Brightly Burning

by Mercedes Lackey

  Oh, gods. They do think I’m responsible!

  This time, Lan wasn’t shivering with cold, he was trembling with fear, and something angry and ominously familiar roused deep inside him. He began to flush as he spoke, feeling anger uncoil in his belly.

  “They—Tyron—said I was eroding discipline because I wasn’t letting them catch me to beat me up,” he began slowly. “And because I wouldn’t steal velvet from my father for him. He wanted scarlet for a Midwinter tunic, and he told me to get him some. When I told him I didn’t get pocket money, he told me to get the velvet however I had to, and that he’d flog me for disobedience if I didn’t.” Just the memory made him angry, and he felt a headache beginning. Once again, the Herald and the Guard Captain exchanged a look. “He said he was going to punish me for that, and because some of the others were staying up in the classrooms over lunch like I was doing instead of going down to the Hall where Tyron and his bunch could get at them. And he said he was going to punish me for lying about being sick, and for lying about staying behind after classes to study and coming in early to study. He was going to flog me for all of that, and that was why they took me to the storeroom, where nobody could hear me.”

  “Hmm.” The Guard Captain made a note, but said nothing. Once again, it was the Herald that asked the questions.

  “And did he tell you just how severe your punishment was going to be?” he asked.

  Lan squinted through his headache. “Eighty stripes—I think—” I can’t think . . . why won’t they leave me alone? I didn’t do anything!

  The Herald interrupted. “All right, you say that the older boys found you in the classroom and took you downstairs to the storage room to flog you.”

  He hadn’t said that, he hadn’t said where they’d found him, but it was right, so he snapped his mouth shut and tried to think through a pounding headache that misted his vision with red. He just nodded, and the Herald continued.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Tyron—told me what I told you—and then he told the others to ‘play with me’ and they started to shove me around.” He could hardly speak now, torn between anger at his tormentors, and a terror as great as they had given him, but why was he so horribly afraid? What was it that the Herald’s questions were pushing him toward? Why did the questions make him want to run away, howling?

  Please! Leave me alone!

  “So they tossed you about and slammed you into the walls. Then?”

  “Then—that was when Tyron said—and they took me to the chair—and they tied—” The red rage and fear rose together, and the Herald wouldn’t let him alone!

  “Then what, Lan?” the Herald persisted. “Then what happened? We have to know!”

  He reached out and seized Lan’s shoulder in an insistent grip, and the rage and the fear spiraled upward, out of control, and melded into a terrible whole.

  “No!” he screamed, flinging himself away, dimly understanding that the unthinking rage and the animal fear would strike at whatever was nearest, whether the target deserved it or not.

  He stumbled and fell to his hands and knees at the foot of one of the great torches as the maelstrom of emotion became the monster of flame—but this time, he did not touch anything living.

  He sprawled at the base of the ornamental torch, and as his eyes glazed over with crimson, the oil above his head erupted in flame with a sound like the dull impact of a giant fist on flesh, or of something soft and heavy falling to earth. A wave of heat washed over him, and his trailing sleeves caught fire.

  By this point, he was helpless; the fire held him in thrall. All he could do was let it rage around him, and hope nothing came within its grasp.

  Forlorn hope.

  Another torch went up, and another, and the nearest bush started to crisp and crackle with flames. The fire spread, and he could do nothing! He heard, as from a far country, the cries of alarm, and even someone calling his name, but he was no longer himself, he was the fire, and the flames were more intoxicating than wine, more implacable than a thunderstorm, all-consuming and all-enveloping, and in a moment or two he would be gone and there would be nothing left but the flames.

  The little of himself that was left was nothing more than a dry leaf in the firestorm; tempest-tossed, not yet consumed, but doomed, surely doomed—

  :Never!:

  The word, clear and bright as a trumpet call in a still night, sounded above the chaos enveloping him.

  There was a moment of total stillness. Lan, teetering just above the fiery abyss and about to fall into it forever, felt—something—reach for him, take him, and pluck him away.

