Alberich looked into the mirror at himself dubiously. The Healers had done a better job on his face than he ever would have thought possible, but nevertheless, he was scarred, and scarred badly. He looked as if someone had beaten his face with a red-hot whip several years ago—at least the scars weren't a livid, half-healed red, or he'd be frightening children and horses. His weathered tan had faded as well in the time he'd spent recovering, and he was thinner, not that he'd been carrying any extra weight before. His cheekbones seemed especially prominent, and his mouth—

Still stubborn, and they'd damned well better read it that way.

He was wearing what was, apparently, the standard uniform for a Valdemaran cadet—

:A Herald-Trainee,: Kantor corrected. :I don't believe that you will find that cadets and Trainees are at all equivalent.:

This uniform was very new, and in fact, had been made to his measure while he was still staggering about trying to get his strength back. Some strange little fellow had invaded his sickroom one day, asked him to stand, measured him all over, took tracings of his feet, and vanished again. Today, one of these uniforms had appeared, along with a gentle-faced Herald he didn't know, and Herald Talamir.

The cut and design of this uniform was identical to the Heralds' uniforms—well, all of the ones he'd seen other than Talamir's. The difference was the color—a dark grey. Alberich approved of that color; it was a great deal less conspicuous than spotless white. It also suited his own somber disposition.

"You cut a good figure," Talamir said approvingly. "But then again, we don't often tailor a Trainee's new outfits to him; it would be a waste of time and effort, since most of them are youngsters, still growing."

"This isn't the usual color for a Trainee," the strange Herald (who Talamir had introduced as Jadus) said apologetically. "We're apparently out of the usual materials at the moment, and I'm afraid that you're a bit larger than our run of usual newly-Chosen, so you wouldn't fit into the old ones from the common stock." The man was older than Alberich, approaching middle-age; sandy hair, and expressive features so open and honest that Alberich knew he would never hold his own in a game of chance. But the one thing that Alberich noticed most about him were his hands, graceful, flexible, strong, but not powerful. They were not the hands of a fighter, not even an archer.

The new Herald smiled and shrugged. "I suppose you're lucky, actually. When I say `common stock,' it's because the uniforms are all parceled out by general sizes. Hand-me-downs, to be honest, worn until they aren't fit to wear anymore, and cycled among all of those who wear the same size. We find that it's not a bad thing, given that highborns or their families might be inclined to embellish any uniforms that were actually their property, which negates the whole point of having a uniform in the first place."

"Keeping to these, I think I will be," Alberich replied, and shrugged. "Conspicuous already, I am."

"True enough," Talamir agreed. "And perhaps by making you a trifle more conspicuous, we will at least make it evident that we aren't trying to hide you."

Alberich flexed his arms and legs experimentally. It might be new, but this uniform had been laundered several times to soften the fabric. Linen shirt, a fine pair of well-fitting boots, heavy canvas-twill trews and tunic. At least it was a comfortable uniform, practical, easy to move in. It could have been much worse.

He supposed that these garments would have to be made to take a considerable beating if they were to serve several sets of Trainees in their useful lifespan. Certainly Sunsguard Cadets were hard on their uniforms, and he doubted that Valdemaran boys would be any different.

:And girls,: Kantor reminded him.

Talamir excused himself; he had, after all, only come along to effect the introduction of Alberich to Jadus. That left the two men alone, in an awkward moment of silence. Alberich stared at the older man, wondering what he saw. Alberich could no more disguise what he was than Jadus could disguise what he felt.

"So," Alberich observed, finally. "My keeper, you are?"

To his surprise, Jadus laughed. "Hardly that. No, actually, I'm one of your instructors, and since I have a smattering—a mere smattering, mind you—of Karsite, I was nominated to take you around to the Collegium, get you settled in, and introduce you to the rest of your instructors."

