Brightly Burning v(-10 Page 11

  They tiptoed out, closing the door behind them.

  Elenor waited until they were in the stairway to confront her father.

  "Satiran told you something, didn't he?" she demanded from behind and above him on the stairway. "I saw your face—I know he did! What in Kernos' name did he tell you? That child was terrified! What frightened him so?" In this temper, her changable eyes had gone to a stormy darker color, with flecks of green.

  "I'm not entirely certain," he temporized. "He had a vision—"

  "A vision!" she replied, sounding more like her mother than he could have imagined. "I think that's too mild a word for something that sends a child into screaming hysterics!"

  By this time they had reached the ground floor, and he turned to face her. She looked up at him with pursed lips; he looked down at her wearing his best card-playing face.

  Eventually she made a petulant little stamp of her foot. "I can see you've no intention of telling me anything more," she said sullenly, sounding more now like herself, a fourteen-year-old who has been cheated of an adult confession.

  He smiled. "I'm glad you understand," he replied mildly, as she glowered at him.

  "I don't understand, and I don't like it, but I also don't have a choice, do I?" she grumbled, tucking her wayward hair back into the snood she wore to keep it out of the way.

  "No, you don't," he agreed, and reached out to take her stiff body in his arms for a good hug. As he'd expected, she thawed, and returned the embrace.

  "After all," he murmured into her damply fragrant hair, "I am your father. I should be able to keep some secrets from you."

  "Why?" she retorted, her good humor restored as she reluctantly pulled away from him to go back to her own quarters. "You're only a mere man. Men can't possibly keep secrets from women; we know what you're going to do long before you do it."

  "You are learning far too much from your mother," he accused mockingly, then kissed her on the forehead. "Thank you for coming."

  "Thank you for trusting me." She gave him one of her dazzling smiles, and turned to run silently down the corridor, pausing once to wave brightly before darting out the door into the rainy night.

  He returned to his room, dropping his cheerful facade, and sat down in his fireside chair, propping his head on one hand to stare into the flames.

  Flames....

  What could such a vision mean?

  :I suppose it could have been a hallucination and not a vision after all,: Satiran offered tentatively.

  :But you don't think so. And neither do I. A hallucination like that would have to have some physical cause, and if there'd been a physical cause, Elenor would have spotted it and Malken would be in the charge of a full Healer right now.:

  He felt Satiran's reluctant sigh. :True. Which leaves—Foresight. Hayka did say that the cause was his Gift coming on him all at once. Of all creatures, Hayka should be the one to really know what happened. Let me have a word with Jolene.:

  :Certainly.: Jolene was Herald Evan's Companion; Evan was currently the teacher in charge of Trainees with Foresight. Whatever the vision meant, there was one thing certain; Malken had better be under Evan's tutelage tomorrow. When a Gift appeared full-blown, it needed training, and the Trainee needed close attention, even protection from his own abilities. And when it appeared that young, the child wasn't at all prepared to deal with it alone.

  :There. Taken care of. They'll see to him as soon as he wakes up,: Satiran was back. :Right, then. Flames and the world on fire could be representative of a general condition of war.:

  It was his turn to sigh. :Yes, it could. Malken has never seen warfare; his mind might only be able to grasp the concept as a great conflagration devouring everything it encounters.:

  :And given what Charts had to say tonight, that makes perfect sense. You're a senior Herald. If there's a war, you are going to be in the middle of it,: Satiran observed with gloom.

  :His vision could have been triggered just because I was thinking about a war with Karse.: Now that his mind had started down this road, it seemed more and more plausible and explanation. :lf he happens to be sensitive to me, just from so much contact with me—I'm the nearest thing he's got to his father right now. The timing is right, he went into this just about when Charts was talking to us.:

  :Karse—the Sun-priests—yes, flame images would certainly be appropriate.: He felt Satiran suddenly shudder. :They burn their prisoners, you know. Especially Heralds.:

  The same thought had occurred to him. He faced it resolutely. :Forewarned—visions of the future can be changed. That's why Foresight is one of our most valuable Gifts. We're warned now, Satiran; we can take steps to prevent getting ourselves into trouble.:

  :We can try,: Satiran replied. There was a long pause. :Yes. You're right. And it's a good thing I'm having Hayka speak with Jolene tonight and give Jolene all the details. It will be easier to keep you out of trouble if all of us know what's been Seen. Unlike certain times in the past when no one knew but you.

  "Hey!" he exclaimed aloud, but Satiran was right this time. :All right. Spread the word, then. After all, if that interpretation is right, I won't be the only Herald in danger.:

  :No,: Satiran agreed grimly. :You won't.:

  Pol left it at that.

  SEVEN

  ON the fourth day of Lan's self-imposed exile from the dining hall, Owyn stayed behind when the others left. The younger boy lingered beside his desk, gazing at Lan with an intensely speculative expression.

  "You're avoiding them, aren't you?" he said, suddenly. "You're hiding out from them up here." There didn't seem to be any condemnation in his tone, but Lan couldn't be absolutely sure. After all, Tyron could be using the boy as a tool to find out what Lan was up to.