  The rage and fear ran out of him like molten metal poured from a cracked crucible. The ragged lightning piercing his brain with unbearable pain vanished. The crimson haze cleared from his sight, and he looked up, saw that the fire around him had died away, all but the flames rising from the torches; saw that he was not alone.

  But it was no human that stood beside him, valiantly shielding him with her own body from the Herald and the spears of the two Guards and the Captain.

  It was a Companion.

  Oh— he thought vaguely, and looked into her eyes.

  Once again he fell, but not to his doom.

  He fell into a cool, blue world of light; he fell forever and never reached the bottom. But something reached out for him.

  Something enfolded him, wrapped and cradled him in an emotion he almost didn’t recognize. And when he realized what it was, he wept, and as he wept, he returned it with all his heart, and wrapped the giver in the gift, until it was no longer possible for either of them to have told where one began and the other ended.

  They trembled together there, in an embrace so close that there was no room for thought, for a single, deliriously sweet moment. Then they parted, separating into individuals—but never again to be alone, never again without a bond beyond words, joined together by the strongest thing on earth or in the Havens.

  He fell back into himself, still gazing into the most wondrous eyes in the world, and heard her speak for the second time into his mind.

  :I love you, Lan. I Choose you. I am Kalira, and I will never leave you.:

  “Well,” said the Herald, in a voice heavy with irony. “This certainly changes things.”

  POL had anticipated many possible outcomes from his confrontation with Lavan Chitward, but this was not one of them. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have anticipated that Lavan would be Chosen—or be a Firestarter who had nearly immolated himself along with his persecutors.

  He managed to persuade Captain Telamaine that the boy was no longer a danger to anyone; he also managed to persuade him that the boy was in no way responsible for what the fires he had called had done to his tormentors. How he had done so, he had no idea. It might have been his own feeble powers of Empathic projection, it might have been a miracle. It might even be the work of Kalira, Lavan’s new Companion, for there was no doubt that she could, and would, do anything she had to in order to protect him.

  Now the four of them—himself, young Lavan, Kalira, and Satiran—were alone in the garden. There was plenty of light to see by, although it was well past midnight. They had gathered, ironically enough, beneath the huge garden torch; there seemed no reason to extinguish it. They needed to have open space for the two Companions, since the Healers wouldn’t allow Lavan out of their sight, which meant Pol couldn’t carry him off to the Collegium.

  Yet.

  Lavan stood no taller than Pol’s shoulder; short for his reputed age of sixteen, thin, and lanky, with the loose-jointed, unfinished air of a boy who hasn’t yet grown into what he will one day be. He had chestnut hair, more red than brown, with a slight wave to it, hazel eyes prone to change colors as his mood changed, and a thin, finely chiseled face, delicate, but in no way effeminate. Not a boy one would have ever suspected as the cause of so much horror.

  The Healers had reclothed him and examined every bit of him for new burns, but in the end, only needed
to replace the bandages. This time his powers had done him relatively little damage, other than to ruin his clothes. Pol had sent at once for a proper Trainee’s Grays; it had reinforced his arguments with Captain Telamaine when the boy reappeared in the garb of a Heraldic Trainee.

  Now the only question was—what was Herald’s Collegium to do with him?

  :What do you think?: asked an unfamiliar mind-voice; female, and there was only one creature it could be. Pol stared at Kalira in astonishment; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that a Companion had ever Mindspoken to someone other than his Chosen Herald.

  :Are you—Mindspeaking me?: he asked in shock.

  :Of course I am!: she said tartly. :Don’t be ridiculous, Pol. You need to talk to me directly, not through Satiran. And as for what you will do, you Heralds—you will take him, and train him, that is what you will do with him.:

  He gazed at her dubiously. Lavan was oblivious to the conversation, although Pol was certain he heard it; sitting on the bench with one hand and his forehead resting on her flank. He was exhausted, and more than a little befogged by the drugs the Healers had given him.

  :How?: Pol asked her. :How do you train something like—this?: There hadn’t been a Firestarter in the Heraldic Circle in all the time he could remember, not one of any power, at least. He was the only Herald with even a trace of the Gift, and all he could manage to do was light an occasional bit of tinder. A powerful Firestarter came along once every two or three generations—someone like Lavan, never before. He was unique—and not a little frightening.

