Brightly Burning

by Mercedes Lackey

  That was more than many parents felt. To Pol’s left was a potential source of trouble, and he wondered when it would break out. Young Lady Leana’s rigid posture betrayed what her pleasant face did not; the contempt that her husband of a year held her in. He was engaged in a torrid affair with someone out in the city; Pol didn’t know who it was, although he would bet his last penny that the King’s Own did. She seethed with frustration and jealousy, and from some of the heated glances he’d seen her exchange with one of the young rakes of the lesser nobility, her frustration was likely to break out into a full-blown affair of her own very soon. She would probably flaunt her conquest in her husband’s face; a bad idea, since he was hot-tempered as well as hot-blooded, and altogether too likely to either punish his wife or challenge her lover.

  Probably both.

  That would have repercussions of its own, since the marriage was a political one. Pol didn’t envy the King; he’d have to sort it all out, somehow.

  A more amusing feud was currently on display on the persons of Lady Isend and Duchess Abel; if they piled on much more in the way of jewelry and begemmed trimmings to their gowns, they might not be able to get up again if they fell over. Each of the ladies considered herself the sole authority on fashion, and spent most of her time trying to outdo her rival. The previous manifestation of the feud had been hats; tall, pointy ones, dripping veils and gold chains, which imperiled everyone around them and forced them to walk with a peculiar, backward-bent posture with the stomach thrust out. That had ended when someone new to Court had kindly inquired when they were expecting their babes to be born.

  At least the feud had taken a useful turn this past summer, erupting in gowns made of the thinnest, gauziest possible materials—costly, of course, since that meant gossamer linen and silk, and each gown had to be made of three or more layers if the lady who wore one didn’t want to reveal every possible bodily secret to the world. Gauze was cool, comfortable, and looked particularly lovely on slim, young bodies; that inspired the other ladies to copy them. Perhaps not every lady looked as ethereal and graceful in such gowns as the youngest and most lithe of the maidens, but at least they were all comfortable and less quarrelsome with the heat.

  Anything that made the ladies of the Court less quarrelsome was worth a few less-than-lovely sights, in Pol’s opinion.

  He detected no other problems during the course of the meal, and when the sweets came around, he caught the eye of King’s Own Herald Jedin and made a brief, but significant nod of his head towards Lady Leana. Jedin nodded, and shrugged a little. The interchange hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, but Pol was satisfied that Jedin was aware of the situation. Jedin could always come talk to him later, if need be.

  That was all he could do for now, and since he didn’t particularly care for sweets, he excused himself to his fellow Heralds, and with a bow to the King, withdrew from the Hall.

  As soon as he left the Palace and got into the Collegium, he cocked an ear toward the Collegium dining hall. A subdued hum came from it, indicating that the Trainees were still stuffing their growing bodies; for all of the formality of Court meals, the Trainees took as long or longer to eat than the courtiers, for they devoured a prodigious amount of food.

  :Satiran, old friend, can you give me a bit of a boost while I look for those traces I touched last night?: he asked as he opened the door to his room. Servants had already been and gone; the fire had been refreshed, and the lamps lit. Pol hoped that tonight none of the youngsters would decide to have an emotional crisis. It would be nice to spend a peaceful evening for a change.

  :Emotional crisis is the constant state of the young, Chosen,: Satiran chuckled. :That’s why they can eat so much; they burn it up with emoting. Of course I can give you a boost. I’m as curious as you.:

  Pol laughed a little, settling into his favorite chair and focusing his gaze on one of the lamp flames to bring himself easily and automatically into a trance, where it would be easier to work.

  One by one, he called up his own Gifts, bringing them up like tiny flames within his mind, and searched within his limited range for an answering echo.

  Even though the many Gifts that he knew had not resembled this odd one, he tried them anyway. It did no harm, and might awaken echoes from another nascent talent out there in his city.

  One by one, he worked his way through them all, down to the most obscure, the kind of Gift that allowed one to see the living energy produced by even the humblest of creatures.

