man in stained and well-worn green robes was coiling up bandages at the foot of the bed, but Alberich had very little interest in him, or in the room itself at the moment. It was the other occupant of the room, the one sitting right beside him, that captured his attention.

This was a Demon-Rider.

:This is Talamir, the King's Own Herald,: Kantor corrected gently, speaking into his mind for the first time since he'd awakened.

Alberich's jaw tightened, but he tried to look at the man, rather than react to him. What he saw was a tall, a very tall, thin man with graying brown hair, perhaps forty or fifty years old, if Alberich's judgment was any good. His was a careworn, lean face, overlaid with gentle good humor, but with a strong chin that suggested a stubborn streak, and a determination it would not be wise to invoke if you intended to quarrel with him. And, of course, he wore that dreaded white uniform, the emblem of the enemy—a more elaborate version than Alberich thought prudent or practical for a fighting man—

:Those are Formal Whites. Talamir has just come from a Council session at the King's side. Defending your presence here in Valdemar, in Haven, in the ranks of the Heralds themselves, may I add.:

Alberich refused to be distracted from his careful scrutiny.

The uniform— I would never don anything like this, he told himself fiercely—a silver-laced, white-velvet tunic, with silver embroidery at the hems, over a heavy white samite shirt with wide sleeves caught in deep cuffs at the wrists, and white satin breeches. A wide, white leather belt ornamented with hammered silver supported a dagger in a matching sheath. He'd have called it foppish, except that it wasn't. But he could not imagine himself ever wearing anything so extravagant.

The fabric alone, if sold, could feed a family for a year—

:Ah. And, of course, the nobles of Karse, the wealthy merchants, the ranking Captains, and above all, the Voices of the Sunlord dress and live so very austerely,: came the unwelcome reminder.

"Well, you have been here some two weeks, sir," Talamir said, his hazel eyes scrutinizing Alberich just as closely as Alberich was examining him. "I'm sure you have been wondering."

"Wondering, yes," Alberich replied, giving away nothing, conceding nothing, offering nothing. Talamir sighed.

:You could be more gracious.:

"Alberich—yes, we know what your name is—you must know that my Taver has been talking virtually nonstop to your Kantor, and what Kantor knows about you, so do I." Talamir's eyes became very penetrating. "I know very well that you have a good command of our tongue now, and furthermore, your Kantor can easily explain anything you don't understand immediately. I should prefer not to spend this entire first interview fencing with you, if you please."