He was not dead. That much, at least, he was certain of.

   At times, between the long moments when he was unaware of anything, he hurt quite enough to be in Hell, but Hell was cold and dark, and he wasn't cold. And the few times he was able to open his eyes, the room he was in was bathed in sunlight.

   He couldn't be in Heaven, either; if he was in Heaven, he wouldn't hurt. That was one thing that everyone agreed on; in Heaven was an end to all pain and sorrow. Pain he had in plenty, and as for sorrow---well, he'd consider sorrow when the pain ended.

   Therefore, he must be alive.

   The rest of what was going on around him---well. It was a mix of what he thought was hallucination, and what surely must be madness. Now, that fit with Hell, except that there weren't any demons tormenting him, only his own flesh.

   Around him voices muttered in a tongue he did not understand---but inside his head, another voice murmured, imparting to him the sense of what he heard. And that was where the madness came in. That voice, low and strong and uncompromisingly masculine, informed him that he, Alberich, sworn to the service of Karse and Vkandis Sunlord, the One God---

   ---was now a Herald of Valdemar. And the voice belonged to his Companion, one Kantor.

   Impossible.

Not at all, the voice insisted. It began to wear at his stubborn refusal; he could feel his objection thinning. It clearly was not impossible, because it had happened. He might not like it, but it was not impossible.

He slept, woke hurting, was murmured over and moved, fed and cleaned, the pain ebbed, and he slept again. From time to time the bandages on his face were taken off and he could open his eyes for a little. He was in was a cheerful room that seemed to be tiled, and the bed he was on was soft and comfortable---which was good, because his face and arms were in agony, his lungs stabbed with every breath he took, and if he didn't have broken collarbones, they were at least cracked. When he could see, there were generally two or three green-clad people in the room with him, and he seemed to recall that outside of Karse, there were Healers who generally wore green. So apparently---if he wasn't delirious---he was being tended to, outside of Karse, by foreign Healers. So whatever had happened, he wasn't in Heaven, or Hell, or prison---which had been a third option, after all. Over and over he slept to wake in pain, was given something that stopped the pain, and slept again; there was no way to tell how much time had passed, and no way to sort what he knew had happened from what the voice was telling him.

Except that, bit by bit, the words being spoken over his head became more intelligible, as if the language was slowly seeping into his fever-ravaged brain. This tongue---this arcane language---was like nothing he could have imagined. The syntax was all wrong, for one thing; these people spoke---backwards, sort of. Not that he was any kind of a linguist, but for a long time he was confused as much by the order of the words as the words themselves....

He must be in Valdemar. The language was as twisted about as the Demon Riders and their Hellhorses, with the verbs coming in the middle instead of properly at the end. How could you tell what a sentence was truly about if you stuck the verb in the middle? The meaning could be entirely reversed by what came afterwards!

How was he learning these things? What demonic magic was putting them inside his brain? Or was this all a fever-dream, and was he lying in the embers of the chicken-shed, dying of his burns, conjuring all of this up? He had saved the village with his witch-power, he had been condemned to burn by a Voice, he had been imprisoned and his prison set afire. But after that?

Madness, illusion, hallucination, delirium.

Surely.

But the voice in his head told him otherwise, and as the moments of his lucidity came more and more often, it began to tell him things he could verify for himself---little things, but none of which he could have hallucinated for himself. That, for instance, the reason why he was not able to open his eyes very often was because they had been bandaged shut---at first, the skin of his face hurt so much he hadn't actually felt the bandages. And the skin of his hands was in such agony that he tried not to move them to touch anything, much less his face, which he wouldn't have wanted to touch anyway, given how much it hurt. The voice warned him when he was to be fed, and what they were going to give him---all soup, of course, and juices, and very, very often. The voice warned him when his bandages were to be changed---long before one of those Healer-people even got within hearing distance. And the voice told him about a great many other things.

:There is a large crow outside your window, Chosen,: it would say. :It is about to sound an alert, so do not be startled and jump, or you will hurt.: And sure enough, a crow would burst out with a raucous shout, but since he'd been warned, he was able to keep still. Or---:The Healers have come with a new potion for you, to soothe on your burns. They think this will hurt so much that they intend to give you an especially strong dose of pain- medicine.: And indeed, he would then hear footsteps, feel himself tilted up, and he would drink what was put to his lips quickly, because the last time they had come up with a new potion for his burns, the pain had been excruciating.

He had always been a great believer in empirical evidence, and here it was. Slowly, and with great reluctance, he began to sort through his confused memories. With even greater reluctance, he had to accept that what he thought was madness and delirium was nothing of the sort.

So during one of his moments of relative lucidity, he steeled himself, and confronted the voice.

Relative was the operative term---he felt that he should be angry, embittered, but there were drugs interfering with those emotions, keeping him oddly detached. Perhaps that was just as well. He needed to think clearly, unemotionally, and this was as close to doing so as he was likely to manage. He coughed, hoping to clear his throat, but the voice in his head forestalled his attempt to speak aloud.

:Don't, Chosen. You don't need to actually say anything. Just think it.:

Think it. Well, he talked to himself in his mind all the time; this shouldn't be any different.

:It isn't, except that when you get an answer, you needn't be concerned that madness runs in your bloodline. Not that it's likely that it was true madness that struck your father, all things considered. If it were my case to judge, I would have looked very carefully at his wife's family, and considered all the reasons they might have had for saying he was mad....: He'd have winced, if he hadn't known how much wincing would hurt. How had this voice---

:Kantor, Alberich. My name is Kantor.:

Kantor, then. How had this being known about his past?

:You've been quite generous in sharing your memories.: A hint of dry irony. :Actually, you've been shoving them down my throat. I know that your mother was not married, that your father was a prominent man in your village and she anything but---I know that he was her only lover and that at some point when you were very young, he was sent away with your Priests, supposedly mad.: Alberich would have been flushing, had his face not been so painful. He was embarrassed---but embarrassed because he had been essentially blurting out every detail of his past life to a stranger, like the sort of drunk who would sit down next to you and begin telling you everything you didn't want to know. The very idea made him a little sick. :Not that I mind, truly,: the voice continued, earnestly. :It's only that Herald and Companion usually grow to know each other in a more leisurely manner---and as yet, you know very little of me.:

Another suppressed wince. He didn't really want to know anything about this---Companion---did he? No. He didn't. This was a place full of witches---

---of which you might be one---

---and demons, and Vkandis only knew what other sorts of horrible creatures---wasn't it? Surely it was---

:Nonsense. You may be many things, Alberich, but a coward isn't one of them. I've asked the Healers to halve your pain- medicines, so that we can have this little discussion without the drugs interfering. There are several truths that you will have to face today, and the first of them is that virtually everything you think you know about Valdemar is wrong.:

Actually, the unsteady realization of that had been trickling down into his mind for the past---however long it had been. It had probably started when he'd fallen into the arms of those white-clad riders just over the Border. If they'd been half as evil as the Priests painted them, he'd have been roasting in chains right now, with demons nibbling at his soul.

:Excellent. That's another thing that you aren't---stupid. Those weren't just any Heralds, by the way. One was the King's Own Herald Talamir, and the other was the Lord Marshal's Herald, Joyeaus. We stumbled onto the end of a rather sensitive diplomatic mission, it seems.: There was a hint of a chuckle, and Alberich got the distinct impression that they hadn't merely "stumbled" into those particular Heralds---that Kantor had aimed himself quite deliberately in their direction. :Well, no harm done.:

He gathered his wits, and thought a question. :I do not suppose that the rank of our rescuers has anything to do with the speed with which I was taken to further help?:

The impression of a knowing smile. :Not entirely. All Heralds are considered highly important. Even the newly-Chosen.: He let that settle into his mind. :Even Karsites?:

:Well, since we've never had a Karsite Herald before, there's no basis for comparison.: There was a definite undertone there---Alberich decided that he was getting rapidly better at reading around what Kantor was actually telling him to what Kantor would rather just---imply. The undertone was that not everyone would have been as...open to the possibility of an ally out of Karse...as Heralds Talamir and Joyeaus.

:Excellent again. I do believe we are rather well-matched, Chosen. I would not go so far as to say that other Heralds would have run you through on sight---but we have been fighting a rather nasty undeclared war with you for some time, and there are some hard feelings on our side of the Border as well as yours, even among Heralds.: A sense of pondering followed that statement. :In truth, especially among Heralds, since your lot enjoys killing us so very much. Now no Herald would ever slaughter someone who had been Chosen out-of-hand---but there are many, many of them who are not going to welcome you as a long- lost sibling.:

Just his good fortune that he'd never led troops against anything other than bandits, then. At least no one would be holding a personal grudge against him.

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 Hell-horses---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 regards 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. :Well, 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. A quick, nasty-tasting draught later, and 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. As 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 here. 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 any more."