  Nothing. Not so much as a hint. Whatever it was that had awakened him out of his sleep last night, it did not answer his call tonight.

  When he had exhausted his repertoire, he came up out of his self-induced trance with a little grunt of frustration. As his trance state faded, he became aware that he had sat in one position for far too long. He felt as stiff as a wooden doll; his right shoulder hurt, and his mouth was dry.

  :I know how you feel,: Satiran said, as he opened his eyes to see more than a thumb length of candle gone. :There was something about that—stirring—last night. I don’t know what it was. It bothered me then, and it still bothers me.:

  :Emotion is what it was,: Pol replied, getting up to stretch and walking slowly toward his fire. :Very raw emotion, and a great deal of it, with no control to speak of.:

  :Adolescent,: Satiran confirmed. :Yes, that’s it. A Gift waking under pressure of emotion? That’s not a comfortable thought—and, gods, I do hope it isn’t Empathy!:

  :I can’t think of anything worse than an Empathic Gift bubbling up under such circumstances,: Pol agreed, and yawned. :On the other hand, if that’s what it is, there isn’t a better place than Haven for someone like that to appear. We’ve an entire Collegium full of experienced Healers prepared to deal with that sort of thing.:

  Satiran “absented” himself briefly from the close conference with Pol; he was probably conferring with the other Companions for a moment. Pol took advantage of the free moment to check his time-candle and decided that it was late enough that he wouldn’t get any visitors tonight. Using all of his Gifts in sequence like that was tiring, especially calling up things he didn’t often have an occasion to invoke.

  He blew out all but his bedside candle, unclasped his hair, and stripped for bed, wistfully regarding the empty half of the bed where Ilea should have been. He was under the covers and reaching for his bedtime reading before Satiran got back to him.

  :No one else has any more idea of what it was than we do,: the Companion told him. :And no one else but you felt it. So that means that, whatever else it is, it isn’t Empathy.:

  :So it’s something really odd.: Pol cheered up a little at that. If there wasn’t a Herald here at the Collegium that had felt the surge last night, that meant that there wasn’t anyone here who could teach whatever it was.

  So if this Gift manifested rather than being repressed, Pol was guaranteed at least another few months within Collegium walls. That meant more time with Ilea, when she returned.

  Of course it was even odds which it would do—manifest or submerge. :Are any of the Companions feeling restless?: he asked Satiran. That would be one indication—if the nascent Gift belonged to a presumptive Herald, the Companion due to Choose him would start sensing that his or her time was near. Or at least, nearing.

  :Not that I’ve noticed, and nobody has volunteered that information, but . . . whoever it is might not. No one likes to be disappointed in public.: Satiran himself had experienced two “false alarms” before he was drawn to Pol, and the Companions often felt a certain guilt when an expected call didn’t come. Pol had a good idea why that should be; there was always the feeling that there was something that one should have done . . . that if, just perhaps, a vague urging had been followed, there might be one more badly-needed Herald.

  :Well, you might as well get some sleep. Or whatever,: Pol replied lightly, and was rewarded by a mental chuckle.

  :Whatever. Not that it’s your business!: came the taunting reply.

 
; :Oh, thank you! When you know that Ilea is hundreds of leagues away from me! Twist the dagger, why don’t you?: he taunted back.

  :Chastity is good for you. Think how much more you’ll appreciate her when she comes back!: was the retort, and Satiran dropped out of the front of his mind.

  Pol laughed, and opened his book. He had decided to stay awake a little longer than usual, just in case that unknown with the odd Gift was only manifesting in sleep himself.

  That might be the case, and might account for why he hadn’t touched off an echo when he looked for it.

  That would also account for the raw emotions, the sort of uncontrolled feelings that occurred in dream-sleep, when all the inhibitions of the day were gone.

  But he was nodding over his book in short order, and finally decided to give up and call it over for the night.

  Whatever it was would appear again—or not. But if it did, he wouldn’t be caught unaware the second time.

