Brightly Burning (20 page)

“I didn't—” Owyn stopped, and flushed. Pol nodded.

“You were going to say that you didn't want anyone to die, but you did, didn't you?
Of course
you did! But you, yourself, would have helped them if you had been there, wouldn't you?”

Again the boy sighed deeply. “I guess so,” he replied slowly, then repeated, with more assurance, “yes. I would have.”

“So there you are. You have no reason to feel guilty. But trust me, the adults who were responsible for letting the situation get to this point are going to be
made
to feel guilty, and acknowledge their guilt, before this is all over.” He stood up, and let that sink in. “
All
of the adults, including the ones who wouldn't listen to what their children tried to tell them. And I believe that we—the Heralds—will see that there are some apologies tendered.”

As it dawned on Owyn that Pol meant his own parents would be confronted with the facts in the case, a certain glee crept into his eyes. Pol didn't blame him in the least; how else would a boy react to being told that his parents would have to apologize for not listening to and heeding him?

:It isn't going to do them, or him, any harm,:
Satiran observed.
:I think we're finished here. I will meet you in the courtyard.:

“I think I'm finished here, Owyn—and thank you, very much.” Owyn stood up quickly, and took Pol's extended hand in a much firmer grip than before. “I doubt that your school will reopen for a fortnight or more, until we get things sorted, but don't allow that to be an excuse for falling behind in your work.”

Owyn didn't snort, not in front of a Herald, but it was clear that he felt this was an unwarranted comment. “I never fall behind, sir,” was all he said. Pol managed to keep his mouth from twitching up into a smile.

But that was the last smile he was to have for the rest of the day. The remaining interviews with the youngsters on Owyn's list who were least likely to break down were very uncomfortable. All boys, all had been caned at least once by the bullies, and half had been caned several times. When Pol heard from their own mouths the alleged
reasons
for the caning—including the boys who had been ordered to bring Tyron Jelnack and his cronies special gifts and treats—he was livid. Of all of them, only one had been a punishment specifically assigned by a teacher, and it
hadn't
warranted a flogging.

He and Satiran returned to the Palace and Collegium in a state of suppressed rage themselves. He went straight to the Captain's office, hoping to catch him before dinner.

He succeeded; and by the time he had given the officer the terse, bare-bones facts of the case, the Captain was left sitting in his chair with his mouth hanging open.

“How did they manage to get away with all that?” he sputtered. “Abuse, extortion—and how long has this been going on?”

“Not long, I don't think—at least, not long at this level of abuse,” Pol said, some of his anger cooling, although he was still too keyed up to sit. “I suspect a great deal of this was due to the ringleader. Still.”

“Still—I'm issuing an order closing the school until the Council has sorted things out and assigned a new Master,” the Captain said, scribbling quickly. “That much is in my power.”

“That much will do very nicely,” Pol told him. “I'll take care of getting this in front of the Council, and I'll get the interviews with the rest of the children on the list.”

The Captain shook his head. “We never would have gotten this much out of the children,” he admitted, and touched his forehead in a sketchy salute as Pol turned to go. “I'm glad we have you white-coats around.”

The Seneschal's Herald, Trevor, took Pol's report in silence. When Pol was done, Herald Trevor tapped his lips with his pen as he sat in thought.

“This isn't a matter for the full Council, but as it affects the Trades and Crafts, I think the Council ought to hear a full report when we've decided what to do,” Trevor said at last. “Hmm. I think the Seneschal, His Majesty, Her Majesty, and Jedin and I can make a quick decision.” He gave Pol a knowing glance. “There are always more people worthy of good academic positions than there are positions to fill,” he observed dryly. “Putting a real teacher in charge of this school should solve most of the problems. I do agree with you, by the by, that it is
much
too valuable a resource to shut down.”

“Do you still want me to get interviews with the rest of the children?” Pol asked, cast in doubt by the Herald's quick resolution of the problem.

“Oh,
absolutely
—and take your daughter, the Empath—what's her name? Elenor. Yes, take Elenor with you.” Trevor's tight-lipped smile did not bode well for the adults who would be hearing the judgment laid on them. “When we present our verdict, I don't want there to be the slightest doubt in anyone's mind that we were not only entirely justified, but lamentably tardy in discovering what was going on. I also want you to interview this Lavan Chitward, when he recovers. There is still no evidence of what happened in that room, and there are four dead boys to account for.”

“Yes,” Pol replied instantly. “There are. And even if they richly deserved punishment—”

“—and even if they caused their punishment themselves, by their own actions, we must see to it that we
know
what happened.” Trevor rubbed one temple carefully, with the first two fingers of his right hand. “I would like less mystery and more fact—and I would like to be certain that no one can point a finger at the Chitward boy in any way when this is over.”

So would I,
Pol thought, taking his leave of Herald Trevor,
I just hope we can manage that.

L
AN lay floating in a sea of soft fleece, not quite connected to the world. He wasn't in his own room, but in a bright little chamber with soft, green walls and hardly any furniture. From time to time, someone in dark or pale green came in and did things to him, made him eat, or drink, or simply laid hands gently on his head. He knew they were Healers, but he didn't have any inclination to go any further with that thought.

For that matter, he really didn't have any inclination to go very far with
any
thought.

