Mercedes Lackey - Exile's Honor

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Exile’s Honor

A Novel Of Valdemar

Mercedes Lackey

2002

Novels By Mercedes Lackey

The Heralds Of Valdemar

Arrows Of The Queen

Arrow’s Flight

Arrow’s Fall

The Last Herald-Mage

Magic’s Pawn

Magic’s Promise

Magic’s Price

The Mage Winds

Winds Of Fate

Winds Of Change

Winds Of Fury

The Mage Storms

Storm Warning

Storm Rising

Storm Breaking

Kerowyn’s Tale

By The Sword

Vows And Honor

The Oathbound

Oathbreakers

Oathblood

Brightly Burning

Take A Thief

Exile’s Honor

Darkover Novel (With Marion Zimmer Bradley)

Rediscovery

The Black Swan

The Serpent’s Shadow

The Gates Of Sleep

Phoenix And Ashes*

Written With Larry Dixon:

The Mage Wars

The Black Gryphon

The White Gryphon

The Silver Gryphon

Owlflight

Owlsight

Owlknight

Dedicated to the memory of NYFD crews lost 9/11/2001:

Squad One:

Brian Bilcher

Gary Box

Thomas Butler

Peter Carroll

Robert Cordice

David Fontana

Matthew Garvey

Stephen Siller

Edward Datri

Michael Esposito

Michael Fodor

James Amato

Squad 18:

Eric Allen

David Halderman

Timothy Haskell

Andrew Fredericks

Lawrence Virgilio

William McGinn

Squad 41:

Thomas Cullen III

Robert Hamilton

Michael Lyons

Gregory Sikorsky

Richard VanHine

Michael Healey

Squad 252:

Tarel Coleman

Thomas Kuveikis

Peter Langone

Patrick Lyons

Kevin Prior

Squad 288:

Ronnie Gies

Joseph Hunter

Jonathon lelpi

Adam Rand

Ronald Kerwin

Safety Battalion I:

Robert Crawford

Fire Marshal:

Ronald Bucca

Special Operations:

Timothy Higgins

Michael Russo

Patrick Waters

Raymond Downey

Citywide Tour Commander:

Gerard Barbara

Donald Burns

Prologue

SlLVER stamped restively as another horse on the picket line shifted and

blundered into his hindquarters. Alberich clucked to quiet him and patted the

stallion’s neck; the beast swung his head about to blow softly into the young

Captain’s hair. Alberich smiled a little, thinking wistfully that the stallion was

perhaps the only creature in the entire camp that felt anything like friendship for him.

And possibly the only creature that isn’t waiting for me to fail, hoping that I will,

and ready to pounce on me and cut me to pieces when I do. Life for an officer of

Karsite troops was spent half in defeating the enemies of Karse and half in watching

his own back.

Amazingly gentle, for a stallion, Silver had caused no problems either in combat

or here, on the picket line. Which was just as well, for if he had, Alberich would have

had him gelded or traded off for a more tractable mount, gift of the Voice of Vkandis

Sunlord or no. Alberich had enough troubles without worrying about the behavior of

his beast.

He wasn’t sure where the handsome and muscular creature had come from;

Shin’a’in-bred, they’d told him. The Voice had chosen the beast especially for him

out of a string of animals “liberated from the enemy.” Which meant war booty, of

course, from one of the constant conflicts along the borders. Silver hadn’t come from

one of the bandit nests, that was sure. The only beasts the bandits owned were as

disreputable as their owners. Horses “liberated” from the bandits usually weren’t

worth keeping, they were so run-down and ill-treated. Silver probably came from

Menmellith via Rethwellan; the King was rumored to have some kind of connection

with the horse-breeding, bloodthirsty Shin’a’in nomads.

Whatever; when Alberich lost his faithful old Smoke a few weeks ago he hadn’t

expected to get anything better than the obstinate, intractable gelding he’d taken from

its bandit owner. But fate ruled otherwise; the Voice chose to “honor” him with a

superior replacement along with his commission, the letter that accompanied the

paper pointing out that Silver was the perfect mount for a Captain of light cavalry. It

was also another evidence of favoritism from above, with the implication that he had

earned that favoritism outside of performance in the field.