Alberich tried to keep his expression a neutral one, but he still wasn't at all happy about this whole "Collegium" business. He was the one giving them a trial, after all—so why all this business of putting him into the Collegium? Why couldn't he simply observe, quietly, so he could make an informed decision about what he would do next? Why start him on classes, when in a moon or two he might be shaking the dust of this place from his shoes? It seemed to be an exercise in futility, and one that might have a negative effect on people who would be wondering how much effort they should put into teaching him when the next day he might be gone.

Yet even as he thought that—he wondered. As he recovered, he'd had several visits from the earnest young Gerichen, who seemed convinced that none of this had been an accident, that the Sunlord Himself was behind all of this for some inscrutable purpose known only to the One God. He was trying, in his own self-deprecating fashion, to convince Alberich of this notion. Alberich was in something of a quandary over this.

On the one hand, he had difficulty imagining why the Sunlord would choose to put one of His Karsite people in Valdemar as a Herald, when there were better candidates who were born here. Surely someone who was Valdemaran was a better choice! He'd speak the language already, he'd know all about Heralds and probably be thrilled to be Chosen, and there would be no question of his being accepted by other Valdemarans.

On the other hand—Vkandis did not move to interfere in the lives of His worshipers often, but when He did—there was a reason. And who was Alberich to try and understand or second-guess the motives and actions of the One God? That would be hubris of the worst sort. If a Sunpriest thought he saw the Hand of the Sunlord in this, he might be right. In that case, the wisest and best thing that Alberich could to would be to humbly bow his head and accept what Vkandis intended for him.

But Gerichen was young. He might be right; he might be divinely inspired—and he might well be merely enthusiastic.

As for "settling in," that was proving far more difficult than any Valdemaran would be willing to accept. Alberich felt—well, he couldn't put a name to it. "Dislocated and adrift" was part of it; "unsettled" far too mild. "Utterly alien" came close, but didn't address the feeling of having no support beneath him. As if he was at the halfway point of a blind leap. It was far too late to go back, but he wasn't sure he'd land safely and he certainly didn't know what he'd find if he did. And that went for how he felt about the One God, too—for the first time he'd had leisure to think about his religion, and his own faith. He had questions. A great many of them. And none of them had answers.

For instance—if Vkandis wished to make peace between Karse and Valdemar, why not simply appear as He used to in the Great Temple? Why go to the trouble of having one single minor officer in the Sunsguard Chosen? It seemed an unreasonably convoluted path to follow to him.

But on the other hand—once again, the biggest stumbling block—who was he to be asking questions like that? He was only one man, one among many, who wasn't even a priest. How could he possibly know what was best for Karse?

But why had Vkandis Sunlord left His land to fester on its own for so long? What had happened to all the miracles, the appearances, of the ancient days? Where was the Sunlord, that he allowed his shepherds to turn wolf, and prey upon their flocks?

He wrenched his mind away from the doubts and questions, and turned it squarely to face the here-and-now.

"You say, `the rest of my instructors,'" he repeated carefully. "And it will take how long to learn to a Herald be?"

If I ever wish to do so, that is.... There was one clear answer to why this Jadus had been chosen to play guide to him. There was nothing intimidating at all about the man, and nothing of duplicity, either. At least they were holding to their promise; they would let him decide for himself with no pressure on their part.

The Herald rubbed the side of his nose with one long finger. "For the usual Chosen, who come in here at about age thirteen or fourteen, and who are—lacking in a lot of skills you already have—it takes about five years. For you, though, I don't know," Jadus replied honestly. "Nobody will know until we find out just how much you know, plus there is a very great deal about the Heralds and this land that you absolutely must know before you can serve in the Field and—" He paused, and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he had suddenly come up with a novel idea. "Actually, that may not quite be true. Something just occurred to me—and we might as well see if my option is a sound one right away." The Herald smiled warmly. "Let's trot you around, Alberich, and see what comes of it. The person I want you to see is on the way to the Collegium, anyway."

"Well enough," Alberich replied with resignation. "Lead, I follow."