  :How can we deal with this?: he continued. :It’s not a Gift, it’s a curse! He’s got no control over it. It damned near took him, and the gods only know what would have been unleashed if it had!:

  Kalira raised her head and stared at him defiantly. :I can control it,: she replied. :I can, and I will. He will be of no danger as long as I am with him, and I will never leave him.:

  :Kalira—: Satiran interjected haltingly. :He has murdered four already. Is this any kind of person to Choose?:

  Satiran gazed at the other Companion with eyes dark with fear and worry, and well he might. Kalira was his daughter.

  :He didn’t murder anyone; it was part accident, part horrible bad luck, and part provoked. I Chose him, Satiran; it is my Choice, not yours. He needs me. Would you have another Tylendel?: she asked harshly, and Pol saw Satiran wince.

  He moved to the side of his old friend, and laid his arm along Satiran’s neck, hoping to give him some comfort, as Satiran had so often given comfort to his Chosen. “Children grow up and make their own paths,” he murmured. “It’s not for us to force them out of the roads they pick, however much we might wish to. The Choice is made; now let’s deal with it.”

  Kalira cast him a glance that was half gratitude, half defiance, then turned her head to nuzzle her Chosen. What passed between them was not for Pol or Satiran to hear, but the boy turned his head and looked to them with a bit more life in his pallid face. And anguish, terrible anguish, more than any boy his age should have to feel.

  “Oh, sir—I didn’t mean—” he began, and started to cry, the sort of helpless, hopeless weeping of one who is weary far past his strength. His face crumpled, and Pol heard his spirit crumbling in his tears.

  Pol was not proof against that agony. Gingerly, he sat down beside the boy, and when Lavan didn’t resist, put an arm around his shoulders. “I know you never meant any of this to happen, Lavan,” he told the youngster, and somewhat to his own bemusement, he knew at that moment that he had spoken nothing but the truth. Lavan Chitward had probably fantasized about dealing the bullies the same punishment they’d inflicted on him, but he would never have been Chosen had he been the kind of person who could actually carry out those fantasies. How could anyone blame him for what had happened? Even the mildest of creatures fights back when cornered, and it was just everyone’s misfortune that Lavan had teeth and claws that were sharper than swords and more deadly—and hadn’t known it.

  “I didn’t!” Lavan sobbed. “I didn’t! Oh, gods, why didn’t I die, too?”

  :He means it,: Kalira said warningly, and turned her attention back to the boy.

  “You didn’t die because you don’t deserve to die!” Pol said firmly, closing his hand on the boy’s shoulder and willing him to believe.

  “Neither did they!” Lavan moaned, shrinking into himself.

  “That may be. Look at me, Lavan!” He turned the boy’s tear-streaked face up so that he had to look into Pol’s eyes. His swollen eyes begged for the reassurance that Pol was about to give him. “Now, listen to me! If those boys, out of ignorance, had teased a herd of horses and stampeded them, were the horses to blame?”

  “N-no.” Perhaps it was the drugs, perhaps the exhaustion, but Lavan had not dropped into unreasoning hysteria. He was listening.

  “And if those boys had been trampled beneath their hooves, what then?” he persisted. “Do we kill the horses because their panic overwhelmed their reason?”

  “So this—thing—inside of me—is like a herd of wild horses?” Lavan said tentatively, his eyes beseeching Pol for the comfort of confirmation.

  Pol nodded, firmly. “Very like. Quite as unreasoning. If you had been Chosen and come to us before this ability of yours got so inextricably entangled with your fear and anger, perhaps it would have been like a herd of horses harnessed into a team. But—!” he continued, holding up a finger to forestall any interruptions. “That is only a ‘perhaps’—and a herd turned into a team can still break free and stampede. I don’t know enough about your Gift to tell you anything for certain.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his own neck. “I don’t think anyone ever has.”

  Lavan scrubbed tears from his face, leaving behind a smear of ash, and sniffed, then gulped. “Now what?” he said, in a very small voice.