"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 at 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 King's Own Herald Talamir,: 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, greying brown hair, perhaps forty or fifty years old, if Alberich's judgement 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 Priests 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."

Well, that gave him the opening he'd been looking for. "My Kantor, it is?" he asked, resentfully. "And when was there asking on my part, for this Choosing, this so-called honor?"

Talamir shrugged. "You could be dead right now," he pointed out. "Whether you consider it an honor or not, Kantor saved your life."

"For which blessing, to serve my enemy, I am bound?" There was a sour taste in his mouth, and his stomach muscles were so tight as to make his cracked ribs ache in protest. He'd not only been kidnapped, he had been reduced to simple-mindedness with drugs---but now that he was himself again, he had no intention of rolling over like a cowed dog and licking the hands of his captors.

"I was not aware that Valdemar had personally done you harm," said Talamir. "Nor was I aware that any citizen of Valdemar had hurt you. I was under the impression that everything untoward that had happened to you was the responsibility of the denizens of your own land. If you can point out to me who and what on this side of the Border has wronged you, I assure you it will be dealt with to your satisfaction."

"Even if it Kantor is?" he asked, and looked Talamir straight in the eyes.

There was silence in his mind.

"Kantor." Talamir gazed on him with astonishment. "Your Companion."

"Who under false pretenses and a disguise attached himself to me. Who carried me off, who brought me here, where I would not have gone had I a choice been given. Who---perhaps?---had to do somewhat, with my witch-sight coming so clear, and in front of a Voice?" He saw Talamir wince, and felt his own mouth tighten in grim satisfaction. "Who therefore could the cause be, that the Voice to the Fires condemned me?"

"You would be dead right now," Talamir repeated, uncomfortably. "You couldn't have denied your Gift; with or without Kantor, sooner or later it would have betrayed you, and you would still have gone to the fires---"

"But my own death it was, and mine was the choice to face, or to escape it," he pointed out, anger and resentment coloring every word. "That choice, from me was taken. Perhaps the witch- sight I could have fought, taken from me also was the option to try. And in the first place, had not the witch-sight come upon me when and where it did, condemned I should not have been."

A village might have gone under the sword, though---

The silence that fell between them was as heavy and uncompromising as lead.

But it was not Talamir who answered him.

:I am sorry, Alberich,: said the voice in his mind, humbly, and full of contrition. :You are absolutely in the right. You had a life and choices, and I took them from you. I shan't even bother to make all of the arguments that a Valdemaran would accept; you aren't a Valdemaran, and there is no reason you should accept them. For you, my actions were nothing less than arrogance and a smug certainty that I was in the right to run roughshod over you. All I can do is apologize, and try to make it right with you.:

He closed his eyes, his own heart contracting at the hurt and pain in that voice, armoring himself against it with the anger and resentment in his. "A better way, there could have been found," he said aloud.

"In a sense," Talamir replied quietly, "This is between you and Kantor. But ultimately, all of us are responsible, so I must apologize as well. We take such pride in our freedom here---and then we turned around and robbed you of yours. With the best intentions in the world---"

"Even the Voice that to the Fires sent me, good intentions may have had," Alberich retorted, opening his eyes again. "If not to save my soul, then those souls about me."

Again, Talamir winced.

"Served my people, did I, and served them well," he continued, bitterness overflowing at the thought that he had been forced to abandon those villagers who depended on him to stand vigilant guard over their safety. "Who now, protect them will? The Voices? Ha! Those who willed, in my place to stand?" He glared, daring Talamir to answer him.

"I do not know," Talamir admitted, quietly. "But I have already offered any remedy that you could ask. What do you suggest? Name it, and I will do my personal best to see it done."

In the face of such a reasonable answer, Alberich's anger suddenly collapsed, like an inflated bladder with a pin put to it. "I---" he began, and rubbed his eyes, faced with uncertainty of monumental proportions. "I know not."

"Would you have us undo what we have done?" Talamir persisted.

Alberich snorted. "And how? Return, I cannot. Notorious, I am, doubtless. If ever a time for remedy was, it now long past is."

Talamir sighed. "We tell our youngsters that Companion's Choice is irrevocable, and for life, but that is not---altogether---true. The bond can be broken between you, if you both want it broken badly enough. It will leave you---damaged. But it can be broken."

That held him silent for a moment. There was a bond between them? And if breaking it would leave him damaged, what would it do to Kantor? He thought about the pain in Kantor's mental words when the Companion apologized, and winced away from the very idea. No matter what had happened to him, he could not be responsible for creating more pain. "This moots nothing," he replied, stalling. "Nowhere to go now, have I."

