Brightly Burning (54 page)

“Ashkevron?” he gulped. “
The
Ashkevrons? Of Forst Reach?”

:Oh, my ears—that's the family that Herald Vanyel came from!:
Kalira exclaimed as the girl nodded.

“We're all girls but my one brother, and he
can't
fight, he's laid up with a leg broke in three places,” Diera continued. “There's more of us coming, but I was the only one ready to go
now.
Fancied I'd go into the Guard, and been training for it.”

“And I wasna about to let her go off alone,” the old man added, with a stubborn set to his mouth. “But thas' neither here nor there. We're to tell you 'bout what we know, eh? So les' get to it.”

Over the next league or so, the ill-matched pair detailed the three or four pockets of Karsite strength they thought would fall to Lan to eliminate. Rather as he had expected once they began, these places were all small fortresses, manned by no more than twenty or thirty, that overlooked key passes. With that handful of fighters, the Karsites could easily delay the Valdemaran army by a day and perhaps more, if they had Sun-priests with them who could command similar powers to the Heraldic Gifts.

The excitement of being called a hero had long since worn off, and when he realized that he would be expected to burn these people out, he began to feel queasy. Kalira sensed his unease, without knowing the cause, and enveloped him in a wordless blanket of assurance.

There were hundreds, thousands of fighters in the army depending on him, who could—
would
—lose their lives if he didn't do what he was expected to do.

“You'll be able to take care of them, won't you?” Diera asked anxiously. “If you can't—it would be bad, very bad, I think.”

When that didn't extinguish the queasiness, he called up the mental image of Pol with his bandaged eyes . . . Ilea beside him, with a reproachful look aimed straight toward
him.

That awoke guilt, but guilt was better than indecision. “Just get me there,” he told Diera. “I'll do the rest.”

SINCE they would travel with the Lord Marshal and the bulk of the army, Pol and his family were left at loose ends until everyone was underway. There were servants to pack up the Healers' gear, and the Lord Marshal's people dealt with Pol's. So Pol found himself with a rare moment of leisure to share with his wife, as they perched on a log with the last scrapings from the mess kettle to eat (nothing went to waste when a Guard-cook was in charge) and tried to stay out of the way.

“What's wrong with Elenor?” Pol whispered to Ilea to get her mind off of her own failure to restore his sight, although he was afraid he already knew the answer. His daughter's listless behavior since Lan had awakened was something he would have called moping in anyone else. Most of her conversation was in monosyllables, and although he couldn't actually see her face, he suspected that her eyes were reddened from secret crying.

“What do you think?” Ilea replied, with a distinct edge to her voice. “Lavan woke up and didn't ask for her, didn't look for her, didn't even thank her. In fact, Lavan hasn't even
looked
at her since your accident.”

“Ah.” Well, that was what he had expected. Though it would have been better for poor Elenor if her infatuation had turned to anger that Lan hadn't prevented the accident. “And you? How do you feel about the boy?”

“I am . . . mixed in feeling,” Ilea admitted. “It's not the boy's fault, but I
am
annoyed with him; I wish he'd at least notice she's in love with him! But he's so thick-headed!”

“Boys that age usually are, if they're unaffected by the girl in question,” Pol said dryly. “If they
do
notice, they're generally so embarrassed they try to avoid her altogether, and I can't see where that would be an improvement so far as Elenor is concerned.”

“At least it would be rejection, and maybe she could stop trying to convince herself that if she just proves her devotion he'll repay it,” Ilea responded, and took the empty bowl from him. There was more irritation in her voice now, and Pol guessed that she was more put out with her own daughter than with Lavan.

“It's Elenor I'm really irritated with,” she continued, confirming his guess. “How much will it take before she gives up? The boy couldn't be more indifferent to her, and she's a
Healer.
She has to be able to sense his lifebond with his Companion by now!”

Interestingly, Ilea's annoyance with her daughter lessened Pol's. “She won't see it until she stops believing it isn't there,” he told Ilea, and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer. She resisted for a moment, then gave in and relaxed against him. “She doesn't want to see it, and at her age, what you
want
seems more important sometimes than what
is.
”

“Gods,” Ilea groaned. “We may be dealing with this for years, then. Can't you do something?”

“Lan doesn't need me now,” Pol replied, after a moment of hesitation. “Not after White Foal Pass. If—
when
this war is over and the Karsites are driven back, perhaps it would be wisest to have him stationed here permanently. . . .”

Even though he was thinking aloud, the idea caught hold of his imagination, and he could see how well it would work out. Elenor would not be allowed to go far from the Collegium; Mind-Healers were too rare, and most people that needed them were brought
to
them rather than the other way around.

And for Lan, this would be the ideal place. He could be left here on circuit for the next two years with a senior Herald, then take over the circuit on his own. If the Karsites dared set foot across the Border again, Lan would send them back with their tails smoking.

“That would be perfect!” Ilea replied, seizing on his idea. “Separate them! She can't obsess about someone who forgets to even answer her letters!”

“We can't do anything until the war is over,” Pol cautioned her, as he sensed her relief and enthusiasm. “A great many things could change between now and then—”

“I know—I know—”

“And during that time we're going to have to bear with her tears and tantrums,” Pol continued. “Not to mention every other wretched thing that a war can throw at us.”

“But I can put out my hand and feel the candle, even if I can't light it yet,” Ilea replied, sounding much less anxious already. “Just knowing it's there is enough.”

Pol just nodded, and tightened his arm. Sometimes knowing that there would eventually be an end to something
was
enough. Strange, that Ilea could cope cheerfully with the endless flood of injured and dying, and be thrown so off-balance by the mere heartache of their daughter.

“I have to go; the Healers should be packed up by now,” Ilea said abruptly. “I suppose—”

“You know where to find me,” Pol replied, with a final squeeze before he let her go. “You go to your duty, love.”

“And you to yours,” he responded, and waited until the creak of her footsteps on the snow faded out of hearing range before summoning Satiran.

:Are we ready to join the Lord Marshal, old friend?:
he asked, as he felt his Companion's warm breath on his neck.

:Better ask if they are ready for us!:
Satiran replied, with a mental chuckle, as he linked in with Pol and gave him sight again.
:Let's ride!:

L
AN lay flat on a rocky overhang, peering down at his latest target, with the shepherd Wulaf beside him. Young Wulaf was a native of these parts; he and his shaggy pony could go very nearly anywhere that a goat could go. The boy was far more intelligent than he looked, and so was the pony; Lan and Tuck marveled at how much he knew about the area, and his pony's clever ability to find trails where there was no sign of where to go. Both pony and boy were, in the main, shaggy, untidy, brown. Both surveyed the world from beneath heavy forelocks of brown hair with blond streaks bleached by the sun.

So far Lan had managed to eliminate two potential trouble spots without actually killing anyone; both of the Karsite strongholds positioned strategically above the route the army would have to travel had been simple wooden fortresses, thrown up out of local logs, and just starting a fire that the enemy couldn't put out had driven the Karsites into the open. He burned their fortresses to the ground once there was no longer anyone in them to prevent the enemy from retaking and repairing the places. Once they were no longer protected behind walls and out of local logs, just starting a fire that the enemy couldn't put out had driven the Karsites into the open. Once they were no longer protected behind walls, the garrisons retreated back south and east without even putting up token resistance.

This place, however, would prove a harder nut to crack.

Below Lan, tucked into a flat space about halfway down the mountain, was what had begun its life as a robber-baron's stronghold. Built stoutly of stone, kept even safer within high stone walls, it must have taken a very clever plan to capture it in the past. Subsequently, it had become a farm; mainly raising sheep, goats, and mountain ponies. Then the Karsites took it for themselves, and it became the platform from which they could prevent any passage through the pass below.

“Look, yon,” Wulaf said, pointing at the largest building in the complex, with a round, squat construction beside it. “That war yon barn an silo, an' reckon they bain't took out fodder an' th' like, nah?”

“Huh. Hay burns,” Lan replied, shading his eyes to get a better view. “And their main gate is wood. I can take that out, and leave them without a way to keep attackers out.”

“Aye that,” Wulaf agreed. “Reckon ye burn all what bain't stone, they canna stay. Burn gate, food, beddin', clothes. . . . Start wi' barn, belike, an' silo.”

Lan narrowed his eyes, held tightly to the dragon's bonds with both mental hands, and allowed it to wake—a very little.

He projected the power past the slate roof of the round towerlike silo, sending a little spark into it to find tinder.

He sensed it catch.

Then the mountainside beneath him shook with a deafening roar!

The mountain trembled; he and Wulaf clung to their rocky perch and stared at each other; Wulaf's pony locked his legs in place but screamed with fear, tossing his blunt head upward, his eyes wild beneath his shaggy brindled forelock. Beneath them, a fountain of rock, dust, and snow blew out in an extravagant plume from the spot where the farm had been.

“Get cover!” Wulaf shouted, far quicker of wit than Lan; he and his pony scrambled back beneath the safety of an overhang, while Lan and Kalira followed—and just in time, as a rain of rocks, some half the size of the pony, plummeted down on the mountaintop. For a few moments, all they could do was cower as boulders crashed all around them, chipping ice and rock from their protection, landing nearly at their feet. Every time one crashed near them, the rock under their feet vibrated.

When the last pebble ticked down, a heavy silence descended. The haze of dust hanging over everything made Lan cough.

“Wha' the de'il hoppened?” Wulaf asked rhetorically, and sneezed, his eyes as round and big as prize whortleberries.

“I—don't know,” Lan said, who had heard him only through a ringing noise in his ears. He made his way to the edge of the precipice on his hands and knees, testing each step before he took it, and looked down.

The fortress was gone. Where it had been was a tumble of rock shaken down from the mountain above it, a tumble that continued down the side of the mountain and into the valley, seen imperfectly through a thick cloud of dust. Lan's jaw dropped; Wulaf appeared beside him, and whistled.