  Lan waited for a moment before answering, using the time it took to unwrap his packet of bread and butter before answering. "I suppose you think I'm a coward," he replied bitterly, with a shrug. "If it's cowardly to avoid getting punished for no reason by people who are big and mean, then I suppose I'm a coward. And, you know, I don't care who says I am." So much for Tyron. He can call me all the names he wants.

  "Why do they let you stay away from lunch?" Owyn asked curiously, giving no sign that this was what Tyron had sent him to find out.

  "Which 'they' do you mean?" Lan answered with a question of his own. "If you mean the teachers, no one has said anything to me, and I don't suppose they will. For all they know, I just take a little extra time to go down and hurry through the meal so I can come back up and study. If you mean—them—you don't suppose I was going to ask permission of them, do you?" A certain apprehension tightened his belly for a moment. "Have they figured out what I'm doing? Have they said anything about me?"

  "Not yet," Owyn told him, and the knot in his gut relaxed. The younger boy fidgeted a little. "I was going to ask if you minded if I stayed, too. I brought apples...."

  As Owyn stared at him, hope naked in his eyes, Lan found his lips stretching into a rare smile. "Mind? Why should I mind, and why would it matter if I did? I don't exactly own this room, you know. You have as much right here as I do. But I wouldn't mind trading some of my bread for one of your apples."

  Owyn sat back down with a thud, and dug in his book bag, coming up with a really fine, red fruit, which he handed to Lan in exchange for a slice of buttered bread. "How did you think of staying up here?" he asked around a mouthful, gazing at Lan as if he was some sort of wizard for coming up with so cunning a solution.

  Owyn's admiration made him feel smug and embarrassed, at the same time. Lan did his best to try to look modest. "It was obvious, once you get past the idea that you have to eat something besides bread for lunch," he replied, with a touch of humor.

  Owyn gazed at him with something approaching hero worship, and swallowed. "Half the time, when I know they're going to have at me, I can't eat anything anyway," he confessed. "I even get sick, sometimes. They've never flogged me, but I keep thinking they're going to. And—" his expression turned fierc
e and angry, giving the impression of a puppy in a rage, "—I hate it when they do something that makes people laugh at me!"

  "I think that was why I was having those fits and headaches," Lan admitted, "but no one at home believes me about them, and what they are doing to us. My mother pretty much called me a liar and a whiner when I told her what was going on."

  Owyn nodded sadly, and Lan felt a crumb of comfort in discovering he was not alone in being ignored by his parents. "I know, I tried, too. And you should see Tyron when he's where any of our parents will see him! It's sickening! He pets little ones and talks to them like he was their best friend, he brings them little toys or sweets." His mouth turned down in a bitter grimace, and his eyes grew bright. "My parents think I'm just trying to get him in trouble because he's supposed to be in charge of discipline, and that I'm jealous of him just because all the parents and teachers think he's so great—" He had to stop for a moment, as his emotions overcame him. He sniffed angrily and wiped his eyes with the back of his cuff. "All I want is for them to leave us alone!"

  Lan looked aside, so as not to embarrass the younger boy by noticing his tears. "My mother said that it must have been my fits that made me say such things about them," he told Owyn, gazing steadfastly at his desk until the boy got himself together. "She went on about what a good family he came from, and how no one from such a good family would ever act that way."

  "Huh. What about all the black sheep that get the maids pregnant and gamble away their mother's jewelry?" Owyn retorted, with a worldly and cynical glance at Lan that surprised him. "What about the slick uncles that are so nice to the littles, and—Never mind." He shook his head, and bent to his bread and butter, leaving Lan to wonder just what "the slick uncles" did in his family. There wasn't much more conversation after that; Owyn seemed to feel he'd said more than he meant to, and Lan didn't have much to say for himself. But the silence wasn't unfriendly; for once, Lan was actually relaxed around another student.

  Lan and Owyn were well into their books by the time the rest of the class returned, and no one remarked on Owyn's absence from the Hall either. The next day, though, it wasn't just Owyn that remained behind with Lan, it was a timid, mouse-plain girl named Liss. She didn't come empty-handed either; she shyly proffered a chunk of sharp cheese to each of them, as if she thought she needed to supply a sort of toll in order for them to permit her presence. Lan had begun bringing extra bread and butter, and by this point they had quite a comfortable lunch.

  That was the last of the classmates from this room to remain behind, but Owyn whispered that there were others, not only in their form, but in every form but Sixth, who were rebelling against the Sixth Form tyranny and staying in their classrooms over lunch. Everyone who did so, it seemed, agreed that starvation was preferable to being harried and hounded as the price of a meal.

  And the Sixth Formers couldn't do anything about it! The teachers of Sixth Form personally made certain that the Sixth Formers went to the Hall, since they were the ones in charge of keeping the place under control during the meal.

  "We have to be careful not to leave a crumb behind, though," Liss whispered, after a week of peaceful meals. "We ought to sweep and clean when we're done, otherwise they'll make us go downstairs again."

