Pol nodded with satisfaction; Theran must have been working on those exact words for the better part of a day. He could not have chosen a better simile, or one more memorable and graphic.
"As for you," Theran continued, "we have thought long and hard about your punishment. You are very clearly obsessed, for the warning you had and the evidence you have heard was not sufficient; just as clearly, you are no longer able to consider your actions rationally. We do not execute the insane in this land. It is obvious that your family can exert no control over you, and thus cannot be trusted with your custody. Our Healers have enough to do; we will not burden them with the duty of taking care of you. We do not want you in our prison, providing an added burden for our Guards; prison is not the place for one such as you. Fortunately, and due entirely to the consideration of the combined Priesthoods of this land, a solution has been found."
He gestured, and a robed figure in cream-colored wool came forward from behind the platform. Pol craned his neck along with everyone else; this was as much a surprise to him as to the rest of those here. It was a woman, but he didn't recognize the robes of her Order.
"This is Priestess Fayshan, of the Cloistered Order of Kernos-Sequestered," Theran announced, and Pol saw his lips curve ever so slightly as Jisette's eyes widened in recognition. "I see that you know the Order. For the benefit of others, Fayshan's sect normally accepts only the most ardent in their faith, for their way is one of the most complete seclusion. In fact, each votary is sealed into her cell for the entirety of her life, receiving her needs and nourishment through a slit in the wall, and daylight through a slit-window. They know when they are sealed into those cells that they will exit their cells only at death. However, given the circumstances, Priestess Fayshan has graciously offered the hospitality of one of her cells, so that you may have the opportunity, through diligent prayer and contemplation, to be cured of your madness, and then, through more prayer and contemplation for as long as you may live, expiate your sin. Like her willing votaries, you will leave your cell only when you are dead."
Jisette began to flail wildly; the Guards took hold of her and restrained her as Priestess Fayshan gazed at her with sorrow thinly veiling profound disgust.
"My Guards will escort her to the Cloister, good Lady," Theran said. "They will see to it that she—behaves herself—until the last brick is in place."
"That—is most appreciated, Majesty," Fayshan replied, and bowed deeply. She beckoned to the Guards, who followed her away from the platform. The crowd divided to let them pass, with the occasional brave soul hissing or otherwise expressing his or her feelings at the unfortunate Jisette. Master Jelnack himself took the opportunity to escape, slinking off to one side and rapidly getting lost among the milling people nearest the platform.
But Theran held up his hand, taking back the attention of the crowd.
"This matter is closed," he said forcefully. "And let all of you know, I, Theran, King of Valdemar, will hear no more accusations against this boy. Understand that he is the single most valuable Herald in this land, not even second to Jedin, King's Own."
Well, that raised some eyebrows, not the least of which were Pol's. And this wasn't part of the original script, either. What had happened since he'd last talked to the King?
"We need this boy's Gift as we have never needed another," Theran continued, actually putting his arm around Lan's shoulders. Poor Lan looked as if he was about to faint. "Fate or the gods themselves have brought him to us at a time of desperate need. People of Valdemar, we are at war."
The word passed through the crowd like wildfire. War! Expected for months, yes, but not truly anticipated; now that it was at hand, it sent a shock through everyone assembled. "The land of Karse is, even as I speak, attacking our Border positions. Their bonfires are built and ready for the bodies of our Priests, our Heralds, our Bards, and our citizens. Their demons range along the Border, attacking our soldiers. Only Lavan Firestarter has the power to reach across that Border to strike the Sun-priests who control those demons, and we thank all the gods that we have him now!"
He pulled Lan tight in a sudden embrace, and the crowd, shocked by his announcement, gave vent to a spontaneous cheer.
But all that Pol could feel from the Lan was pure terror.
*
LAN escaped as soon as he could; it had only been Kalira's presence down behind the platform that had kept him from loosing that terrible Gift of his right in the middle of all the cheering.
He left Theran and the rest of the Heralds as Theran continued his rousing speech about the war, and dropped down to Kalira's side. She still wasn't ready to be ridden, although the Healers had gone a long way toward getting her there. Together, with Lan walking along beside her, they slipped away from the Great Square and headed back toward the Collegium.
Despite Kalira's soothing presence, he was anything but calm.
:What am I going to do?: he wailed silently at Kalira. :The King said I'm—:
:The King said what would best work to show the people that you aren't a useless danger, Chosen,: Kalira interrupted. :He knows you aren't anywhere near ready to be in the war yet. You've got a lot more time to train before you need to think about the war. Months, probably.:
Her certainty had the effect of lessening his terror a little. A lot could happen in a couple of months—well, look what had happened already! In a couple of months, the war could be over.
But if it wasn't—:Kalira, I can't even think about killing someone,: he confessed miserably. :Not in cold blood. Not at a distance. Not like the King was saying, getting those Sun-priests. If someone was after you or me, directly, and I got mad, but not like that!:
:Then don't.: Kalira replied. :There are plenty of ways to handle those Sun-priests. I imagine setting their robes afire would distract them fairly easily without killing them! And if they're too stupid or proud to drop down and roll in the snow, that's their problem.:
The image she sent along with her words, of a fat fellow dancing wildly as frantic acolytes dealt with the flaming hem of his robe startled a weak laugh out of him.
