Brightly Burning (44 page)

“So don't!” Pol replied. “I haven't heard anyone suggesting that you should.”

So Kalira was right. “Kalira said—maybe I should make fire walls, or burn up their supplies and tents, or something—”

“Very good ideas. What's more,
you
are the only one who can dictate what you will and won't do. No one really knows what you can do here at the Collegium, and they'll know still less on the front lines. You tell the Generals what you can do, or what you're willing to do, and they'll fit that into their plans.” Pol actually smiled at Lan's surprise. “You didn't know that things worked like that?”

“No! I thought that—that people would just order me to do things—” he stammered.

Pol shook his head. “You can't
order
someone with a Gift; how can you enforce orders on something that no one can weigh or measure? Our people have decades of knowing how to adapt battle tactics to include some new ability, but they also know how to adapt if the person with that ability is too tired to work, or doesn't have the strength that they thought, as well.”

If Pol had intended to bring his fears down to a more reasonable level, he was succeeding. Lan was still afraid, but he didn't feel like crawling into a ball somewhere dark and shaking anymore. In fact, now there was room for another bubble of guilt and anxiety to rise to the surface of his thoughts.

“Madame Jelnack—” he paused, as Pol cast a penetrating glance at him. “If I asked the King—do you think he'd find a different place for her to go?” He shuddered, thinking of the situation that Theran had described. “I mean, walled up in a cave for the rest of her life—that's horrid! She's not sane, but—”

To his surprise, Pol chuckled again. “Don't feel too sorry for her,” he replied. “I know something about that particular Cloistered Order. Not everyone who goes there is an ascetic; sometimes it's well-born women who are recluses by nature and want to be away from the distraction of the world to concentrate on religious scholasticism, meditation, and prayer. It's no cave that Jisette Jelnack is going to be walled into, it's a very comfortable little apartment, with its own little bathing room and all. She can have anything her family wants her to have in there. She'll just never get out, and it all becomes the property of the Order after she's gone.” He chuckled again. “In fact, I have no doubt that the Order is going to charge her family a princely amount for her keep and comfort, given that she's a prisoner, and it serves them all right.”

“Are you sure?” Lan asked, his conscience considerably eased, now that his mental picture of a dank, barren, shadow-filled cell had been replaced by a very different vision.

“So sure that I'll take you there to see for yourself if you need to be convinced,” Pol told him. He stood up. “Thank you, Lan.”

“Me?” Lan said, surprised. “For what?”

“Talking to you helped
me
to put on a face on the enemy. Remember what Master Odo always tells us.” He touched his eyebrow with two fingers in a little salute. “I think that we'll put off practice for today. I don't think that either of us want to be the center of a circle of gawkers just now.”

Lan nodded, and belatedly remembered his manners. He scooted off the bed, and went to open the door for his mentor. “If I were you,” Pol finished, as he paused halfway out the door, “I'd go out to Kalira. I think she needs you quite a bit right now.”

“I will,” Lan promised, and before Pol was more than halfway down the hall, he had gotten his cloak and was out the door, heading for the stables at a trot.

T
HE departure of a mere ten Trainees should not have made
that
much difference in the way that the Collegium halls felt, but it did. Ten rooms empty, and the place had a hollower sound to it, the sense that something was missing, or amiss.

Pol told himself that he was being overly dramatic, but from the nervous way his pupils were acting, they felt the same. Laughter sounded forced or strained, voices were hushed, and jokes were far, far fewer.

Ten Trainees had been hustled into Whites months before they were due to graduate, and sent off to the south. They would finish their training the old-fashioned way, paired with a mentor with the same Gift, expected to act as his or her backup. It was the way that Heralds had been trained in Vanyel's time, revived in the current crisis—and no one liked it.

Weaponmaster Odo, who'd had some choice words for those who'd thought of it, liked it least of all. If it hadn't been that the Trainees themselves had been willing, even eager to go, the whole plan might well have collapsed at that moment. But the Trainees themselves talked the Weaponsmaster around, and so they went.

What disturbed Pol more than their leave-taking was that by the end of that same week, twelve Companions had presented themselves to be tacked-up, and had gone out to make their Choices. Twelve! Were they Choosing replacements for those who would soon die in this war? He didn't have the courage to ask Satiran.

All too soon, another set of too-young Trainees would follow the first set. And by spring—if not sooner—he and Lan would follow the same path.

He shook off his worries and headed for the Field, where Lan was waiting for him. Satiran stood at the fence, watching him approach with ears perked forward; he climbed the fence and used it as a help to get onto Satiran's bare back. His Companion carried him deep into the Field, to a spot where straw sheaves set up as targets by Master Odo were just barely visible. Pol slid down from Satiran's back; Lan smiled at his mentor, but his smile could not disguise the fact that he had dark shadows around his eyes, and that he was too thin. He had been working like one possessed, as if by working himself to exhaustion he could drive away the demons that haunted
his
dreams.

I can understand that,
Pol thought, reflecting on his own dreams.

“Odo's ready,” he said, gesturing at the distant specks, well to the side of the straw targets. “Get the straw bales first, then see if you can surround the practice ground at this distance.”

Lan nodded. He was long past merely flaming volleys of arrows; if that was all that was wanted, he could deal with archers from dawn to dusk. Now he was learning to reach distant targets, to create and hold walls of flame much longer and higher than the ones he'd used to pen in his attackers in the alley. Every day his control grew finer, his reach farther. Pol had always known that Lan's Gift was powerful, but until now, he'd had no way to judge how powerful it would be when he had learned to use it to its fullest.