It was not his first excursion out into the grounds within the Palace walls, but it would be the furthest he had gone since he'd been encouraged to start leaving his bed. The Healers and his own caution kept him close to the building; he had not wanted to risk running into anyone who had the potential to be overtly hostile. He'd already had enough sour or sorrowful looks from some of the Healers and Healer Trainees he'd encountered. Once it was widely known that he was Karsite, well—no one was claiming that Valdemarans were without prejudice or incapable of holding a grudge, though in this case, he could hardly blame them.

So he had gone out, but hadn't taken the kind of long, arduous hikes he would have done, had he been conditioning himself at home. Not that he was weak and shaky; he'd been putting himself through a course of physical exercise since that first hour of getting himself out of bed and looking out the window. He knew, far better than the Healers did, what he was and was not capable of, and he knew very well that he was still young enough that his body would respond to being pushed to the limit by increasing where that limit stood. So at this moment he was as fit as he had ever been, if a bit thinner and paler.

As it turned out, it was a very good thing that he was.

Jadus led him through the gardens to a long, low building set off by itself. He had very little attention to spare for what were probably quite lovely gardens, once he realized just what that building was.

There was really no mistaking it, not when he saw the practice field laid out beside it, with archery targets, pells, and other equipment. Then the lack

of ordinary windows, and the placement of clerestory windows instead, made sense.

This was a salle, a building devoted to the teaching and practice of arms. The kind of building that had been home to him for longer than any actual "home"—three years in the little hut he'd shared with his mother, then the rest of the time in the little inn where she worked as a serving-girl and cook's helper.

Indeed, he must have spent half his life in a similar building. As a cadet, he had divided all of his waking hours among formal classes, reading and studying on his own, and weapons'-work and had never really taken any time for the recreation that the others did. As a low-born bastard, he was not the social equal of any of the others in his year, and he had figured out quite early that if he excelled in fighting, no one would bother him. He had already had a certain advantage in knowing all the dirty tricks he could pick up in the alleys and stables; it wasn't long before the rest of the cadets knew better than to pick on him. And while no one was particularly friendly with him, they treated him with respect. Two of the weapons'-instructors, seeing his diligence, actually unbent enough to act as his mentors; not exactly paternal, since they were still very strict with him, but friendly, in a distant fashion, and certainly encouraging. When it came down to it, probably he'd spent the best times of his cadet-period in the salle....

There was a line of solemn-faced children in grey uniforms practicing archery under the supervision of an older boy. He clearly knew what he was doing, Alberich noted with approval—correcting the stance of one, the grip of another, the aim of a third. But he hadn't been brought here to watch them; Jadus led him into the building itself without a pause.

It was of a pattern with every other salle that he had ever been inside, from the sanded wooden floors to the mirrored wall to the clerestory windows above. It was superior to the salle he had been trained in, for the mirrors were silvered glass rather than polished metal. But the furnishings were exactly the same—dented and chipped wooden benches, storage-boxes that doubled as seating. Practice-armor, of padded leather, hung on the wall; racks of wooden blades beside the armor. Even the smell was the same; clean sweat, leather, leather-oil, a hint of sawdust.

The salle was empty except for a single Herald, an old, grey-haired man, slightly twisted and with swollen, arthritic joints. He sat on a bench with some of the padded armor over his legs, a threaded leather-needle in his hand, and looked up as they entered.

"Jadus," he acknowledged. "That's the new one?"

"Weaponsmaster Dethor," Jadus nodded. "This is Herald-Trainee Alberich, Chosen of Kantor."

"Kantor, hmm? Sensible lad, that one; can't see him making a mistake. Well, Jadus, what did you have in mind besides the usual?" The Weaponsmaster stood up, and Alberich winced inwardly. The man was in pain—hiding it, but clear enough to Alberich's eyes. He'd seen this before, in men who'd fought too many fights. The joints would only take so much damage; too much, and as the years set in and the pains of old-age crept on, all the places that had been abused would suddenly become doubly painful, swelling until it hurt to move even a little.