:In fact, you could probably do as much, if not more, by setting fire to things, and not people,: she continued. :Hit the tents, the supplies, the weapon stocks. Drive their troops with the kind of fire wall you used to hold the men in the alley. All you have to do is learn how to move them.:
All! Well, perhaps it was better than setting fire to people....
He couldn't imagine himself in a war; he couldn't imagine what a war was like. When he and his friends had played at Guards and Bandits as children, the combats in their imagination had been very straightforward. It was all man-to-man, good against evil, no more than a few boys on either side.
This war—Well, the good against evil part was clear enough, but the rest! A combat that went on and on, masses of men clashing—the moment he tried to imagine it, he found he couldn't. He couldn't see his place in that chaos either.
What if he was a coward? Maybe that was why he couldn't imagine it.
He was very glad that the Great Square was so near the Palace, for he was able to get inside the walls long before anyone from that huge gathering could spot him. Right now, all he wanted was to hide.
Kalira hesitated a moment as they neared the Collegium, but he waved her away. "Go on," he urged, "The others will want to hear what happened. I'll—be all right."
That wasn't true; the truth was that he wanted very much to be alone. He didn't want her to know just how close to the breaking point he was. She already had more than enough to worry about. He could tell that she was tired and that she ached all over, that she was even more worried about this war than he was, worried for her friends, and her sire. She didn't need any more stress.
She was so exhausted that she didn't even argue with him or question him more closely. Instead, she headed straight for the stables, her head drooping.
He sought sanctuary in his room, locking the door behind him. He scrunched himself into a corner
of his bed and hugged his knees to his chest, resting his forehead on them.
Give your enemy a face, Master Odo always said. If he is human, do not dehumanize him. Know him and know why he is your enemy. If your enemy is within you, understand what it is and why you are afraid. Put a face on your fear. When you understand it, and it is no longer vague and shapeless, you will find that your fear is no longer so formidable.
That was what he said, anyway. But how could you make a war less formidable and how could you face an all-too-concrete fear? He began to shake again, teeth chattering. How could he ever be what they wanted him to be? He was so afraid, so very afraid—
Someone tapped lightly on his door.
:Lan, you know I know you're in there,: Pol said patiently, his words for him alone. :I can understand not wanting to be pestered by your friends right now, but I think maybe we can help each other.: And when Lan didn't answer, Pol continued, :I have to tell you, this war scares the whey out of me.:
Herald Pol? Afraid? How could that be? But you couldn't lie mind-to-mind. Slowly, Lan uncurled himself, got off the bed, and went to the door. When he'd unlocked it, Pol didn't immediately come in. In fact, Lan was back in the same position on the bed when Pol pushed the door open, looked around, closed it behind him, and sat wearily on the side of the bed.
"I've got to make a confession to you, Lan. I've known this was coming, for some time. That's why I was put on the Privy Council." He looked up at Lan, then down at his hands. "Because of you—because I'm your mentor. If you want someone else now—"
"No!" Lan blurted, then blushed. "No," he said, more quietly. "You were sworn to secrecy, I bet."
Pol nodded. "I was. I tried to give you some hints, but I couldn't really prepare you properly. Hellfires, I couldn't really prepare me properly; I was as stunned as you were when the King made that announcement. And I have to tell you, I am frightened witless, knowing I'm going to have to go to war."
"Why should you be scared?" Lan asked bitterly. "You've got loads more training than I do!"
"Why?" Pol's expression was as sour as Lan's. "I'm more than old enough to be your father; I'm old, Lan. I don't move as fast, I don't have your endurance or your reflexes, and I don't have any Gift that's powerful enough to protect me. My wife is probably going to be in the front lines as well, and do you know what the Karsites do with captured Healers? If a Healer cooperates, they put her in chains and force her to Heal until she burns herself out. If she doesn't, they tie her to a stake and incinerate her on the spot."
Lan hid his head against his knees. How could he have not thought of that? No matter what, at least he could protect himself and Kalira, and he didn't have anyone he loved facing the possibility of being burned alive.
"I'm sorry," he said in a whisper. "I didn't think—"
"Why should you? A candlemark ago you didn't even know there was going to be a war. I've had more than a moon to brood on this." Pol didn't sound the least annoyed with Lan, and Lan finally looked up again. Pol was leaning back against the footboard of the bed, looking twenty years older than he had this morning. "Anybody with any sense or imagination is going to be scared white at this prospect. Lan, you're not ready—but no one is going to be ready enough, or trained enough. The King isn't expecting you to do a fraction of what he claimed, and believe me, when we get out there, anything you can do is going to be far more than we had before."
Lan sucked at his lower lip. "But if the King doesn't expect me to do all that, why did he say it in front of all those people?"
Pol chuckled sadly. "You haven't gotten to the theory of propaganda in your studies, I suspect. In your case, he's given people something special to think about—a gods-sent savior. With you on our side, how can we lose? He's boosting their spirits, which will in turn boost the spirits of our fighters. And he didn't make all that up. With enough practice, you will be able to do all those things."