  SIX

  THE next day brought the start of the autumn rains; there had been occasional showers before, but Pol woke up to the kind of steady downpour emerging from solid gray skies that meant there would be day after day of rain for the next several weeks. There would be breaks in the rain, but the sun would have to fight its way through the overcast and, for the most part, would lose the fight. By now the fields outside were getting soggy, which meant that there would be no more grueling circuits of the obstacle course for some time. Satiran didn’t care about rain, but he hated mud, and the obstacle course would be a morass until the rains ended. Back when Pol had been a Trainee, they hadn’t had any choice but to run the course when they were ordered to; now that they had that choice, by common consent they avoided the place during the autumn rains.

  Sadly, the rains also brought the cool, crisp days full of brilliant colors to an end as well. A quick glance out his window told Pol that the damage had already begun, with leaves dropping as steadily as raindrops. This was the time of year when the leaves quickly faded to brown and dropped from the trees, leaving skeletal fingers silhouetted against a uniformly gray sky. Right now the Trainees in their own gray uniforms trudged about the Collegium grounds, hooded heads hunched against the rain, covered by the waxed cloth of their gray raincapes. At the moment, they looked like bits of scudding rain cloud themselves.

  Pol rarely had to leave the Collegium wing himself when he taught here; the classrooms where the Heraldic classes were held were all within the wing. He greatly appreciated the warm fires in every classroom, though every time an outside door opened, a cold, damp wind whipped through the halls. The classrooms were just a bit bigger than his bedroom, and had a friendly warmth to them.

  His particular specialty was in geography; Herald-Trainees needed to learn first how to read maps, then needed to memorize those maps, for one day they might have to find their way without the benefit of a map. Many things could happen to a Herald on circuit; the loss of supplies should never mean becoming lost.

  This lot evidently had clean-up duty at breakfast today; they came into the classroom heat-flushed and scrubbed, with cheerful faces and suppressed giggles. The Collegium Cook was a huge woman without an ounce of fat on her body, who looked as if she ought to be wielding a sword, not brandishing a ladle. She also had a bottomless fund of jokes and a finely-honed sense of humor that made kitchen duty prized above all other chores.

  Trainees got the benefit of some servants, but for the most part, they had to pitch in to keep the Collegium running. It was good for all of them. Trainees from the farms and cottages discovered leisure and servants, and the highborn learned what it was like for those not fortunate enough to have been born with a title. Trainees took turns at all the chores, from working in the kitchen to waiting at table, from helping in the laundry to stocking the closets, from chopping wood to making certain every room had a filled wood carrier, from mending uniforms to making them. The only thing they didn’t do was cleaning; they had to keep their own rooms clean and tidy, but the classrooms, bathing rooms, and hallways were cleaned by the Collegium servants.

  The same discipline held in Healer’s and Bard’s Collegia; it made all students equal, as did the uniforms all Trainees wore. Everyone in the Collegia wore uniforms that identified their status as students. In the case of Healer-Trainees, the uniforms were of a pale green; the Bardic Trainees wore a rusty color. There were a few highborn students, pupils whose noble families wanted them to have an extended education, and a few commoners whose uncommon intelligence bought them entry to the same education, who were not affiliated with any of the three Collegia but shared the classes. They, too, wore uniforms, of a light blue. There were no privileges of rank within the Collegia, nor of wealth, though occasionally some students among the highborn tried to break that rule. The King himself usually dealt with such a situation; he was hardly an autocratic man, but there was one thing he wouldn’t tolerate, and that was any interference in the running of the Collegia.

  The three Collegia ran on much the same schedules, and often shared classes. But there was a fundamental difference in the discipline of the Herald’s Collegium—if a highborn or wealthy Trainee in either Bardic or Healer’s Collegium couldn’t abide becoming one among equals, he or she could always leave. Those who abandoned their vocation would always have the shadow of failure hanging over them, and the unused Gift gnawing at them, but they could leave. Not so for a Heraldic Trainee. The bond of Herald and Companion was not a thing that could be abandoned.

