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.

Aksel, a powerful little man as flexible as he was strong, probably knew more about fighting styles and weapons than any twelve ordinary fighters in the Sunsguard. His first words to Alberich were, “Berthold thinks you have it in you. If it’s there, we’ll bring it out together.”

Alberich had never known just what “it” was supposed to be, but Aksel offered instruction and approval in equal measure, and Alberich had drunk it in as thirsty ground drank rain. They were the finest two men that Alberich had ever known…

And they taught me what honor was. Which might be why, when Dethor had asked what he most valued, it was “honor” he had seized on instantly.

He had learned from their example as much as from anything they actually said to him.

Honor was never taking the easy way when it was also the wrong one. Never telling a falsehood unless the truth was painful and unnecessary, or a lie was necessary to save others. Never manipulating the truth to serve only yourself. Protecting the weak and helpless; standing fast even when fear made you weak. Keeping your word.

Perhaps that was all part of the problem; serving the Sunpriests had turned him away from the path of honor. How was it protecting the weak and helpless, when he and his troops were turned aside from their duties on the Border to shepherd a tithe collector and his treasure boxes from village to village? How could he keep his word when those about him were making idle promises that he was expected to fulfill, promises that again took him away from real duty to satisfy some idiotic whim or moment of vainglory? How could he speak the truth when the truth would simply have gotten him thrown to the Fires?