Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (36 page)

Karse—sworn enemy of Valdemar for so long that very few even knew it had once been a peaceful neighbor, had been Alberich's home. Karse was ruled, in fact if not in name, by a theocracy who called the Heralds “Demons” and were pledged to eradicate them. And of that theocracy, the ruling priests, the Priest-Mages and the priests who had clawed their way up through the ranks, were the true aristocracy of Karse, answerable only to one authority, the Son of the Sun.

Who—until very recently, at least—had called Alberich himself “The Great Traitor” for not only deserting his post as captain of a company of Vkandis' Holy Army, but for turning witch and joining the ranks of the Demon-Riders of Valdemar. And worse; rising to a position of such trust that Witch-Queen Selenary counted him among her most valued advisers.

The Priest-Mages were not only the Voices of Vkandis; they had the power to summon and control demons themselves—not that they
called
such creatures “demons,” not even among themselves, preferring to refer to them as the “Dark Servants” or “Vkandis' Furies.” All in Vkandis' name, of course, or so they said. All at the behest of Vkandis Himself, or so they claimed.

One of those Voices had condemned Alberich to death by burning, and all because he'd had the temerity to make use of a “witch-power” and save the inhabitants of a Karsite Border village from certain slaughter by a band of outlaws. Never mind that he'd had no more control over that so-called “witchpower” than he had over a raging storm, had never
asked
for that power, and would have given it up without a moment of hesitation.

But the current Son of the Sun—the newly chosen Son of the Sun—was not of the same stamp as all of those who had preceded her. And the Voice that sat beneath Vkandis' left eye was not at all like the arrogant, cold priest who had pronounced sentence on Alberich that day. He was young, surprisingly so. It would hardly be politic for him to be clad in the red robes of his office here in the heart of a land that was his enemy's, but in ordinary clothing that would not disgrace a moderately prosperous merchant, he had an aura of calm authority that set him apart, even from Gerichen. He was short, stocky, clean-shaven; his white-blond hair was as close-cropped as that of all Sun-priests, with keen eyes as blue as those of any Companion set in a face whose planes might have been cut by a chisel. And yet—not cold, that face; alive and curiously
accepting
. Beside Alberich, on the other side of the fireplace, sat Herald-Chronicler Myste. She regarded the two priests with a gaze as penetrating as that of the visitors, and perhaps more uncanny, at least to the stranger, since her hazel eyes looked at him through a pair of round glass lenses that magnified what was behind them, giving her an owllike stare. Myste was the official historian of Herald's Collegium, the Herald-Chronicler, and had been since she finished her internship. She had a facility with words that would have suited her to the job had she not had other handicaps that kept her out of the Field.

Myste had been as odd a Herald, in her way, as Alberich. She had always, from the moment she arrived, been shockingly short-sighted, and had never been assigned to Field work on account of it—
not
the best notion to put someone in the Field whose precious glass goggles could be lost or broken, rendering her the next thing to blind. Perhaps that was why she had always been Alberich's friend. “When you can't see what people are like on the outside,” she'd once said in her blunt manner, “you stop even considering appearances and concentrate on everything else.”

That was, among other reasons, why Myste was here tonight.

Alberich coughed again. “And exactly it is to what that I owe the
honor
of your presence?” he asked, stressing the word “honor” in such a way that implied it was anything but. He spoke Valdemaran, not Karsite.

The stranger cast a mild glance at Myste. “Could one ask why the lady is present?” he replied—in Karsite, not Valdemaran.

“I am the Herald-Chronicler, and I am here to record this meeting, at the request of Herald Alberich,” Myste said for herself—in
flawless
Karsite, not Valdemaran. She'd learned it from Alberich, of course, but she owed her accent to her own exacting ear for languages.

To Alberich's surprise, the stranger smiled. “Excellent,” he said, with every appearance of approval, “Would it be too much to ask for a copy for myself—and to conduct this discussion in my own tongue? My command of
yours
is in nowise as good as yours clearly is of mine.”

His smile was sudden, charming, dazzling even—and apparently genuine. Alberich and Myste exchanged more than a glance.