Lan's eyes widened, but Pol wasn't done.
"What's more, he turned you from a dangerous unknown, the boy who lost control of his Gift and contributed to a tragedy at the Merchants' School, to the boy who is ready to sacrifice himself for the good of all Valdemar. Now people won't flinch when they see you in the street, they're more like to cheer for you."
Lan flushed. "That doesn't seem—right," he faltered. "It seems like lying."
Pol sighed, and shifted his weight so that the bed creaked a little. "There, I agree with you to a certain extent, but Theran and Jedin see it as protecting you. With this much notoriety, if any more of the Jelnacks were contemplating revenge, they won't dare try it, because with the entire city intent on your protection, nothing they tried would have a chance of succeeding. If they try and hire more thugs in Haven, the thugs themselves will turn them in. If they bring in outsiders, the outsiders will be of a certain type, and the local thugs will spot them, know why they are here, and turn them in."
Lan put his head back, and stared up at the ceiling. Put a face on your enemy. "What—what's the Karsite army going to be like?"
Pol sighed and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. "Despite what you might think, they aren't all fanatics; in fact, most of them aren't much different than our people. Most of the line troops will be farmers, or herders, or crafters. Their regular army will be in the minority, the Sun-priests, a smaller minority than that. What they are, is terrified of us. They think that Heralds are demons, that the Companions are demons, and that if they are captured, they'll be sacrificed to our demon gods, slowly and painfully. That gives them a rather powerful incentive to fight."
Lan brought his head down and saw that Pol was watching him wearing an expression full of irony.
"Of course, you realize that if you can do even a little of what we think you can, they are only going to be more convinced that Heralds are demons," Pol continued, raising an eyebrow.
"I suppose...." Lan rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Master Odo was right; somehow an army of farmers like Tuck's family wasn't nearly as terrifying as the faceless, mindless, implacable army he'd pictured in his mind. "Pol, I don't know that I can kill anyone! I already have so many nightmares about the school—"
"So don't!" Pol replied. "I haven't heard anyone suggesting that you should."
So Kalira was right. "Kalira said—maybe I should make fire walls, or burn up their supplies and tents, or something—"
"Very good ideas. What's more, you are the only one who can dictate what you will and won't do. No one really knows what you can do here at the Collegium, and they'll know still less on the front lines. You tell the Generals what you can do, or what you're willing to do, and they'll fit that into their plans." Pol actually smiled at Lan's surprise. "You didn't know that things worked like that?"
"No! I thought that—that people would just order me to do things—" he stammered.
Pol shook his head. "You can't order someone with a Gift; how can you enforce orders on something that no one can weigh or measure? Our people have decades of knowing how to adapt battle tactics to include some new ability, but they also know how to adapt if the person with that ability is too tired to work, or doesn't have the strength that they thought, as well."
If Pol had intended to bring his fears down to a more reasonable level, he was succeeding. Lan was still afraid, but he didn't feel like crawling into a ball somewhere dark and shaking anymore. In fact, now there was room for another bubble of guilt and anxiety to rise to the surface of his thoughts.
"Madame Jelnack—" he paused, as Pol cast a penetrating glance at him. "If I asked the King—do you think he'd find a different place for her to go?" He shuddered, thinking of the situation that Theran had described. "I mean, walled up in a cave for the rest of her life—that's horrid! She's not sane, but—"
To his surprise, Pol chuckled again. "Don't feel too sorry for her," he replied. "I know something about that particular Cloistered Order. Not everyone who goes there is an ascetic; sometimes it's well-born women who are recluses by nature and
want to be away from the distraction of the world to concentrate on religious scholasticism, meditation, and prayer. It's no cave that Jisette Jelnack is going to be walled into, it's a very comfortable little apartment, with its own little bathing room and all. She can have anything her family wants her to have in there. She'll just never get out, and it all becomes the property of the Order after she's gone." He chuckled again. "In fact, I have no doubt that the Order is going to charge her family a princely amount for her keep and comfort, given that she's a prisoner, and it serves them all right."
"Are you sure?" Lan asked, his conscience considerably eased, now that his mental picture of a dank, barren, shadow-filled cell had been replaced by a very different vision.
"So sure that I'll take you there to see for yourself if you need to be convinced," Pol told him. He stood up. "Thank you, Lan."
"Me?" Lan said, surprised. "For what?"
"Talking to you helped me to put on a face on the enemy. Remember what Master Odo always tells us." He touched his eyebrow with two fingers in a little salute. "I think that we'll put off practice for today. I don't think that either of us want to be the center of a circle of gawkers just now."
Lan nodded, and belatedly remembered his manners. He scooted off the bed, and went to open the door for his mentor. "If I were you," Pol finished, as he paused halfway out the door, "I'd go out to Kalira. I think she needs you quite a bit right now."
"I will," Lan promised, and before Pol was more than halfway down the hall, he had gotten his cloak and was out the door, heading for the stables at a trot.
NINETEEN
THE departure of a mere ten Trainees should not have made that much difference in the way that the Collegium halls felt, but it did. Ten rooms empty, and the place had a hollower sound to it, the sense that something was missing, or amiss.
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