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.
Sometime later, 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 with him. 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 anymore."
"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 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 Talamir, the King's Own Herald,: 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 with graying brown hair, perhaps forty or fifty years old, if Alberich's judgment 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 Voices 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.: