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 were 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 farthest 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. He 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. It wasn't 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 gray 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 and storage boxes that doubled as seating. Practice armor, of padded leather, hung on the wall; racks of wooden blades were 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, gray-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.