As for the life he'd been offered—well. It was all there, virtually everything he could have asked for. Even the fact that he was not being asked to fight anymore. At least, not for the moment, though that could change, and he was too wise in the ways of conflict not to know that.
He hated fighting. Oh, not the physical exercise, that he loved; he loved the feel of a solid hit, the surety of a stroke, the way that his body knew what to do without his head having to tell it. Perhaps it would be better to say that he hated killing, despised hurting people. Even when he was ridding the world of bastards that pillaged and raped helpless villagers left without even the means to defend themselves, he hated it. Intellectually speaking, there had to be a better way of dealing with those mad, two-legged dogs than killing them.
Practically speaking, there wasn't, of course, not really. It was kill them or face the consequences of not killing them, and know that they would go on doing what they had been at before you caught them—knowing that even if you locked them up, eventually they'd either get loose or kill themselves and probably others trying to escape. Then the deaths of people who absolutely did not deserve it were on your head. So he had long ago resigned himself to that fact, and concentrated on ridding the world of murderers as expediently, dispassionately, and humanely as possible.
But there was a part of him that had uncomfortable questions about that, questions he had tried not to think about until this moment. Brigands were not the only creatures that preyed on his people....
Yes, indeed, when tax- and tithe-collectors strip folk of all but the bare essentials, leaving them sometimes not even that. And what of the Sunpriests and their Fires, hmm? Shouldn't you have thought about ridding the world of them, too?
The fire popped and crackled as he passed it, as if his thought of the Sunpriests' Fires had somehow roused it. He shuddered, as the memory of flame licking over his own flesh interposed itself between then and now.
Before this moment, before he had crossed the Border into this strange land, he had shied away from that question; he had told himself that priestly business was none of his concern—well, except for the uneasy knowledge that they might one day come for him. But, in truth, he had tried not to think about that at all, tried to focus on his duty, his men, the job at hand and getting on with it.
Was that cowardice? He had to admit that it probably was, and he was ashamed of it. But what could he, one single man, have done, more than he had been doing, other than declare himself against the priests, be denounced, and sent to the Fires himself?
And that was even if they hadn't learned what he was, the powers he harbored. Anathema. Unclean. If thine eye gaze upon the forbidden, put it out with thine own hand, lest ye be tempted. That was the Writ and Rule, and he had not obeyed it. Yet how could he have eliminated something over which he'd had no control, except by denouncing himself? And if he'd done that—he'd have done the enemy's work for it, taking a competent fighter, a good officer, out of the fighting.
Had he put so much effort into being a perfect soldier in Vkandis' service so that he might, somehow, expiate the fact that he had those witch-powers?
Which aren't evil. You know they aren't evil, and you knew it then, no matter what the priests claimed. You had no control over those dreams and visions—and what was more, the things they showed you actually helped you to protect Vkandis' people. So why would the Sunpriests say they were evil—unless there was something about those powers that they were afraid of? Was it that they feared one day you might see something about them that you shouldn't?
It was twenty paces from one end of the sitting room to the other, and he measured it a hundred times with his restless walking.
He had prided himself to a certain extent on being brave. He just hadn't been brave enough....
Honor. Dethor asked me what I cherished above everything else, and I said, "honor." But what did I mean when I said that?
He fretted and gnawed at his own soul, tearing into it obsessively, digging deeper than he had ever done before. He had never had so much time to think. Yes, he'd done a fair amount of contemplation while in the keeping of the Healers, but most of that had been spent in fighting the assumption that everyone else here had taken as a given that he should be pleased, even thrilled, with this whole business of being Chosen. He'd been so concerned with resentment that he hadn't really put any time into thinking about his position. Kicking against the traces—
Oh, what an image that conjured up! The warhorse pulling the cart, and fighting every step of the way.
And such a cart as he was hitched to now; the entire burden of accepting Companion, title of "Herald," and all! But it included something he had wanted for so very long.
Yes, I hitched myself to it. I walked into the harness, willingly, because the harness was so handsome. To become a Weaponsmaster—Sunlord! If anyone had ever asked him what he would have chosen to be above all things—to emulate the men he had most admired, from the day he had stepped into the cadet corps.
Those competent, strong men who, when he was a cadet, had offered their own austere brand of distant affection to him, who had counseled him and given guidance and an example to follow—who had given him, when he was forced to bid farewell to his mother, enough to feed his hungry heart.
They must have taken the place of the father he had never known. And he wanted to be like them; had wanted it then, and wanted it now. Others had called them heartless, but he knew, and he had always known, that they were anything but heartless. They held themselves apart, not because they did not care, but because they feared to care too much. Even for him—though that resolution had not been proof against his need and theirs.
There had been two of them; two he would have done anything for, men he would have rather died than disappoint.
Berthold. Aged Berthold, white-haired but still strong and vigorous, able to hold his own with men half his age—he was the man who was Weaponsmaster to the youngest boys, the ones who barely knew which end of a blade to hold. He was patient, but unforgiving when it came to slackers. He had seen how Alberich was trying, watched him, though Alberich hadn't known it at the time, when Alberich had slipped into the unoccupied salle for extra exercise and practice. He had "chanced upon" one of those practices, and from that moment on, had made certain that Alberich never had to practice alone. A pat on the back or the head, a few well-chosen words of praise or condolence—that was all the physical demonstration of affection he ever allowed himself, but Alberich would have gone through fire for such rewards.
And when Alberich passed out of the junior class into the senior cadets, so Berthold had seen to it that his student, Aksel, took up Alberich's education where Berthold had left off.