"Since he was a Captain of the Karsite light cavalry, I did have a notion about him. Test him, and we'll both see if I'm right," was the enigmatic reply. "Isn't Kimel about? He's usually here this time of day."

Instead of answering directly, the old man barked, "Kimel! Need your arm out here!"

Alberich expected another Herald, but instead what appeared from a door at the back of the room was a man in a midnight-blue uniform, similar to the Heralds' in cut, but trimmed in silver. "I was about to go back to the barracks, Weaponsmaster," the man said. "Unless you've found someone to bout with me after all?"

The old man jerked his chin at Alberich. "Don't know. Need this one tested. Jadus seems to think—well, just arm up, and we'll see."

The man glanced at Alberich, then did a double-take, eyes widening. Alberich braced himself for a negative reaction, but the man showed nothing. "Interesting to see which rumor is true, sir," was all the man said, and motioned to Alberich. "If you would suit up and—"

"Standard sword and shield, first," the Weaponsmaster directed, and put his mending aside, his eyes narrowed and attentive in a lean, lined, hard face. Alberich might look just like him, one day. He hoped he would not have the swollen joints to match....

He pushed that thought aside and selected leather practice-armor and a wooden sword. There was more of the former to choose from than he'd thought; evidently this man Kimel wasn't the only adult coming out here to practice. The wooden swords and shields were much of a muchness, nothing to choose among except for weight, and Alberich picked ones that were the most comfortable for him.

Then he walked warily to the center of the room to face his opponent.

Alberich then went through the most exhausting weapons'-session he'd had since he'd graduated from cadet training. It began with sword and shield, progressing through every other practice-weapon stored in the salle and their corresponding styles. Then, as he waited to see what else the old man wanted him to do, the Herald directed Jadus to lock the doors.

Alberich was sweating like a horse at this point, a bit tired, but by no means exhausted, and he gave the Weaponsmaster a startled glance.

"Live steel next," the old Herald said shortly, in answer to the unspoken question. "I don't want some idiot child wandering in here with live steel out and two real fighters having at each other."

"Ah." Alberich was perfectly satisfied with that answer; the Weaponsmaster was right. If mere untutored children had access to the salle, and he assumed they must (since having a Weaponsmaster implied that all of the young Trainees got some sort of weapons-training), there was always the chance that one would blunder into the place at the worst possible time. Even in a bout rather than a real fight, he knew his concentration was focused, and he wouldn't necessarily notice anything but his opponent until it was too late. He followed Kimel to the cabinets on the wall and took out real armor and real weapons.

Working with live steel always gave him an extra—the pun was inevitable—edge. His awareness went up a degree, and everything seemed just that much clearer and sharper. Even his reflexes seemed to improve. He suited up and took the rapier in his hand, and faced his opponent with energy renewed.

He assumed that he was expected to pull his blows when necessary, and given the way that the bouts had gone so far, he knew it was going to be necessary. Kimel was good; very, very good in fact. Alberich was better. And Kimel was tiring faster. He wasn't going to be able to ward off everything that Alberich could throw at him.

And he didn't. Alberich had chosen the rapier for that reason; the lightest of the "real" swords, it was the easiest to "pull" when a blow actually fell instead of being countered.

The Weaponsmaster called a halt to the bouting when Kimel was clearly on his last legs. "That enough practice for you, my lad?" he asked, a certain ironic amusement in his voice.

The young man pulled off his helm, showing that his dark hair had gone black with his sweat by this time. "Enough, Weaponsmaster," he admitted, "No matter what else you do, please make sure this fellow has a candlemark or so free every couple of days so I have someone to bout with from now on. I'm getting soft, and by the Havens, it shows." He actually smiled, briefly, at Alberich.

"I'll do that," the old man said with immense satisfaction. "It's about time I found someone to put you on your mettle." He turned to Alberich as the young man dragged himself towards the storage lockers to divest himself of his armor. "Well!" he barked. "Are you too tired for more work?"