:I don't sense any falsehood,:
Myste Mindspoke. Her unique Gift was a strictly limited ability to Truth-Sense without the use of a spell. She could only concentrate on one person at a time, and had to be within an arm's-length or two of him, though, which (again) rendered it less than useful in the Field.

:But their so-called Priestly Attributes are no more nor less than our Gifts,:
he reminded her.
:What if he can block you?:

A purely mental shrug.
:Then what I sense is meaningless. On the other hand, how many people know
my
Gift—and of those, how many are outside the Heraldic Circle or would guess I'd be here at your request?:

Not many; he had to admit that. Surely no matter how good the Karsite spies were, they didn't know
that
about Myste, or would think to warn this man against her. “I think, if only for the purposes of clarity, we should conduct our discussion in Karsite,” he replied.

“And I will be pleased to provide a copy,” Myste added smoothly.

The visitor smiled again. “Before we begin, then, will you introduce me to the lady, Herald Alberich?”

The word “Herald” sounded strange in the middle of a Karsite sentence. They didn't have a word for “Herald.” It sounded even stranger spoken without a curse appended.

“Herald-Chronicler Myste, this is Mage-Priest Hierophant Karchanek,” Alberich said solemnly. He couldn't resist a slight smile of his own as Karchanek started just a little, while poor Gerichen's eyes practically bulged out of his head. “I assume I have given your title correctly?”

“Quite correctly,” Karchanek replied, recovering. Since
he
hadn't given Alberich his title, and Gerichen didn't know it, he must be wondering how Alberich got it—and from whom.

Your borders are not as secure as you think,
Alberich told the man silently.

But of course, one single Karsite priest would not have come here, unescorted, into the heart of the enemy's capital, if he was not the equivalent of a one man army. Karchanek probably could fight his way out of this room using his own deadly skills, wreaking considerable havoc as he did so, and might even escape if he could outrun the alarm. He definitely could
slip
out of his quarters at Gerichen's temple, be they ever so closely guarded, and make his way past just about anything Alberich could throw at him to get home. Karchanek commanded magic—
real
magic—the magic that Valdemar hadn't seen for centuries until this current war with Hardorn. He might be the most powerful Priest-Mage that Karse had seen in centuries, save only the Son of the Sun.

And the Son of the Sun had sent him here. To speak with Alberich. The Great Traitor.

Karchanek pursed his lips. “I find myself wondering if I can tell you
anything
that you do not already know,” he said at last.

Alberich leaned back in his chair. “I am a man of great patience,” he replied. “I have no particular objection to hearing something more than once. Begin at the beginning.”

“The beginning . . .” mused Karchanek, then smiled again. “Ah, then you will have to have great patience, for the beginning, the
true
beginning, lies with the Son of the Sun, may Vkandis hold her at zenith. Solaris. Who has been and is my friend as well as my superior.”

Alberich was very glad of his ability to don an inscrutable card-sharper's face, for he surely needed that mask to hide his eagerness. Solaris! Now
there
was a person no one knew much about here in Valdemar—and someone whom they all desperately needed to know
everything
about.

But he kept his mask in place. “The new Son of the Sun,” he observed dryly. “The—
female
Son of the Sun.” Just to pair “female” with “Son of the Sun” would have been a blasphemy so profound a few years ago that the speaker would not only have been burned, but his ashes mixed with salt, his lands plowed under, his wife and children sacrificed, his ancestors dug up and reburied in a potter's field, and every trace that he had ever lived at all utterly eradicated.

Karchanek's smile broadened, and he spread his hands wide. “Even so. And so crowned by Vkandis Sunlord—” he made the sign of the Holy Disk, “—himself, with His Own hands. Perhaps you had heard of this?”

“Some,” Alberich admitted. “Rumors, tales that seemed particularly wild.”

“Not so. This, I witnessed along with thousands of others, and do believe me, Herald Alberich, it was no delusion, no trick of magic or mind, no clever artifice with a moving statue. Though the statue
did
move, it was no mere trumpery with a cleverly hinged arm. The Image arose from His throne, walked lithe and manlike, and took the crown from His Own head to place it upon that of Solaris. Which shrank as He put it there to fit her—exactly. I
saw
it. I have held that very crown in my two hands, and—” he paused again. “There is a thing not many would know about, save the handful of novices sent to polish the Image entire, one of which I was, and the
only
one among them to polish the crown. Which task I owe to my habit of squirreling up the cloister walls, into the cloister orchard, round about when the plums were ripe.” His eyes twinkled, and Myste hid a grin. “At the back of the crown upon the Image there was a lozenge, no bigger than my palm and
quite
invisible from below, where the sculptor, the gilder, and the jewel smith set their marks. That lozenge and those marks are upon the back of the crown that Solaris now wears.”

