Hey all! My first Valdemar fanfic, and any feedback is appreciated :)

This takes place during Exile's Honor but is spoiler free. I only own what you don't recognize as Mercedes Lackey's.

Kerchen brushed the mule vigorously but affectionately, thinking the beast was probably the most likable thing in this Holding. The mule brayed and tried to nuzzle Kerchen, as though in agreement. The Holderkin were about the most ungracious lot he'd ever met, only slightly above bandits.

It's bad enough that they are heretics, he thought, disgusted. Little wonder they've chosen to ally themselves with the Demonriders.

There was nothing he liked about the Holderkin-the way each man took on a blasphemous number of wives, the terribly drab and unfortunately ubiquitous brown clothes, their heathen Goddess, and, well, their atrocious personalities. To call them miserly cowards without a conscience would be too kind, for it still implied that they were human.

As if on cue, the Firstwife Werda-that travesty of a woman-stamped into the stable. A rigid woman so angular as to have been chiseled out of rock, her austere and kept appearance belied the wild anger that was etched into every crease in her weathered face. Her brown hair, tied into a knot as tight as her nerves, was only the slightest out of place, likely due to her usual rush to punish everyone she outranked for a reason that was more often than not a figment of her imagination. With a flash of rage crossing her glittering dark eyes, she approached the boy with a now familiar leather belt in hand.

"You good-for-nothing imbecile!" She shrieked, doling out her first lashes on Kerchen, who could only bring his arms up in a futile attempt to protect himself, "You'd enjoy getting paid while doing nothing, wouldn't you? You think you can just hide here and play do you, you stupid mutt!" She let out a string of colorful expletives to accompany the string of beatings. Kerchen would likely have been impressed with her inspired use of language, had his mastery of Valdemaran been up to par. Unfortunately, this was not the case, despite having spent no less than five years with these scum. Well, to give credit where it was due, Kerchen had amassed quite a repertoire of Valdemaran curses from Werda, though for all he knew all Valdemarans regularly talked like this.

I wouldn't expect anything less crude from a country of monsters.

No matter; he was employed under this Holding for one reason, and one reason only-to learn their language. Sunpriest Goroch had expressed his hope that Kerchen would learn the language of their greatest enemies to aid Kerchen in bringing justice to the Demonriders. At age 10, he had sought out the Holderkin, whom Goroch had said were suffering from a shortage of everything after a bandit raid had killed many of their kin. He told them he was the son of a shepherd who was killed by bandits, and was looking for extra work of any kind. This was not entirely untrue-and the memory of his guardian and adopted father Lugard had turned his words into sobs-and so his urgent, pleading story had convinced the Holding of his sincerity, nevermind that most of the story had to be told in charades. Kerchen had spied on some families first to grasp a bit of their demon language beforehand, but, as he'd predicted, those results were limited.

She finally beat his body one too many times. He involuntarily let out a yelp of pain and cowered to the ground. Stupid! He immediately felt the shame of doing so heat his cheeks. His eyes welled with angry tears that wanted to burst out with each burning lash, but he set his chin and held them back with all his might. Kerchen, who had already killed more heretics than the years he had lived, had a strong sense of pride. But, if he rebelled, he would lose his valuable lessons, lessons a Sunpriest had wished him to take. Unable to run or rebel, he determined instead not to let Werda see his tears-not to let her have the satisfaction of having thoroughly bested him.

As he suffered under her hand, he tried hard to make his mind wander. Some of these lashings were going to end in scars, but Kerchen placed little value on his complexion-rather, it was a mark of his dedication to his duty, to both Vkandis Sunlord and to himself. ...Well, less nobly, he always felt his heart lift a little when Goroch noticed any new scars of his-the Sunpriest's chidings and worry were the closest things Kerchen now had to Lugard's love and concern, and Kerchen drank it up greedily. He chased anything, anything that reminded him of Lugard.

Finally, Werda decided that he was adequately punished-for not being miserable enough-and barked some orders for him to carry water from the well and gather firewood. He tried to obey her immediately but stumbled, weak-kneed from the abuse he had just suffered. Werda started, as if to hit him again for having the temerity to feel pain, but evidently decided that he'd had enough, as she instead doublechecked the stable.