Whatever was in this man's mind, Alberich was determined not to disappoint him. "No," he said shortly, then added, "Sir."

"Good. Jadus, you can unlock the door. Trainee, we'll see how you are with distance weapons."

Ah. Alberich was already impressed with this Weaponsmaster; he had to assume the man had trained Kimel, and Kimel was good. Not quite as good as Alberich, but then his own Weaponsmasters had trained many boys that were good, but few as dedicated to their craft as Alberich. There were those that were naturals at the art of war, and Alberich was one of them—but being naturally good at something only took one to a certain point. It was dedication and practice that took one beyond that point. Or, as his own Weaponsmaster had said, "Genius will only take you to `good.' Practice will take you to `Master.'"

Now, this Dethor was a Master; it showed not only in that he had trained Kimel, but how he was testing Alberich's level of stamina, strength, and expertise. The point here was that the Weaponsmaster had waited until Alberich was tired to test him at distance-weapons, when his aim might be compromised by arms that shook with weariness, and eyes blurred with exhaustion. Clever. Very clever.

Now, under the curious eyes of the youngsters as well as the critical eye of the old man, Alberich showed his mettle—with the longbow, with the shorter horse-bow, then finally with spear, javelin, axe, sling, and knife. He always hit the target—not always in the black, but he always hit the target. By now he had an audience of wide-eyed youngsters, ranging in age from child to young-adult. It wasn't likely that they were in awe of his targeting skills; it wasn't as if he was putting missile after missile into the same spot. Presumably they were dazzled because they had never seen one man use so many different distance-weapons before.

:You're enjoying yourself,: Kantor remarked with pleasure—and to his surprise, Alberich realized that the Companion was right.

:This—is what I do well,: he admitted. :I am not ashamed of doing it well.:

:Did I suggest you should be?: Kantor retorted. :You are what you are; a warrior. Some must be warriors, that others may live in peace. You do not enjoy killing, but you are proud of your skill. I see no difficulty with this.: A thoughtful pause. :Better that you should be proud of your skill. When need drives, you cannot hold back.:

Sensible. Quite sensible. He placed a final knife in the center of the target, and turned to Jadus and Dethor. Jadus was looking at Dethor with an expression of expectation.

Dethor was looking at Alberich. "Right," he said. "Karsite. What's the job of a Weaponsmaster?"

"So that those he teaches, killed or injured are not," Alberich said instantly. And bluntly. "However, whatever works, so that learn, they do, and well. Shouts, scolds, b—" He paused. "Not beating, perhaps. Sometimes, gentle. Not often. Out in the world, there will no gentleness be. Better harshness to see here, and live, than softness, and die."

"Na, these're none of your Karsite thugs. No beatings. But all else, aye, and treat `em gentle only when they're little, scared sparrows. Gentle pats and cosseting—that's for them as will never need to fight for life." He turned a somewhat grim smile on Jadus, and the eyes of the children—the Trainees—were getting round and apprehensive. "Right. By the Havens, I've got one now, and who'd have thought it'd be soft-handed peace-minded Jadus who'd be the one to find him, realize what he was good for, and bring him to me?"

Alberich was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea of what was up, and the Weaponsmaster's next words clinched it. Dethor turned to him. "Trainee Alberich, you're on notice. There'll be no riding circuit for you, and no riding internship. You'll be interning, starting now, with me, as the next Weaponsmaster. Call it—well, it's no apprenticeship, for you're nothing like an apprentice. Call it whatever you like; you're going to be a Trainee in name only."

"But—the classes—" he managed, as the children looked even more apprehensive, if that was possible.

Dethor flapped his hand, dismissing the entire curriculum of the Collegium as inconsequential. "Oh, you'll take `em. You see to it, Jadus, but no more than three classes in a day, and I'd prefer one or two rather than three. And no housekeeping chores and no dormitory for him, either—we'll have him out here, in my quarters, and he can start doing what I can't anymore. Kernos' bones, what you thought you'd be doing, putting a grown man in amongst a lot of boys, anyway—"

"It's been done before," Jadus ventured.