“Interesting,” Alberich began, still skeptical, for a truly clever fraud would have taken that into account and made sure to replicate every oddity and imperfection in the crown worn by the Great Image. And someone who was Solaris' friend as well as her supporter would probably swear that the Sun had stood still in the heavens for a day in order to lend more strength to her claim to the Sun Throne. But Karchanek was not finished.

“Nay, there is more, for has the Sunlord in His wisdom not granted her direct counsel in the form of—a Firecat?” Karchanek's brows arched, and well they might.

“A
Firecat?
” The words were almost forced from him. Alberich had not been a scholarly man, but even children knew all the tales of the miraculous avatars of Vkandis, and most Karsite children played at Reulan and the Firecat the way Valdemaran children played at Heralds and Companions. “But—Firecats are legend, merely—”

Karchanek shook his head emphatically. “No more. One walks by her side and sits at her Council table, and, when he chooses (which is seldom) lets his thoughts be known to those around Solaris as well as to the Son of the Sun herself.” Karchanek sat back just a little, a smile of satisfaction playing on his lips. “He has, in fact, deigned to address a word or two to me. It was a remarkable experience, hearing someone speak inside one's head. Although I imagine that
you,
Heralds, are so used to such a thing from your own Companions by now that you take it as commonplace.”

That was a shrewd shot—telling them that
he
knew not only that Companions weren't horses (or demons), but that they Mindspoke to their Heralds.

:Is he saying this—Firecat—
Mindspeaks?: Myste asked incredulously.

Well, if it was a real Firecat, that would be the least of its talents. If? There was no reason to doubt it. Without a Firecat, the living, breathing, and very
present
symbol of Vkandis' favor, Solaris could not have lasted a month.
:Like a Companion, yes. And, presumably, gets its wisdom from the same source.:

“There have been reforms of late, in the ranks of the Sun-priests,” Alberich ventured. “Solaris' reforms, it is said.”

Now Karchanek actually laughed. “Reforms—yes. One could call them ‘reforms'—in the same way that one could refer to the razing of a robber's stronghold as ‘a little housecleaning.' Not even Solaris can root out all the corruption of centuries, but the cleansing has begun.” Then he sobered. “The Fires, the summoning of demons, the terrorizing of our own people, all these are no more. And there is something that should die with them. The enmity between Karse and Valdemar.”

Well, there it was, the offer that Alberich had been hoping for, but was still not certain he should trust. “We seem to be facing the same enemy,” he pointed out. “Ancar of Hardorn—”

“Hardorn can devour us separately: United, we will be too tough a morsel to swallow,” agreed the other. “And there is no surety on your part that once he is disposed of, we will not turn back to our old ways and warfares.”

“But—”

“But hear the words of the Son of the Sun.” Karchanek brought out a thin metal tube from within his sleeve, in diameter no larger than an arrow shaft. He opened it, and removed a sheet of paper so thin that Alberich could see the writing on it from the opposite side.

Greetings to Captain Alberich, now Herald of Valdemar, loyal son of two warring lands,
” Karchanek read aloud.
“I, Solaris, Son of the Sun by the grace of Vkandis Sunlord, send these words to you and not to the Queen who holds your allegiance because the counsel of the Sunlord is that one with a heart divided will be more like to lend heed to that which promises division will be healed than one who is single-hearted. To you I say this: without Karse, Valdemar may fall, and without Valdemar, Karse may perish. Yet to unite our peoples, more than words on a treaty are needed. All overtures were like to come to naught, or be concluded too late. So I brought my prayers to the Sunlord, and the Sunlord has said this unto me.
‘Bring Me a Herald of Valdemar, that I may make of her a Priest of My Order in the sight of all, that none may doubt or dare to prosecute a war which is abomination in My sight.' ”