Talk about a double-edged blade.... Both the commission and the horse came with

burdens of their own. Not a gift that was likely to increase his popularity with some of

the men under his command, and a beast that was going to make him pretty damned

conspicuous in any encounter with the enemy. A white horse? Might as well paint a

target on his back and have done with it.

Plus that’s an unlucky color. Those witchy-Heralds of Val-demar ride white

horses, and the blue-eyed beasts may be demons or witches, too, for all I know. The

priests say they are. The priests call their owners the “Demon-Riders.”

The horse nuzzled him again, showing as sweet a temper as any lady’s mare. He

scratched its nose, and it sighed with content; he wished he could be as contented.

Things had been bad enough before getting this commission. Now—

There was an uneasy, prickly sensation between his shoulder blades as he went

back to brushing down his new mount. He glanced over his shoulder, to intercept the

glare of Leftenant Herdahl; the man dropped his gaze and brushed his horse’s flank

vigorously, but not quickly enough to prevent Alberich from seeing the hate and

anger in the hot blue eyes. No, indeed, the Voice had done Alberich no favors in

rewarding him with the Captaincy and this prize mount, passing over Herdahl and

Klaus, both his seniors in years of service, if not in experience. Neither of them had

expected that he would be promoted over their heads; during the week’s wait for word

to come from Headquarters, they had saved their rivalry for each other.

Too bad they didn’t murder each other, he thought resentfully, then suppressed

the rest of the thought. It was said that some of the priests of Vkandis could pluck the

thoughts from a man’s head. It could have been thoughts like that one that had led to

Herdahl’s being passed over for promotion. But it could also be that this was a test, a

way of flinging the ambitious young Leftenant Alberich into deep water, to see if he

would survive the experience. If he did, well and good; he was of suitable material to

continue to advance, perhaps even to the rank of Commander. If he did not—well,

that was too bad. If his ambition undid him, or if he wasn’t clever enough to see and

avoid the machinations of those below him, then he wasn’t fit enough for the post.

That was the way of things, in the armies of Karse. You rose by watching your

back, and (if the occasion arose) sticking careful knives into the backs of your less-

cautious fellows, and ensuring other enemies took the punishment. All the while, the

priests of the Sunlord, the ones who were truly in charge, watched and smiled and

dispensed favors and punishments with the same dispassionate aloofness displayed by

the One God. Karse was a hard land, and the Sunlord a hard God; the Sunpriests were

as hard as both.

But Alberich had given a good account of himself along the border, at the corner

where Karse met Menmellith and the witch-nation Valdemar, in the campaign against

the bandits there. Frankly, Herdahl and Klaus put together hadn’t been half as

effective or as energetic as he’d been. He’d earned his rank, he told himself once

again, as Silver stamped and shifted his weight beneath the strokes of Alberich’s

brush.

The spring sun burned down on his head, hotter than he expected without the

breeze to cool him, hot as Herdahl’s angry glare.

Demons take Herdahl. There was no reason to feel as if he’d cheated to get where

he was. He’d led more successful sorties against the bandits in his first year in the

field than the other two had achieved in their entire careers. He’d cleared more

territory than anyone of leftenant rank ever had in that space of time—and when

Captain Anberg had met with one too many arrows, the men had seemed perfectly

willing to follow him when the Voice chose him over the other two candidates.

It had been the policy of late to permit the brigands to flourish, provided they

confined their attentions to Valdemar and the Menmellith peasantry and left the

inhabitants of Karse unmolested. A stupid policy, in Alberich’s opinion; you couldn’t

trust bandits, that was the whole reason why they became bandits in the first place. If

they could be trusted, they’d be in the army themselves, or in the Temple Guard, or

even have turned mercenary. He’d seen the danger back when he was a youngster in

the Academy, in his first tactics classes. He’d even said as much to one of his

teachers—phrased as a question, of course, since cadets were not permitted to have

opinions. The question had been totally ignored. Perhaps because it wasn’t wise to so

much as hint that the decisions of the Sunpriests were anything other than divinely

inspired.