Dethor just snorted, and looked Alberich pointedly up and down—then at the children, who had put a careful space between himself and them.

"Ah," Jadus said, and grimaced. As Alberich had expected, the Herald was utterly transparent when it came to his feelings and what he was thinking—and right now, he realized just how wary, even frightened, all those young Trainees might be of Alberich. "I suppose he's right, Alberich; I don't think you would fit in very well with the rest of the boys."

"I think not," Alberich agreed quietly. Although he did not know this man Dethor—he knew the species. Another warrior. Someone who would think as he thought. As comfortable a Valdemaran to share living-space with as he was likely to find.

"Then have them fetch his things over. As of now, he's an Internee with classes. I know the rules as well as you, but rules are made to be broken, now and then. Just tell Talamir what I've done, Sendar will decree it, there'll be an end to argument."

:This is better than I had hoped for,: Kantor said, sounding pleased. :Dethor fought on the Border, you see. We weren't altogether certain what he'd think of you.:

:Why didn't you ask his Companion?: Alberich asked.

:Because Dethor doesn't have much in the way of Mindspeech. Pahshen doesn't really know what he's thinking. The bond is there, and they do just fine, but when Dethor closes up—well, he's unreadable, and he's been completely unreadable where you are concerned.:

Ah. That put a different complexion on things.

"I'll see to it," Jadus said, and turned to look at the gaping children. "Shouldn't you be practicing?" he asked, pointedly.

They flushed and looked guilty, especially the eldest, and gathered up their equipment and went back to the archery field. Alberich followed Dethor back into the building.

At the back wall was a door, half-hidden in the paneling, the same door that Kimel, the man in the blue uniform, had come through. Alberich followed Dethor through that door as well, into a long and narrow room with seating and a wall of windows that looked out on a rather unprepossessing stretch of meadow and bushes.

"Come in here, and I'll show you how to clean up," the old man said, waving him on. Apparently there was an entire suite of rooms here, behind the salle. Through another door, Alberich found Dethor waiting in a tiny room tiled floor-to-ceiling in white ceramic, holding a lit fireplace squib.

"Take this, reach up, and light that," the old man said, pointing to a metal container that looked very like a candle with an enormously fat wick, positioned just under a metal pipe. The pipe led up through the ceiling, and also across to a perforated disk suspended from the middle of the ceiling. "Then turn that spigot, and you'll get a warm rain-shower out of that plate. There's a box of soap there, and I'll bring you a towel; by the time you're clean, Jadus will have brought your things here and I'll have a new uniform for you. Then we can talk."

Then we can talk. Words both ominous and positive. This man had fought against Karse on the Border—but he had just brought Alberich into his personal quarters, and he was going to talk.

We are both warriors, he reminded himself. We speak a common language that has nothing to do with Valdemaran syntax and Karsite verbs.

Alberich stripped off his sweat-sodden uniform and turned the spigot on the wall, and just as Dethor had said, a "rain" of warm water came down from the perforated plate, draining away through a grate in the floor. This was an infinitely faster way of getting clean than a bath. Not as luxurious, but much more efficient. There was a second door into this chamber, but for now, Alberich figured he could wait to discover what lay behind it.

Dethor was as good as his word; by the time Alberich cautiously opened the door to the little room, there was a folded uniform and a towel in a pile beside it. He snuffed the contrivance that heated the water, then lost no time in toweling himself off and getting into a brand new uniform for the second time that day. It felt good to be clean, to have all his muscles aching—just a little—from the exertion. For the first time since he'd come here, he felt entirely like himself. He joined his new mentor in the sitting area, hair still damp.

"Take a seat," the old man said. Alberich gingerly chose a chair facing his new mentor.