  “Now we train you as best we can,” Pol said, feeling a terrible weight of responsibility descending on his shoulders. “Kalira says that she can control this Gift of yours, and I have never known a Companion to be wrong about something when she is so very certain of her ability.”

  “What about—” Lavan waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the city. “What about what I did at the school?” His eyes pled for forgiveness, for some sort of redemption.

  Pol looked to Satiran for help. What would they do? What was the moral and ethical course to steer through this morass? It seemed to him that whatever they chose to do, it would be wrong!

  :For now . . .: Satiran pondered. :For now, nothing. I believe that Captain Telamaine will decide to permit the parents of the dead boys to come to their own conclusions, without revealing that Lavan has any unusual Gifts.:

  Pol wondered if Satiran or Kalira had put that plan into the Captain’s head. Then again—probably not. Telamaine would not have been put in charge of the Guard here in Haven if he was not able to arrive at compromise.

  “People are going to find out eventually,” Pol protested.

  :Perhaps. But memories fade. It is entirely possible that no one will connect Trainee Lavan with Lavan Chitward by then—or put a Firestarting Gift together with the disaster at the school.:

  :Even if they do,: Kalira interjected, :there is nothing they can do about it. I suspect if they dared to bring it up before the Crown, the King would have a few choice words to say about the kind of person who gains his amusement from torturing and abusing the weak and undefended.:

  Pol couldn’t help it; however grave the situation, he couldn’t stop his lips from quirking into a little smile at the way Kalira leaped to Lan’s defense.

  Then he sighed. It wasn’t entirely a moral or ethical course, but it was the closest he could see to steering one. “Go to bed, Lavan,” he said at last, feeling quite as weary as Lavan. “This is more than we can deal with in a single night. Just remember this, every time that you start to feel afraid, or guilty, or angry. Companions don’t Choose wrongly. That is something we all know, at the core of our souls.”
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  :And if you forget,: Kalira said, half amused, and half fiercely, :I will certainly remind you.:

  Pol walked Lavan to the door, where the Healers had been waiting impatiently; this time they took him to a different room, one on the ground floor, where a large window could be opened to the garden. These rooms were used for Heralds, so that their Companions could be near them. Kalira settled herself in for the night at the window, and Pol and Satiran walked slowly back to the Collegium, side by side.

  “What are we going to do with this one?” Pol asked, unable to see how this situation could ever be made into a success.

  :We’ll do what we have to,: Satiran replied. :We’ll do what we have to. But there’s something else I think you should know—:

  Pol braced himself. A hundred dire possibilities ran through his mind, but once again, the story of Lavan Chitward was going to surprise him with the unexpected.

  :This—is not just Kalira’s Choice,: Satiran said hesitantly. :I think—I think it’s a lifebond.:

  TEN

  POL was not finished for the night, after all. No sooner had he crossed the threshold into Herald’s Collegium, he was surrounded by people; Captain Telamaine, the Lord Marshal and his Herald, Marak—the Seneschal and his Herald, Trevor—and the King’s Own, Herald Jedin. Pinning him into the poorly-lit entryway, none of them were willing to let him pass until each of them had gotten a say in matters.

  The factions were equal and quite clearly demarcated along color lines; the Heralds in their white uniforms on his right, the others in their varicolored court clothing on the other. They all began talking at once, creating a babble that echoed up and down the hallway and rose in sound level as each tried to be heard over the rest. This was an impossible situation, and Pol put his foot down immediately.

  “Shut up, all of you!” he roared, silencing them. Heads popped out of doors up and down the hall, and quickly retreated when the rank of those clustered at the entry had been noted. It was too late to hope that curiosity hadn’t been aroused; he could only hope that the incident was quickly forgotten. “Now, I suggest we take this to the Lesser Council Chamber before you frighten all the Trainees and set the Court to making up gossip for lack of concrete information.” He glared at all of them; he rarely invoked his ability to cow a group, but that made the skill all the more effective when he displayed it. Without waiting for an answer, he strode off down the corridor, leaving them to follow in his wake. The wood-paneled hall remained silent; no more heads popped from doors. Pol hoped that this altercation was of less interest than books and interrupted studies.