But, as Alberich had predicted, there had been trouble from the brigands once

they began to multiply; problems that escalated far, far past the point where their use

as an irritant to Valdemar was outweighed by their effect as a scourge on Karse. With

complete disregard for the unwritten agreements between them and Karse, they struck

everyone, and when they finally began attacking villages instead of just robbing

solitary travelers or going after single farms, the authorities deemed it time they were

disposed of.

Alberich had spent a good part of his young life in the Karsite military schools

and had just finished cavalry training as an officer when the troubles broke out. The

ultimate authority was in the hands of the Voices, of course. The highest anyone not

of the priesthood could expect to rise was to Commander. But officers were never

taken from the ranks; many of the rank-and-file were conscripts, and although it was

never openly stated, the Voices did not trust their continued loyalty if they were given

power.

Alberich, and many others like him, had been selected at the age of thirteen by a

Voice sent every year to search out young male children, strong of body and quick of

mind, to school into officers. And there was one other qualification—that at least half

of them be lowborn, so that they were appropriately grateful to the Voices for their

opportunity to rise in rank and station.

Alberich had all those qualities, developing expertise in many weapons with an

ease that was the envy of his classmates, picking up his lessons in academic subjects

with what seemed to be equal ease.

It wasn’t ease; it was the fact that Alberich studied long and hard, knowing that

there was no way for the bastard son of a tavern wench to advance in Karse except in

the army. There was no place for him to go, no way to get into a trade, no hope for

any but the most menial of jobs. The Voices didn’t care about a man’s parentage once

he was chosen as an officer, they cared only about his abilities and whether or not he

would use them in service to his God and country. It was a lonely life, though. His

mother had loved and cared for him to the best of her abilities, and he’d had friends

among the other children of similar circumstances. When he came to the Academy, he

had no friends, and his mother was not permitted to contact him, lest she “distract

him,” or “contaminate his purity of purpose.” Alberich had never seen her again, but

both of them had known this was the only way for him to live a better life than she

had. And there had been a half-promise—which he had no way of knowing was

kept—that if he did well at the Academy, his mother would be rewarded, perhaps

with a little house of her own, if she could manage to keep herself from further sin.

He had trusted in that particular Voice, though. The priest had no reason to lie to

him—and every reason to give his mother that reward. After all, Karse needed

officers.... willing officers, and young boys eager to throw themselves into their

studies with all the enthusiasm of youth in order to become those willing officers.

Knowing that their parents would be taken care of provided plenty of incentive.

And he had done better than well. He had pushed himself harder than any of his

classmates pushed themselves.

Friends? When did I have the time for friends? Up before dawn for extra exercise,

all my spare time practicing against the older boys, and after dinner studying by the

light of Vkandis’ lamps in the Temple until the priests came in for midnight prayers.

Alberich had no illusions about the purity of the One God’s priesthood. There

were as many corrupt and venal priests as there were upright, and more fanatic than

there were forgiving. He had seen plenty of the venal kind in the tavern when they

passed through his little mountain village on the way to greater places; had hidden

from one or two that had come seeking pleasures strictly forbidden by the One God’s

edicts. He had known they were coming, looking for him, and had managed to make

himself scarce long before they arrived. Just as, somehow, he had known when the

Voice was coming to look for young male children for the Academy, and had made

certain he was noticed and questioned—

And that he had known which customers it was safe to cadge for a penny in return

for running errands—

Or that he had known that drunk was going to try to set the stable afire. Oh, that

had been a tricky thing to manage—to stay awake despite aching eyes that threatened

to close long enough to be able to “stumble out of bed” and into the courtyard in

search of a drink from the pump “just in time” to see the first flames. No matter how

much noise is in a tavern, the sound of a child’s shrill scream will penetrate it. No

matter how drunk the inhabitants, the cry of “Fire!” will get the appropriate

response.

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摘要：

Exile’sHonorANovelOfValdemarMercedesLackey2002NovelsByMercedesLackeyTheHeraldsOfValdemarArrowsOfTheQueenArrow’sFlightArrow’sFallTheLastHerald-MageMagic’sPawnMagic’sPromiseMagic’sPriceTheMageWindsWindsOfFateWindsOfChangeWindsOfFuryTheMageStormsStormWarningStormRisingStormBreakingKerowyn’sTaleByTheSwo...

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Mercedes Lackey - Exile's Honor

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