Talamir nodded. "Well, in light of that---would you consider giving us---giving life here---a trial period? Surely no choice can properly be made without all the information you need. Once you know us as we are---I believe you will choose to remain in Valdemar, to choose the Heralds."

He opened his mouth, and closed it again, because, logically and unemotionally speaking, he honestly could not think of a good reason why he shouldn't do as the Herald asked.

:I wish you would,: said the wistful voice in his mind.

"In the Sunlord, I still believe---" he began, bringing up the only remaining stumbling-block that occurred to him "That is not an issue." Talamir waved that objection aside. "It never was. But perhaps you would rather hear that from a true Priest of the Sunlord?"

He blinked. "A Voice of Vkandis? Here?"

"Not a Voice, Alberich---but I should let him speak for himself." Talamir murmured something to the Healer, who nodded, and went to the door of this room. He passed out of it, and another, much older man stepped inside, accompanied by a second about Alberich's age.

Talamir rose, and offered his seat to the older man, who took it. "This is Alberich, Father Henrick," he said. "Alberich, this is Father Henrick, and Acolyte Gerichen, his assistant."

Alberich eyed them both with caution. Neither wore the red robes of a Voice, nor the black of an ordinary Priest---instead, the older man sported a similarly cut gown of fine, cream-colored wool, and the younger, a plainer robe of unbleached linen. Both had the familiar disk of the Sunlord on a chain that hung down over the breast of their robes, however.

"You serve Vkandis Sunlord?" he asked, rather doubtfully.

Father Henrick nodded gravely. "I was born in Asherbeg, Captain," he said, in unaccented Karsite. "I was taken into the service of the Sunlord when I was eight, and made a full Priest at twenty. Even as you, I am a child of Karsite soil and I still serve the Sunlord. And at twenty-one---I was ordered to Cleanse three children from the Border village to which I had been assigned."

Alberich went very still. "And?" he asked.

The Priest made a rude noise. "What sort of monster do you take me for, Captain?" he asked. "I couldn't of course; they were children, guilty of nothing more than having powers that the Voices find inconvenient! Instead of Cleansing them, I took them and escaped over the Border with them, where I met with a Herald who in turn took me to the Temple here. We don't call it the Temple of Vkandis, of course; we refer to it as the Temple of the Lord of Light---but those who attend know it, and us, for what we are."

"Powers?" Alberich said, feeling very stupid of a sudden, as his anger and resentment drained away, leaving nothing behind. "Inconvenient?"

Father Hendrik looked as if he had gotten a mouthful of green mead. "Those abilities that you have been taught are witch-powers, and signs of the contamination of demons, are nothing more than---than inborn powers that a child has no more control over than he does over whether or not he will be a great musician, or a great cook, or a great swordsman."

"He doesn't?" Alberich asked, dumbly.

"Of course not," the Priest snapped. "And when these powers are something that the Voices find useful, if the child is young enough to be trained, it is whisked into the Temple rather than being burned! It is only those whose powers are of no use to the Son of the Sun, or who are too old to be molded into a pleasing shape, that are sent to the Flames!"

Alberich was glad that he was propped up by pillows, else he would have been reeling. The Priest looked as if he had plenty more to say, but his assistant placed a cautionary hand on his arm. "Father, enough," the younger man said in Valdemaran. "This poor fellow looks as if you had just stunned him with a club."

In truth, that is exactly what Alberich felt like. "I---" he faltered. "I---had no notion."

"You are not a stupid man, Captain," the old Priest said, roughly. "And you have a mind young enough to be flexible, if you will it. Try opening it."

He flushed at the rebuke, and felt horribly uncomfortable. This Priest reminded him all-too-clearly of the old Priest of his home, a crusty old man who had the respect of everyone in the village, and whose speech was as blunt as his common sense was good. So well was he regarded, despite a short temper and curmudgeonly demeanor, that when a Voice wished to have him replaced by a younger man, the entire village rose up in protest, and the scheme was abandoned.

"But---" he began, in an attempt to explain himself that he knew before he started would be futile.