Or maybe her arm's just tired, Kerchen thought cynically, as he left the shabby wooden stable, dragging himself off to the well. Werda rarely did any chores herself-any kind of work was left to the lower wives and any little able to walk on two legs and lift up two arms. His eyes fell on a little, barely seven, that concentrated intensely on mending the brown rags in her lap. A small thing with mousy brown hair, her twig-like legs seemed to tremble with fear, fear of doing anything that would get her beaten. Because the fear of making a mistake was so intense, her arms were held staunchly stiff, her little hands mending the clothes with more expertise than any child her age should have. Though this was an inevitable result of living in bandit territory, Kerchen found himself sympathizing with these children, who had not yet turned into a demon like all of Valdemar's adults.

But that's a foolish distinction to make, as Valdemaran blood is one in the same with the blood of demons. Goroch said so himself, and he, as a Voice of Vkandis, could not lie.

But those who have not wronged yet are innocent, and it would be dishonorable to blame those who were still blameless. For now he would do what he could to help them, even if it is for a wage that could only purchase a loaf of bread, and that would be if he saved up. Oh, these Holderkin might think they were getting a deal out of this arrangement, but they didn't know a thing-he would use his knowledge of their language to help undermine their entire society of demons. Dreams of luxury and fame meant nothing to Kerchen-Kerchen instead dreamed of serving Karse, of giving Goroch vital information on Valdemar, dreamed of slaying their heretics whose deeds were replete with sin, dreamed of putting his life on the line in the name of Vkandis Sunlord. It was with these daydreams that he trudged through the day until it turned to night, and received the wage that the father of the household reluctantly relinquished.

As if I could live off this, Kerchen thought scornfully, but his mouth instead blabbed some gracious words before his feet carried him off, away from the unsavory Holding. He was given leave to tend to the remains of his land once a moon, and so rather than the stable he normally stayed in, he continued towards the direction of Karse, the homeland that he loved. Of course, going back to his land was an excuse-Kerchen was actually planning on visiting Goroch. After pausing for a beat to pick up his cloth sack, the boy's sinewy legs gave way to a light trot, as his spirits lifted from the thought of leaving the heathen Valdemarans and into the sanctuary of Goroch's quarters.

Perhaps he will give me a bigger allowance this time, Kerchen mused, hopefully. Maybe even some spiced sausage-something dried to take with me on my next trip into this Sunlord-forsaken land. I think I've improved my Valdemaran a lot this time, and I probably look like I suffered as much as I did...

He looked down at himself. A child of Karse from top to bottom, his body was wiry and angular, but, due to his training, not awkward like most children through their growth spurt. Though only about fifteen, his weathered face and hardened body smattered with scars could pass for a whole range of ages. He was proud of his appearance, its combination of laborer and fighter, which Goroch said were two occupations Vkandis smiled upon. Both Goroch and Lugard were devout men, and Kerchen learned well by their examples. Lugard, a shepherd who could not spare the time to attend services, had still insisted on teaching Kerchen the Ways of Vkandis and the Writ. He had even saved coppers for months to buy a copy of the Writ, despite the fact that he was illiterate. Kerchen had since learned to read under Goroch's sponsorship, and read the book at any chance he could. The book was about the only thing that the bandits had not taken-including Lugard's life.

A lump in his throat rose again, but Kerchen tried to ignore it by filling his stomach instead. He opened his sack, filled with blankets for camping on the way to Goroch's temple, some hardened bits of tack, and just a tiny bit of leftovers he had purloined from the Holding. Having been trained in theory with the junior cadets, and trained for real in Goroch's missions, Kerchen had confidence in his ability to confront-or run away from-any bandits or other ills. The Night-demons, he was told, would not come for him if he is pious, so they didn't scare him much either. Any real fear he had was of being out of food...but this would be enough for the journey, so without too much restraint he pulled out a bit of bread and chewed slowly, trying to think of a way to impress Goroch by the time he got back. Maybe if he practiced his Valdemaran...

"You think just hide here you can, you stupid mutt," he said aloud, tentatively. No, that didn't seem quite right, and not just because it was the tongue of demons. "You think you just hide here can...You think you can just hide here." There. That sounded pretty good.

When he finally arrived at Goroch's quarters, he discovered how vital his Valdemaran would be, as Goroch now assigned him his most shocking mission yet.