  Not that any Trainee had ever seriously tried. There was always a Trainee or two who had troubles, but with help, they always worked through those troubles and adjusted. No one was ever Chosen who could not adapt to the regimen of the Collegium and the responsibilities of the Herald. The Companions themselves saw to that. They were the final arbiters of who became a Herald and who was unworthy of the honor, and only once, in all of the history of Valdemar, had one ever made a mistake—and even then, it was not in whom she Chose, but that she did not help him when he needed her the most, repudiating him in her anger at what he had done.

  Pol had that ever in his mind when he faced his classes of young Trainees. Every Herald did. Never again would there be another Tylendel.

  But there was no sign of any trouble in the younglings he was teaching this year. Most of them were the offspring of farmers, craftsmen, and small traders. The two or three highborn had adapted cheerfully, and even eagerly, to their new duties. There were conflicts of personality, of course, and love affairs, broken hearts, and quarrels, mistakes, misunderstandings, and adolescent rebellion, but no tragedies abrewing.

  The next class came in dripping, smelling of wet wool; before Pol’s class this lot took archery practice, even in the pouring rain. They chattered among themselves much more cheerfully than he would have, given that they’d gone straight from breakfast into the cold rain.

  Classes were small, no more than six pupils at a time, so that teachers could give each student individual attention. In Pol’s case, he taught a total of five Geography classes over the course of the day, and sometimes filled in for a teacher in who was ill. There were two classes in the lowest level of difficulty, two in the second, and one in the third. After a Trainee finished third-level Geography, he or she went on to Orienteering, the skill of dead reckoning in completely unknown territory.

  “Well, Derrian,” Pol asked the first one to sit down, “How did you manage this morning?”

  Derrian grinned impishly. “We did all right,” he said, with a hint of a smirk on his freckled face. “M’pa would have skinned me alive if I’d been too stupid to learn to keep m’bowstring dry by now.”

  “Derry showed us all what to do,” the smallest and youngest of the class piped up, with a worshipful glance at Derrian. “Weaponsmaster actually smiled!”

  “Good for you, Derrian!” Pol applauded. “Good for all of you, and well done.” He turned and drew a map symbol on the slate board behind him with a chunk of chalk. “Now, since you’ve been so clever,
Derrian, perhaps you remember what this symbol means?”

  By the time the class was over, the Trainees had thoroughly dried out and the room no longer smelled of wool. The third class hadn’t undertaken anything out in the wet, and after that class came the break for lunch.

  Pol habitually met with three other teachers for a card game over lunch; today it was his turn to host, so he sent a page down to the kitchen for provisions and set up the chairs and the table at the back of the room for a game.

  The players were a mixed bag, and he reflected as he arranged the cold meat, sliced breads, and the rest on his desk that they would never have met, much less become friends, if they hadn’t been Heralds. Damina was the eldest of the group, a tough old woman with a perfectly unreadable face and a wicked sense of irony. Like Pol, she was a native of Haven. Tevar was highborn—the highest, in fact, since he was the King’s youngest brother, but you would never have known it from the company he preferred to keep and the subjects that interested him. In point of fact, he was the specialist in wilderness survival and flora and fauna; he also taught Orienteering and took final-year Trainees out into the wilderness and trained them to survive with only the clothes on their backs and what they had in their pockets. The youngest of the group, Melly, taught History and Literature, and was one of the tutors for students having difficulties. She was assigned permanently to the Collegium, unlike the other three, because she was the best teacher that anyone had ever seen, with the talent—almost, one could say, the Gift—for getting younglings interested and excited about learning. That—and her size. She couldn’t have been any taller than the average thirteen-year-old. Riding circuit required physical abilities that she didn’t have, but that didn’t matter. She could, and did, ride messenger service during any emergency. She could, and did, take her turn out “on circuit” within Haven itself. She had dodged Karsite arrows and bandits, had come into Haven reeling in the saddle with exhaustion. Melly might not take the most arduous of duties, but no one could say that she didn’t take the most hazardous.