  "Why do you suppose they've left us to eat alone up here?" Lan wondered aloud. "By now some of the teachers have to have noticed not everyone is going to the Hall to eat."

  Owyn snickered. "Because part of our tuition goes for our meal, and with fewer of us eating, that's more that Master Keileth gets to keep. You don't think he's going to stop something that puts more money in his purse, do you?"

  Lan nodded, because that made perfect sense. The teachers were paid just enough to ensure that they did their jobs properly; if their pupils failed to learn, they lost part of their pay. But they weren't paid to do anything more. That was probably how disciplining the younger students had devolved on the Sixth Form, and probably why the task remained with the oldest pupils—no one had to pay them.

  Master Keileth, he had learned, was motivated largely by profit. The teachers were motivated by a system of debits from their pay. As long as nothing went drastically wrong, neither cared how the pupils felt, only that they passed their exams and absorbed the information laid before them.

  "It can't last forever," he told the other two, carefully folding the muslin bag he brought his bread and butter in and stowing it in his book bag. "At the end of the year, they'll be gone."

  Owyn had gotten the broom, and Liss the dustpan; while they swept the floor, he polished the three desktops. "But there are others," Owyn pointed out. "There are bullies in Fifth Form just waiting to go up to Sixth."

  "And next year we'll be bigger and stronger, too," he replied. "If we can't find a way to talk them out of bullying us, and we're not big and strong enough to make them leave us alone, well... we'll just keep staying in our classroom for lunch."

  Owyn looked doubtful, but didn't argue. Liss didn't look up at all, but that was normal. Liss usually didn't look anyone in the eye, not even when it was just the three of them.

  But Lan had been growing more and more confident that his scheme was working with every passing day. The longer he avoided the Sixth Formers, the more he surely faded from their memory. Eventually, they would forget he was a student here altogether. When the end of the year came and they were dismissed to whatever fate their families had planned for them, they would lose their solidarity as a group.

  And then.... He had his daydreams. Someday, one of them would find himself facing Lan, at a time when the odds favored Lan. In his fondest, sweetest daydreams, it was Tyron who groveled at Lan's feet, begging for some favor.

  The daydreams never went much farther than that, because Lan himself couldn't quite make up his mind about what he wanted to do when the situation came up. Would he be magnanimous, or would he smile politely and let Tyron hang? Or even give him a little push over the edge of whatever abyss he teetered on?

  In some ways, being magnanimous would carry the most satisfaction with it. After all, Tyron would then have to go on with his life, knowing that he owed Lan. And that he would never, ever, be able to pay off that debt and return things to their former footing.

  On the other hand, watching Tyron rot would be awfully satisfying, too.

  Lan's teachers had been cautiously indicating that they thought his talents lay in the direction of becoming a Caravan Master, the man who was in charge of everything having to do with the transport of goods from one place to another. So far his parents hadn't said that they were opposed to the idea. Lan's current daydream involved Tyron as an impoverished caravan guard, begging Lan to hire him. The idea of Tyron in rags, groveling, was very satisfying; even more satisfying was the extension of the daydream, where Tyron got drunk on duty and Lan casually ordered him flogged.

  Lan was, in fact, in the process of elaborating on that daydream, imagining Tyron's current girl, grown up and even prettier, being conveyed in Lan's caravan from Haven to—say—Hardorn.

  When the last class was over, the rest of his schoolmates and the teacher cleared out, and the schoolroom fire was left to burn down the coals, he stayed at his desk with a book open, but eyes unfocused. He imagined Anjeyla as she might be in another four years, turned from pretty into stunningly lovely. For good measure, he turned her hair from dark blonde to a golden cascade, subtracted from her waist and added to chest and hips.

  She would, of course, be very impressed with Lan, in his suit of silver-washed chain mail, well-used sword at his side, his weather-tanned face and a few attractive scars showing his courage and experience, and a devil-may-care smile telling of his past conquests among the ladies. "Don't I know you?" she would ask, a little puzzled. "I don't think so," he would say, with a careless chuckle. And about that time, the chief of his guards would interrupt, with Tyron, dirty and hung over, being dragged along behind him between two more guards.

  "Sir, this scum was drunk on duty last night," the gu
ard-chief would say.

  "Which one is it?" he would bark in reply, straightening his back, a man of action and decisiveness. Anjeyla would sigh with admiration.

  "Tyron, sir," the chief would reply. "I regret I ever recommended him to you." And as Anjeyla gasped in recognition, the chief would grab Tyron by the hair, and pull his head up, so that there could be no mistake about who it was.

  Anjeyla would make a little pout of disdain, and pointedly move away from Tyron and toward Lan, perhaps even placing her hand on his bicep. Tyron would see, and he would look sick and dismayed.

  Lan would wait long enough for all the implications to sink in, then bark, "And what do you have to say for yourself, scum?"

  "So this is where you've been hiding," Tyron replied.

  For a moment, Lan stared at the door in confusion; that wasn't what Tyron was supposed to say! Then, with a snap, he came back to himself, and his hands clutched the sides of his desk involuntarily.