He knew that he hurt, but it was pain at one remove—very distant, and not really affecting
him,
although he heard himself whimpering and groaning from time to time. He knew he wasn't dead, and though he was a little surprised, that didn't matter very much either.

He slept a great deal, and he wasn't entirely sure that the Healers tending him were aware that
he
was aware of them. They certainly treated him as if he wasn't.

He . . . drifted. That was the best word for it. When he was awake, he watched the clouds and the rain through his window, without a single thought interrupting his passive observation for candlemarks at a time. When his eyelids grew too heavy to hold up, he slept, dreamlessly. Something warned him that he didn't want to think about why he was here; whenever any of the Healers said anything that pointed his mind in that direction, he shied violently away from the topic and dove into sleep.

The pain drifted, too—drifted away from him, over the course of two days, perhaps three. As it drifted from him, he became more aware of what was going on around him, whether he liked it or not. And one evening, as the first stars began to shine through his window, he woke up completely for the first time, with his mind clear.

His hands and wrists were bandaged, but they didn't hurt too much. That omnipresent headache was gone. And he remembered why he was here.

But he couldn't explain it, and his memories didn't make any sense. How could
he
have made Tyron and his bullies catch fire? He'd never heard of anything like that, not even in the bedtime stories his nursery maid had told him of gryphons and magic! The idea was simply ludicrous!

Before he could get any farther than that in his thinking, his door opened, and one of the dark-green-clad Healers entered, a tall, thin man who looked like nothing so much as a bundle of sticks made into a man and clothed in a Healer's robes that enveloped him completely, with hair made of a bunch of faded grass just stuck into the top. He smiled when he saw that Lan was staring at him.

“Awake, precisely on time. Very good, Lavan Chitward! There are some people who very much wish to speak with you, but first I have insisted that you have a proper meal.” He motioned to someone outside the room, and one of the younger Healers in pale green— a boy not much older than Lan himself, stocky, blond and a little self-conscious—brought in a tray.

The scent of the food drove all other thoughts from his mind and he fell on it, devouring it ravenously, although it was difficult at first to master the implements with bandaged wrists that didn't bend very well. He had
never
been so hungry before, and when he finished with a sigh, he was astonished at the amount of food he'd eaten. The older man and the young one watched him put away his breakfast without a sign of surprise.

“Recovering from burns requires a great deal of energy, that is why you are so hungry,” the young man said—a bit pompously, Lan thought, and from the amused glance of the older Healer, so did his superior.

However, the older Healer didn't rebuke him. The man simply suggested, “Let's see if we can't get you out of bed and clothed. You should be ready for your visitors when they arrive, and it will do you harm to remain too long abed.”

They did more than merely get him out of bed; they helped him bathe, get to the water closet, and into a set of clothing he had never seen before. They looked brand new, were brightly decorated with bands of gold-and-black tapestry, and Lan suspected his mother's hand in the selection. However, they were of soft chirra-wool dyed a dark rose, and felt wonderful on his sensitive, pink skin. From the look of things, he'd been burned all over, but his hands and wrists had been the worst.

“Now, it is a fine evening, one of the last we are likely to see until spring, and I would prefer for you to meet with your visitors in the garden,” the older Healer said firmly. “Hob will help you get there.”

This was obviously more of an order than a request, and although Lan would
much
rather have gone back to his bed to sleep, he wasn't going to be offered a choice in the matter.

With young Hob's assistance, although his legs were very shaky, Lan got as far as the first bench in the Healer's garden, where Hob left him. He took advantage of the momentary isolation to look around, and didn't recognize a single thing.

Where is this place?
he wondered, distracted from other thoughts by the novelty of his surroundings.

Although the sky was dark and the leafless condition of the trees around him left no doubt as to the season, the air was balmy, and he thought that it might be somewhere around the time of year that they called “false summer” back in Alderscroft. Right around Sovvan there was a week or two of warm, sunny days and gentle, balmy nights right before the winter set in with a vengeance. There were just enough leaves left to make a semblance of bravery before the cold winds ripped them from the trees.

This was an herb garden, which made sense, given that it was attached to a House of Healing. He sat on a stone bench, still warm from the sun, one of a grouping of four that surrounded a round, raised herb bed. This was one grouping of many; someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure the garden was as ornamental as it was useful. It was perfectly easy to see; there were lights and lanterns everywhere, even in the gardens.

Behind him stood an enormous building; this was where he had been housed until now, and he would have said it was quite the most enormous building he had ever seen—except that now, it wasn't.

It was one of a complex of buildings, three in all, joined by enclosed walkways that formed three sides of a long, narrow rectangle, enclosing this long garden. Beyond this garden, however, were
more
gardens, and more buildings. Or was it just a single, large building? He couldn't make up his mind. The main part of it was huge, and very old, with extensions that must have been added to it over a long period of time so that it rambled in all directions. He just stared at it for a long time, wondering what it could possibly be.

Between him and it was another, fanciful garden, beautifully planted so that even at this late season there were evergreen bushes and trees that kept the aspect verdant. This was a venue meant to be enjoyed in all seasons and times of the day or night, evidently; enormous oil torches stood by, shaped like shallow bowls on pedestals, ready to be lit when night fell, should there be a great occasion that called for the garden to be brilliantly illuminated.