"Now, before we start out, I want everything straight between us," said Dethor forthrightly. "I don't particularly like Karsites." He sucked in his lower lip. "Mind, it's the ones in charge I've got a bone to pick with. Your Sunpriests. Just the Karsite ones, mind; we've got a little sect of your lot on this side of the Border, and I've no quarrel with them."

Alberich nodded, cautiously.

"Now, you're a soldier. Reckon that mostly what you did was take orders. Question I've got for you is—just how much did you think about them orders when you got `em?" Dethor gave him a sharp look.

"Much," Alberich replied immediately, without even thinking about it very long. "Look you—my duty—to what it was? My God, and my people." He decided that he would leave his duty to Vkandis between himself and the God. "My people to protect. Not to the Fires to feed them. Not to bandits to leave them."

"And if them priests had told you to attack us, you'd have done it?" Dethor persisted.

Alberich could only shrug. "Then? You, Demon-riders, lovers-of-demons, with witch-powers and witch-ways? Yes. A threat, I saw you."

"Hmph. Honest, at least. Now?" Dethor asked.

"Now—there, I am not. Here, I am." He shrugged. What was the point in asking such a question? Already he was an entirely different person from Captain Alberich of the Sunsguard. Tomorrow he might be a different person from today.

Dethor sighed, with some exaggeration. "All I'm asking is, are you going to knife me in my sleep because I killed a baker's dozen of your folk and a couple of your Priests a whiles back?"

Alberich gave him the same answer he had given Alberich. "You, a soldier are. And your duty? To your King, and your people. This, I understand." And if he asked me about questioning orders, I would suspect he thought about his before he obeyed them....

"Farmers, killed you?" he persisted. "Craftsmen?" He hunted for the word. Kantor helped.

:Civilians.:

"Civilians?"

"Never," Dethor replied, with such matter-of-factness that Alberich couldn't doubt him. "Unless you count the Priests."

Alberich dismissed the Sunpriests out-of-hand. "Then, no quarrel have I with you."

"Reckon you're ready to help me beat some skill into a pack of puppies that never saw blood?" Dethor asked, the wrinkles around his eyes relaxing, and a hint of ease creeping into his voice.

Some of whom may grow up to slay more Karsites.... "A question," he asked, and picked his words with care. "The answer, on your honor, swear. Do you of Valdemar—-do you make war, and unleash demons, my people upon?"

"No!" Dethor said with such force that Alberich started back in his chair, his hand reaching automatically for a knife that wasn't there.

"No," the Weaponsmaster repeated, without the heat. "I swear to you, on my honor, on my gods, on my life, we do nothing of the sort. We'll defend ourselves—and there's bandits along the Border that prey on both sides of it, as I assume you know well enough—but never once in my time have we even pursued an invading army past the Border once we reached it. You already know that what you call `white demons' are nothing but our Companions. If there are demons preying on your people by night—" and a knowing glance told Alberich that this man knew that there were "—then I say, look to your own Priests. We don't have anything or anyone that calls up the likes of demons, and even if we did, we'd not set them on ordinary folk who just have the misfortune to live in the wrong place."

Dethor's suggestion that Alberich look to the Sunpriests for those who let demons prowl the night was not unexpected—and it was a thought that had already passed through Alberich's mind, more than once. He nodded.

And he thought of those fresh-faced youngsters at the archery field, how unless someone taught them all of the thousands of ways in which they could die and how to counter their opponents and save themselves—then they would die. For no more crime than serving their people, as he had. This man would not have taken him, a foreigner, to apprentice as his replacement, if he'd had any other choice. He could turn Dethor down, and have all those needless deaths on his own conscience. Or he could accept the position—

—and accept that he was going to stay.

:You are needed here,: Kantor said simply. :Perhaps only a handful of people even among the Heralds know this—but you are needed here. Whatever else comes, whether your God had a hand in bringing you here, whether or not He has further plans for you here, there is that. No one else can do what you can; Dethor has looked a long, long time for his replacement, and you are his last, best choice.:

"Then—yes," he replied, answering both Dethor and Kantor. "Yes. Learn I will, and teach."

"Then here's my hand on it." Dethor held out his sword-callused palm, and Alberich clasped it. A powerful and strong hand, that one had been; it was strong still, under the swollen joints and past the pain.

"Now, let me show you your quarters." Dethor got up out of his chair; Alberich forbore to offer him a hand. There would be a time for that later. Right now, Dethor could manage, and as long as he could manage alone, he would want to. Alberich rose, and followed in the old man's footsteps.

The quarters behind the salle turned out to be a series of interconnected rooms, with no space wasted on halls. This was a sitting-room, primarily; the sun came in here on winter afternoons, which probably made it a good place for Dethor to sit and bask his bones. At the rear, it led into the "showering room" which had a cistern on the roof that fed both it, and a privy on the other side of the room—which was where that second door led. On the other side of that was Dethor's bedroom, then a second room, which looked mostly unused, but which did have a bed and a wooden chest in it. Then storage rooms and an office, which led in turn back into the salle. If one followed a path around, it would be in the shape of a "u" with the two points of the letter representing the two doors into the salle.

A pile of clothing and gear lay on the bed in the second room, which Alberich assumed was going to be his. Jadus worked quickly, it seemed. The arrangement suited him, actually. And comforted him. There would be no-one sleeping between him and a direct line out of here. Oh, there were windows to climb out of, but that was awkward and had the potential to be very noisy.

"This has always been laid out with the idea that the Weaponsmaster shares quarters with his Second," Dethor told him, then grinned, evilly. "The Second's closer to the salle—so if there's a crisis in the middle of the night—?"

"The Second, the one who answers, is," Alberich said with mock resignation. "Master."

"Exactly. Just got one question for you. I have `em bring my meals over from the Collegium—there's a fireplace in the sitting room where things can be kept hot. Wastes my time to be hauling myself over there and back, three times a day. But you—you might be wanting to be around people more."

It's too painful for him to be dragging himself back and forth. Alberich found it very easy to read between those lines. But—he's lonely. No, I won't desert him, not even for meals. "If you, my master and teacher will be here—then going there of what use is?" he asked logically. "A waste of my time. Asking questions, having advice, I could be. Besides, soldiers are we. Understand each other, we do."

Was it his imagination, or did Dethor actually soften a bit? "You'll find that boy Kimel is another of our sort," he said. "Head of His Majesty's Personal Guard, that boy, and hard on himself. Always after someone to make him better and keener, but he just hasn't what's needed to be Weaponsmaster. Trained him myself, though."

"Then, on himself, he would hard be." Alberich knew that much for certain. "Like master, like man, at home we say."

"We say the same thing here," Dethor replied, and it seemed, with some content. "Not so different after all, in some things, at least."

"No," Alberich agreed.

"Right. I have a gaggle of youngsters coming in a moment. You get this room arranged to your liking, then come out and give me a hand with `em. No time like the present to start." Once again, Dethor was all brisk business, and as he limped out, Alberich made haste to follow his orders.

He made up the bed with the linens and blankets he found in the chest, and put his things away. Not that he had a great deal to put away—those uniforms, light ones for summer, heavier materials for winter, a cloak—some toiletries, which he was pleased enough to see. He took the opportunity to give his short-cut hair a good combing, thinking as he did so that he probably ought to let it grow out now. Longer hair seemed to be the fashion in Valdemar, and there was no use in looking more conspicuous than he already did.

:You've decided to stay.: Kantor exuded satisfaction.

:Yes.: He knew he had made up his mind that the so-called `trial' was over, probably the instant that he realized Dethor wanted him to train as a replacement Weaponsmaster. Maybe that was all it had really taken, the knowledge that they weren't going to make work for him, and fit him in somehow, but that there already was a place here that was crying out for someone like him. :Yes,: he repeated. :It seems I'm needed.:

Which was by no means a bad thing. Not at all.

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.