Now he knew, and sometimes he shuddered to think about it. One day, perhaps one day soon, they would not call him Lavan Firestarter anymore. No—no, it would be another name entirely.

Lavan Firestorm.

It wouldn't happen here, though. The kind of raw emotion it would take to fuel a Firestorm couldn't be generated by the memories of old angers, though these days it only took a glance at the scar on Kalira's hip to produce as impressive a fire wall as was needed. The first Firestorm would probably come in a moment of desperate need on the front lines, and when it did—

Pol resolutely turned his thoughts away from that path; troubles enough dogged their footsteps without thinking too hard about that.

Lan shaded his eyes with one hand, the other on Kalira's neck, and frowned fiercely. Pol watched the targets; what Lan was working on now was the control that would permit him to ignite the targets instantaneously, with no smoke or heat to warn of what was happening.

Lan nodded, as if he was counting, and his frown grew fiercer.

Then—
one, two, three, four!
—deceptively tiny fire-blossoms engulfed the far-off targets, and the specks that were Master Odo and his hand-picked Trainee volunteers leaped back. A moment later, the breeze brought the faint sounds of their voices, high-pitched exclamations that told Pol the trial had succeeded.

Frenzied activity around the burning targets ensued, until the fires were out. Then the distant figures gathered together in the center of the practice ground, very much like a beleaguered group of fighters trying to protect themselves and each other.

Lan's face twisted into a mask of anger; his free hand clenched at his side, he glared at the distant grouping. He'd brought up sheltering walls of flame before, but not at anywhere near this distance.

For a moment, as Lan's face grew red with strain, Pol thought he would not be able to manage it this time either. But then, a speck, a gleam of yellow against the white snow, warned him that Lan had managed
something,
at any rate.

Slowly enough that Pol could follow the track, a wavering line of flame encircled the group at a healthy distance. It remained no more than knee-high for a few heartbeats, then finally roared upward, a scarlet-and-golden waterfall in reverse. The flames reached to the height of a house, then stopped. Lan held them long enough to be certain that he could hold them for a candlemark at least, then with a gasp, let it all go.

The fire went out as if snuffed by a giant hand, and the distant helpers broke up their group and milled curiously about, examining the melted lines where the flames had been. That was a good trick, making flames burn on top of snow until the snow was melted enough to get to the fuel beneath. Pol still didn't know how Lan managed it.

“Good job!” he enthused, clapping Lan on the back. “Go report to Master Odo for details, then go take yourself a short rest.”

“I will,” the boy replied, looking more drained than before, pulling himself up onto Kalira's back. “I need it—”

“And get something to eat, too!” Pol shouted after him, as he and his Companion trotted off. “You're too thin!”

He walked back with Satiran, watching from a distance as Lan discussed his actions with Odo and Odo's assistants, then rode to the door of the Collegium where he dismounted and went inside. Pol purposely hadn't accompanied him; he wanted the boy to learn to do things without being shepherded. When they got to the front, he'd have to think for himself.

He left Satiran at the gate with a pat on his neck, and went back into the Collegium to report on Lan's progress.

Once inside, young Tuck hurried past him, with his arms full of books and dark circles under
his
eyes. Pol intercepted him.

“Isn't this supposed to be your free time?” he asked.

Tuck grimaced. “If I'm going to go with you and Lan, I've
got
to get a better handle on my Karsite,” he replied, and hurried off. Pol sighed.

He's working himself as hard as Lan is. Gods above, what are we doing to these children?
Tuck was determined to be with Lan when he was sent out, and had lost all of his lazy habits in an effort to cram as much as he could into every candlemark so that when Lan was sent south, he, too, would be deemed ready. That would give Pol not one but two Trainees to keep track of. On the other hand, Tuck would supply a second hand at keeping Lan settled and in control of himself. Pol knew that very well, so how could he discourage the boy? The best he could do for Tuck was the same he was doing for Lan—try to make sure he ate and slept enough. It could have been worse for both of them. There were plenty of children in impoverished families who would have thought their current situation the equivalent of a holiday.

So many of the Trainees were driving themselves just as hard that Pol hardly knew whether to admire them or despair. Of all of them, however, only Lan had ever been the target of an enemy determined to slay him; they had no idea what they were going to face.

It's a wonder Odo isn't a drunkard. I don't know how he manages to train these children to go out and get hurt or killed, year after year.
Of course, that was the case with all of the teachers, but only Odo had that fact shoved in his face day after day.

And yet, the Trainees were better equipped and better warned for what they would face than all those fresh-faced, eager volunteers for the Guard and the army. From cities and towns, from farms and fields, from every imaginable background, they formed up little Companies and marched themselves to the capital. New cadres arrived in Haven daily, to camp in the meadows outside the walls, train for a few weeks under the stern eyes of Guard sergeants, and march on with newly-assigned officers from the seasoned troops. They trained as they traveled and, presumably, would be fit for combat when they arrived at the Border. But even at that, they wouldn't get much more than a moon's worth of battle training before they took up their arms in earnest. Pol was thankful he didn't have charge over them; he'd never be able to sleep at night.

:You don't sleep that well as it is,:
Satiran observed correctly.
:You carry enough burdens of your own. Speaking of which, are you going to another Privy Council meeting? If so, they're in the King's quarters, not the Lesser Council Chamber.: