Brightly Burning (7 page)

Not that it made any difference, except that he suffered for it for half the morning with an aching head and irritated eyes, though the sensitivity of his skin faded as the morning passed.

And for once at lunch the attention of the Sixth Form was off him. One of the Fifth Formers had failed to obtain Golden Beauty apples for Tyron's luncheon pleasure as he'd been ordered; this wasn't a trivial task, as Golden Beauty apples were just going out of season. Tyron wouldn't hear any excuses, nor was he placated by the offer of a basket of Complin apples instead. Two of his henchmen seized the unfortunate by his arms and hustled him away.

Lan was now welcome to sit with Owyn and his friends, and he turned his head just enough that he could whisper to the younger boy, “Where are they going with him?”

Owyn's eyes were as big and round as those of his namesake, and his face was pale. “They're going to flog him.”

Lan felt his own face and hands grow cold. When Tyron threatened him with flogging that first day, he hadn't really thought they would actually do such a thing! It was one thing for the teachers to flog a disobedient pupil, but this!

“They can't do that, can they?” he whispered back desperately, hoping that something or someone might intervene.

Owyn just shook his head. “You ought to know by now they can do anything they want.”

Lan lost his appetite, all at once, and as soon as he thought he could slip away unnoticed, he retreated to the classroom and buried his nose in his book. He stared at the same page without bothering to turn it, since there was no one there to see him.

What he wanted, with the purest desperation he had ever yet felt, was to be out of this place, to walk out now and never return. But that was an impossibility . . . his mother had made it even clearer than Master Keileth that this year's tuition had cost a very great deal, and it would be forfeit if he left.
If I were to run off, I'd better run all the way to Hardorn; if Mother ever caught up with me, I would be turning a spit in the kitchen of the worst inn in Haven for the rest of my life. And that would be if she was feeling generous.

His head began to throb again, the headache growing worse with every passing heartbeat. And in fact, by the time the next teacher, a bored, middle-aged, balding scholar, arrived after lunch for the class, he felt (and looked) so miserable that even the teacher noticed.

“Lavan,” he said sharply, and Lan's head snapped up. That only made the headache worsen, and he winced.

The teacher shook his head, and his bored brown eyes gazed critically at Lan. “You look as if you're sickening with something,” the man stated, a combination of irritation and concern on his face.

I certainly am
, Lan thought, but said nothing. The teacher studied him a moment more.

“I'm sending you home early. There's no point in having you here if you're too ill to learn.”

Lan privately thought that the teacher was more concerned he might catch whatever it was that Lan was allegedly coming down with, but he kept his mouth shut and accepted the hastily scribbled note to give to his parents. All he could think of, other than the pounding pain in his head and an increasing nausea, was that at least today he wouldn't have to run the gantlet of Sixth Formers to get home.

He gathered up his books and plodded out into the empty hall, trying to walk softly so his footsteps didn't echo. As he exited the building and then passed the gates, he felt the relief of temporary escape, at least. He made his way through the uncrowded streets with no more than a single wistful glance at a passing Guardsman. It was chilly today, and overcast; the few ornamental plants in front of houses were evergreens, and wouldn't be touched by frost, but back in Alderscroft, people would be waiting for the first hard frost to turn the leaves to red and gold. Here, the gray sky, gray streets, and the unfriendly houses left an overpowering impression of bleakness.

There was no one home but the servants, who would certainly be surprised and taken aback by his return. He didn't bother to knock, but the housekeeper heard the door open and came running.

“Lavan!” she exclaimed, looking at him in shock, with her frilled cap slightly askew—and there was more than an edge of suspicion in her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm sick,” he mumbled. “They sent me home. Here. This is for Mother.” He just didn't feel up to making any more of an explanation, he just thrust the note at the housekeeper to give to his mother, and plodded upstairs to the sanctuary of his room, one slow step at a time.

Unfortunately, the relief of escaping from the Sixth Form for a day didn't bring an end to the pounding in his head. He dropped down onto his bed, his head buried in his hands, wishing for an end to the pain.

The housekeeper tapped on his open door, and he looked up. She wiped her hands on her coarse linen apron as she examined him.

“You might as well lie down,” she said, and looked at him again with a less critical eye. “You do look puny,” she said grudgingly. “I'll send one of the maids up with a hot-bag and willow tea.”

He didn't grimace at the idea of the bitter tea; at this point he would drink down oak gall if it would help his head. Evidently the housekeeper considered his ailment serious enough to warrant the household's attention; one of the giggly little maidservants brought him the tea almost immediately, and he drank it down gratefully. It took a bit longer for the hot-bag, a linen pillow filled with buckwheat husks and herbs which had to be put into the bread oven to absorb heat. About the time that the tea took the worst edge off the pounding in his skull, the girl brought him the hot-bag, wrapped in a towel, to put on his forehead. She closed the door after herself, leaving him alone in his room, sprawled still clothed on the coverlet—though he had taken off his boots. His mother would kill him if she caught him on the bed with his boots still on.

With the hot-bag a comforting, warm weight on his face, he tried not to think at all, just to try and relax and wait for the pain to go away.

The herbs in the bag gave off a pleasant scent; he didn't know enough about them to identify them, but they were nice. The sounds of the servants going about their business came up to him, muffled by the closed door. One of the girls sang to herself as she swept, a simpleminded love song that was very popular just now. Lan would have preferred something bleaker, to match his mood, but he wasn't about to get up to make a request.

Down in the distant kitchen, the cook bellowed and pots and pans clattered; distant enough not to be irritating. Outside, the occasional horse or mule passing by was all he heard of the sparse traffic this time of day. Later, as suppertime neared, there would be more noise outside; sometimes even a great deal of noise if one of the neighbors got a large delivery.

His headache responded to the heat; it lessened to a dull ache just behind his eyes and in the back of his head. As the pain faded, he wished he could sleep, but his thoughts were too restless and wouldn't be still.

There was more trouble ahead of him; every day was colder and shorter. How long would it be before the Sixty Formers could no longer pursue their after-school entertainments? He'd heard them speak of court tennis, of fencing lessons, of riding in the fashionable Leeside Park, before they all went off in a mob. None of those things would be comfortable or possible in a bitter rain or with snow on the ground. And then what would they do for sport?

The subject made him feel sick all over again, and strengthened his headache.

I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!
he thought fiercely, his hands clenching in the coverlet.
If they keep on coming at me, I'll kill them, I will!

Really? asked a dry voice in his mind.
You, undersized and outnumbered, you're no threat to them. You can't even stop them from pushing you around. How do you propose even to impress them enough to leave you alone?

He couldn't; he knew he couldn't and that frustration was as bad or worse than the anger.

Why
couldn't
they leave him alone? He was nothing to them; he was less than nothing. He wanted so badly to batter those smug faces, to pound Tyron until his fists hurt. Not a chance, not a chance in the world that it would happen. Even if he could get Tyron alone, he wouldn't stand a chance against someone so much bigger and stronger than Lan was. Not someone who was so fit and athletic. No matter what sort of fighting Lan learned or practiced, Tyron would always be ahead of him by virtue of his inches and muscles.

Footsteps outside his door warned him someone was coming, so when the door opened, he pulled the hot-bag off his eyes and turned his head to see who it was.

“Your teacher seems to think that you're ill, or becoming ill,” Nelda said, giving him the same critical glare that the housekeeper had. Today she was gowned in an amber brown with bands of her own embroidery around the hems.

“My head hurts,” he said simply. “A lot.”

His mother came to his bedside and tested his forehead with the inside of her wrist, then tested the hot-bag. “You're hotter than the compress; you've got a fever. There
is
something going around they tell me,” she admitted with a slight frown. “Your teacher seems to think you should stay home for a few days and study on your own.”

A few days?
It was more of a reprieve than he had ever thought he would get!
But if I look too eager, she might send me back tomorrow.

He closed his eyes as a jolt of pain lanced across his head from left to right. He certainly didn't have to feign
that.
“I'll try, Mother,” he said truthfully. “If you think I should stay home—but if you don't want me to, I won't.”

That must have been the right thing to say. “You
must
be sick,” she said reluctantly. “All right; I'll have your meals brought up on a tray, and we'll keep you home for a while. “There's no point in spreading whatever you've caught to the rest of the family.” She pursed her lips as Lan looked up at her. “I'll send to the herbalist for something better than willow tea for your head. Meanwhile, you lie back down.” He obeyed, meekly, and she felt his forehead with a surprisingly gentle expression on her face. “Lavan, you've been driving me to distraction since we moved to Haven, but I still love you. It's not been easy for the rest of us here in Haven either.”

A pang of conscience penetrated the pain in his head. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled, feeling ashamed.

“Just keep on with this school as you have been, and you won't have a reason to feel sorry anymore,” she said, spoiling his moment of contrition, as she put the hot-bag back on his forehead.

Just keep on with the school—if the Tyrant will let me!
he thought in despair, and the headache returned with a vengeance.

As aromas that should have been savory and only made him feel sick floated up from the kitchen, he fought down nausea and his pain.

When footsteps came up the stairs again, he thought it was the servant with the promised tray, and took off the hot-bag to send her away. But it wasn't; it was the maidservant all right, a vaguely pretty girl with a round face and red cheeks, but she had a bottle and spoon in one hand, and another hot-bag wrapped in a new towel dangling from the other.

“This is from the herbalist for you,” the maid said, with a sympathetic smile, holding out the bottle and spoon. “Just take a spoonful; he says it's mortal strong.” Lan was surprised and touched by the sympathy. Evidently, now that it was clear he wasn't making his illness up, the servants were less inclined to be critical of him.

She left the hot-bag beside him as he took the medicine from her, leaving him alone in the darkening room. After a moment of thought, he lit his candles at his fireplace, although bending over nearly made him pass out.

Strange. I don't remember anyone coming in to light the fire.
It hadn't been lit when he came home, had it?

I—I must have forgotten, my head hurt so much.
When the room was full of light, he stripped and got into his nightclothes and got properly into bed, just in case the medicine was as strong as it was supposed to be. He didn't have a great deal of faith in the promises of herbalists, but it might very well be powerful.

His skin felt tender again, that slightly-sunburned feeling. As he stretched out under the bedclothes with the new hot-bag on his head, he was glad he'd gotten out of his clothing. The wool trews had been itchy; the soft linen felt much better. Downstairs, people were starting to arrive home, and the house hummed with conversation and activity. No one else came near him, though; he experienced the odd sensation of eavesdropping on his own family.

It was . . . interesting. The maid had left his door open, so he heard most of what was going on fairly clearly. No one seemed to notice his absence until dinner, when his mother's brief explanation brought an expression of detached sympathy from Sam, and an exclamation of “Don't let him get near
me!
” from his sister.

But it was just about then that the herbalist's remedy started to take effect, and Lan couldn't have cared if they had all voted to wrap him in a plague banner and chase him out of town.

It began with a dulling of the pain, followed by the oddest sensation of floating. The more the pain left, the more the euphoria took over. At some point, about midway through dinner downstairs, an irrestistible tug toward sleep took over where the euphoria ended. He didn't even try to fight it.