"But, indeed. You have been given a great gift, Alberich of Karse, a gift that can serve you and our people, an opportunity that will lead---well, I cannot tell where it will lead." The old man glared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. "There is a reason for all of this, I am sure of it, as sure as I am that it is men, and not the Sunlord, who have made Karse and Valdemar enemies. You say that you want to help our people? Our people are led by frauds and charlatans! Half the Voices are false, if not more, and every high-ranking Priest is corrupt! And now this happens, a soldier of Karse is Chosen to be a Herald of Valdemar, and I doubt not it is by the will of the Sunlord himself. Does that not seem like the Hand of the Sunlord Himself to you?"

Alberich was covered in confusion. "I cannot tell---"

"Well, then trust that I can," the old man snapped. "This is a gift, an opportunity beyond price. If you piss it away, I shall be most angry with you. And rest assured that when the time comes and you stand before Vkandis' Throne, He will ask you why you threw away the gift He placed in your hands. For the God's sake, man, can't you see your sacred duty when it stares you in the face?"

Faced with that stern face of authority---of legitimate authority---what could he do or say? He tried to wrench his gaze away from the Priest's eyes so that he could think---and found that he couldn't. "But I was given no choice---" he tried to protest.

The Priest snorted. "Don't be daft," he retorted. "You could have stayed there to die, and you didn't. You made your choice when you sensibly took the rescue that was offered. And as for having your life interfered with, balderdash. If your Companion had never sought you out and that particular Voice hadn't discovered your Gift---the thing you call a witch-power---another would have. Only this time, there would have been no rescue. And what is more, your so-called guilt could have been used to bring others to the Fires, others who were innocent of anything except supporting you."

Talamir was standing very patiently to one side, pretending to pay no attention to what was going on. Although---

Alberich had to wonder, given what he'd said about the Companions talking to one another and to him, if he wasn't managing to follow the entire conversation despite having no working knowledge of Karsite.

The priest glared a moment longer, then abruptly, his expression softened. "Lad, you're angry and resentful that your life has been turned upside down; you wouldn't be human if you weren't. You're bitter and in despair at being betrayed; you should be, but be bitter at the right people, not those who only want your welfare. If you're not frightened at being caught up in something you don't understand, I'd be very much surprised, and I'd suspect that one of those blows to your head had addled your wits. Now you think you're utterly alone. Well, you're not."

"I didn't know about you until a moment ago," Alberich began.

The old man shook his head. "That wasn't what I meant. I've been living here for better than forty years, and I've learned a thing or two about Heralds. No---I meant something else entirely. Open your heart---and I mean, really open it---to your Companion, and you'll see what I mean."

Alberich meant to shake his head in denial, but another stern look from the Priest killed the gesture before he could make it. "Don't argue," he said. "Don't think of an excuse. Just do it. And while you're at it, open your mind as well as your heart."

The old man rose. "I'll be going now---but if you need me, they know where to find me, or where to send you if you'd prefer, once you're on your feet. For that matter, I'm sure your Companion would have no difficulty finding me wherever I happened to be without you having to ask anyone but him."

With that, he nodded to Talamir and shuffled out, followed by his acolyte. The door closed behind them, and Alberich stifled a sound that was midway between a sigh and a groan.

His sacred duty to join the Heralds, was it?

Hard words, thrown in the face of one who had lived his life by cleaving to duty, sacred or not.

Hard words, spoken by one who had been forced to abandon a potentially better life than anything ahead of Alberich, because he could not reconcile orders with duty. If anyone had a right to be bitter, it was the Priest, but there was no bitterness behind that rough-hewn exterior manner. And no duplicity, either. Nothing but unvarnished, unadorned truth, as the old man had seen it.

As he sees it---

But with forty years more experience of this place than Alberich had....

He swore under his breath.

"Pardon?" Talamir said. "I didn't quite hear what you said---"

Alberich was going to growl "Nothing---" and then changed his mind.

"I said, make a trial of you, I shall," he answered---so brusquely, even rudely, that he was surprised that Talamir didn't take offense.

But the Herald didn't. "Good," he said instead, and moved to follow in the steps of the priest and his helper. But he turned when he got the door opened.

"Then in that case, there is one thing I should like to ask you to do," he said, with another of those measuring looks. "Before the Healer returns, I should like you to open your mind to Kantor. Completely. I think---I hope it will make a difference to you."

He left the room then, without waiting for Alberich's answer.

But then, given that the Priest had virtually ordered Alberich to do the same thing, he probably didn't need to wait. He already knew that---eventually at least---Alberich would make a trial of that, too.

Eventually. In his own time.

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

—Reprinted from Exile's Honor by Mercedes Lackey by permission of DAW, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2002 by Mercedes Lackey. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.