:There is not enough money in all of Karse twice over to hire the Tedrels,: Taver reminded him. :They are fighting for themselves, not Karse. Karse has not hired them, per se—or at least, they offered them something more than just gold. Karse has merely provided them with a platform from which to launch a campaign to conquer a new homeland and the resources to support them while they do so.:

“Why do the Karsites hate us so much?” Talamir asked aloud, in something like despair. “Why?”

Dethor shrugged. “Religion’s at the heart of it, I’d guess,” he opined. “But don’t ask me, ask Alberich.”

Religion. What about Valdemar could possibly seem so threatening to a religion?

:There is no one true way,: Taver said. :That is what threatens the Sunpriests; that is what terrifies them. If you offer that to people, you offer them freedom, and you challenge those who claim ultimate authority. If you offer that, you give people options. The Sunpriests rely on being the ultimate, unchallengeable authority; their lives depend on the very opposite of options. Their rule depends on their followers having no options, and relies on blind belief and even blind obedience.:

:Perhaps, but how do they expect to keep their people in the dark?: Short of building a wall around the country and guarding every exit point, there was no way of keeping people from finding out what was going on outside their borders.

:Ah, but a war builds that wall, doesn’t it?: Taver responded. :You don’t need stones when you’ve got an enemy.:

“Interrupting, I hope I am not,” Alberich said from the doorway. He sounded exhausted; when he came into the light, Talamir took a good long look at him, and decided that he was at least as exhausted as he sounded.

“Hmm. Another fight?” he asked. The Weaponsmaster’s Second was somewhat the worse for wear. He had a bandage across his forehead and another binding his forearm (suggesting that he’d already been to the Healers), bruised knuckles, and other signs that he’d been getting into trouble down in Haven. Small wonder he sounded tired.

“Fruitful,” was all Alberich said. “But to drink, something wholesome, if you please?” He made a face. “The taste of sour beer, to remove from my mouth.”

“I very much please, lad, and get off your feet,” Dethor said quickly, and Alberich limped into the room. Dethor tilted the kettle at the hearth and poured out a mug of mulled wine, handing it to Alberich, who sat down and accepted it, draining half of it in a single go. “So, what’d you net us this time?”