Brightly Burning (15 page)

Not surprisingly, it was his own daughter Elenor who arrived at the door within a few moments, her pale-green cloak thrown hastily around her shoulders, little tendrils of her warm, brown hair escaping from the hood and dripping onto the floor.

“Who is this?” she asked, as she knelt beside her father to take the child in her own arms. Her heart-shaped face was full of concern, her cheeks pink from the cold, raindrops sparkling on her eyelashes.

“Malken. He's about ten,” Pol said, as she bent over the sobbing child. He took advantage of her arrival to get a handkerchief to wipe the poor thing's face and nose. Malken continued to howl, oblivious.

“Malken,” she murmured in his ear, holding him close, “Malken, sweetling, it's all right—”

Malken clearly didn't think it was all right, but Pol felt his own faint Gift of Empathy wake in answer to his daughter's more powerful abilities, and recognized her soothing touch on the child's mind.

Slowly, carefully, she insinuated herself between Malken and his own hysteria; slowly the child's sobs began to weaken, his howls to fade. It was a mercy that people were used to children in distress seeking Pol out, otherwise someone would surely have charged into the room by now, intent on beating whoever was frightening Malken into a bloody pulp.

At last, at very long last, Malken hiccuped once, and lapsed into silence, collapsing with exhaustion into Elenor's arms.

Pol took the boy from her, picking him up to carry back to his room. Elenor stood up shakily, her face pale, pulling herself up with the aid of her father's chair. Malken was clearly in no shape to be questioned about what had set him off.

But maybe his Companion had picked out something from Malken's mind that would explain all this.

:Already noted, but you were a bit busy to talk to,:
Satiran told him instantly, with none of his usual smugness at having anticipated something Pol wanted.
:Hayka thinks his Gift decided to come on him all at once just after dinner. He says that Malken was reading, when something in the book triggered a vision of fire, of people burning to death by the thousands. Hayka is fairly shaken himself; all I can get out of him is that it seemed as if the entire world was going up in a storm of flame. And—:

Satiran hesitated. When Satiran hesitated, Pol worried.

:And?:
he prodded.
:Forewarned is forearmed; and
what,
Satiran?:

“Let's get Malken to bed. Did you bring something to dose him with?” Pol asked his daughter, feeling more than a bit of concern for her as well. She was clearly troubled by the strength of Malken's hysteria; had she gotten an inkling of Malken's vision? He didn't want her to worry. Eventually, he would have to tell Ilea, and that would be bad enough. “I think he ought to sleep through the night, after this.”

“No, but I can put him to sleep and make him forget what set this off all by myself,” she told him, her pallor fading and her authority as a Healer reasserting itself. She gave him a look that told him she wouldn't allow herself to be persuaded otherwise; the tendrils of curling, red-brown hair falling over one soft brown eye made her look absurdly like a stubborn little foal. “That's much safer in a child this small.”

She looked so much like Ilea in this mood that Pol couldn't help but smile; he covered his smile lest she misinterpret it as condescension rather than pride, and led the way to the dormitory and the Trainees' rooms.

Down the long corridor and through a door at the end, then up a wooden staircase lit at intervals by lamps with the flames turned low, he led his daughter to the second floor and the beginning of the dormitory rooms for the Trainees. Each child had his own room; not large rooms, but each had his own to himself, with a door he could close and even lock on the rest of the world if he chose to. Malken's room was on this floor; there were four more floors above this one, with the library at the top, and there were signs that the Collegium wing would have to be expanded again soon.

That thought made Pol uneasy; it hadn't occurred to him until now, but—

As if to be ready to replace the ones that would inevitably fall to the enemy. Especially when the enemy was Karse, whose Sun-priests hated Heralds and their Companions with a fury that defied rational explanation.

He paused at Malken's room, so denoted by the little plaque with his name on the door, and nodded at Elenor. His daughter opened the door for him, and followed him inside, lighting a candle at the fire, then turning down the bedcovers so her father could place the boy in his bed.

Pol tucked him in, removing only his boots; he didn't want to risk rousing him enough to start him on his hysterical weeping again. Elenor knelt beside the bed for a moment with one hand on Malken's pale forehead. When she stood up again, the little boy sighed once, deeply, then curled over on his side, the very picture of natural slumber.

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.

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 Charis 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.
:If 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 Charis 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.

O
N 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.”