Brightly Burning (8 page)

When he woke, it was broad daylight, and the headache was still with him, although it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been last night. The hot-bag had slipped off his head and onto the floor during the night; he opened his eyes just long enough to tell that it was, indeed, morning. He thought about taking a second dose of medicine, but his stomach rumbled and that decided him against it. He wanted something to eat first; then he'd let the medicine knock him over.

He smelled the frying ham and bacon of breakfast cooking downstairs, and his stomach rumbled again, insistently.
Should I get up and go downstairs?
he wondered.
But Mother wanted me to stay in bed so I wouldn't spread this to the rest of the family. . . .

He didn't have to make that decision, for a bump at his door made him open his eyes again. The maid stood there with a tray; she grinned when she saw his eyes open. And now he finally remembered her name. Kelsie.

“Good mornin' sirrah,” she said brightly. “I brung up some supper last night, but you couldn't have been budged with a team of horses!”

She brought over her tray and placed it on a stool next to his bed. He sat up, and managed a weak smile. “I guess that medicine was as strong as you said.”

“They say he's Healer-trained, is Master Veth, so I suppose he knows his medicines.” Kelsie dismissed the herbalist and his remedies with a shrug. “I brought a bell on the tray there; you need something, you ring it and I'll come up.”

“Thank you,” was all he had a chance to say. She just grinned again, and was gone. Then again, given the housekeeper's firm hand on the household reins, lingering might get her in trouble.

On the tray was typical invalid fare: tea and buttered toast, soft-boiled eggs. No ham, no bacon, no jam or jelly. He sighed, but tackled the food anyway. Hungry as he was, it all tasted good.

Only then did he take a second dose—slightly smaller this time—of the medicine, and it wasn't long before he was dreaming again.

This time he woke, it was some time in the afternoon, and his headache was measurably better, though still with him. More persistent was his hunger.

He rang the bell, and within moments, Kelsie was at his door with another tray, brown eyes dancing merrily at him from beneath her frilled cap. “Cook's figured you'd be ready for this,” she said, putting it down beside him.

He eyed the contents. Bread and broth, more tea. “I am, but I could eat a whole loaf of bread, not just a couple of slices,” he said ruefully. His stomach made an audible growl, and he blushed as she laughed.

“Well, the sayin' is to feed a fever, and you got a fever. You eat that up, I'll run down and tell Cook and see what she figures is good for you.” She turned in a swirl of gray-and-cream woolen skirts and linen apron, and vanished, while he made short work of the invalid's lunch they'd given him.

It only just took the edge off his hunger. When Kelsie labored back to his door under the weight of a heavier tray, he'd already eaten every crumb.

“Here,” she laughed, setting down the heavier tray, then tucking a stray curl of brown hair back under her cap. “ ‘Fever, Cook,' I told her. ‘Not stomach troubles. I should think you could hear his stomach grumbling down here.' So she laughs, and fixes you this.” Kelsie dusted off her hands. “Now, I got sweeping to do, so I'll hear you if you need aught else.”

“I'll be fine,” he replied, but she was already gone.

This is more like it!
he thought; it was real food, not invalid's food, and not the leftovers from everyone else's lunch, either. It was twice what he normally ate, but he devoured every bite before he finally felt satisfied.

As he turned away from the tray, his eye fell on his book bag. He weighed the ache in his head against the promise to study.

If I keep up, maybe I can get a bad headache again.
No one would be angry at him for being sick, and Tyron and his gang of bullies couldn't touch him here. He didn't know what had caused the headache and fever, but it could happen again.

And if it happens often enough, maybe they'll think there's something at school that's making me sick,
he thought, with a tinge of hope.

In a sense, perhaps that
was
the cause.
I didn't get that headache until I got so angry. . . .

If rage was the cause, he'd be getting headaches and fevers as long as he went to school.

Well, the only way I'll be able to stay home is to prove I can keep up without actually being in the classes.
With a sigh, he pulled his book bag onto the bed, and took out the textbook for his first class of the day.

Without the distraction of knowing that the Sixth Form was waiting for him at lunch, he got through the work for the first four classes in half the time it usually took him. He got out of bed a time or two to feed his fire and take care of necessary things. He was very pleased that this house had indoor facilities; it was the one improvement over the home in Alderscroft. It was still early afternoon when he finished, and heartened by his progress, he tackled the next four subjects. By the time Kelsie appeared with his supper, he was able to put his last book aside with a feeling that he had accomplished something.

“Bringing your supper early, or Cook says you're like to be forgot in the bustle,” the maid told him brightly. She whisked off, and Lan got up to stretch and light his candles, replacing the stubs in his candlesticks.

Once again, the increasing traffic sounds outside and the smells and noise of cooking told him that suppertime for the family was nearing. He took a third dose of the medicine, and went back to bed, this time with the euphoria of having spent a peaceful and productive day added to the euphoria of the medicine.

Last night he had slept dreamlessly; this night was the same. Given that he fought the Sixth Formers virtually every night in his dreams, this, too, was a welcome relief.

His second day as a “patient” was similar to the first, although a different servant brought him meals, but his third night was different. His headache was almost gone, so he hadn't bothered to take the medicine.

In the middle of the night, he woke, unable to move, feeling that there was something, some heavy weight, sitting on his chest and smothering him, and something else standing at the foot of his bed, watching him with amusement. He didn't so much think as feel—and his feeling of helpless anger made him label the presence at his feet as his worst enemy.

Terror and rage drove out any coherent thought, filling Lan's mind with an explosion of white heat. He tried to scream, but nothing came out; tried to flail at the unseen weight, but couldn't move so much as a finger.

Then, suddenly, the fire in his fireplace flared up with a roar.

The room lit up, as if the noon sun shone at midnight; a flare of heat washed over him, snapping the paralysis hold-ing him.

The weight left his chest; he sat bolt upright as the flames died down to mere flickers and coals again. He took a shocked breath—and the headache knocked him flat on his back, spasming in pain and near-blindness.

For a very long time he couldn't even move, and hardly dared breathe. Where a moment before, his entire universe had been terror and rage, now it was filled with pain. A solid bar of agony ran between his temples and, from the base of his neck to his eyes, his head throbbed.

Finally, between one breath and another, it ebbed just enough that he could grope his hand to the bedside table. He didn't trust himself enough to reach for the spoon; he pulled the cork from the bottle and took a full mouthful, gagging down the thick, bittersweet liquid and putting the bottle back on the table before the pain washed over him again.

Then, after what felt like a hundred, thousand years, came oblivion.

When he woke again in mid-morning, it was the pain that woke him, but this time it was more like the level of headache that had sent him home from school. He reached for the bottle and took a measured half-dose, which relieved enough of the anguish that he could eat, drink, and take care of himself. Then he took a second half-dose, and retreated into slumber.

He missed lunch altogether, and evidently even sleeping he had looked as miserable as he felt, for when he woke at last, one of the scruffy little kitchen boys was sitting on a stool at his bedside.

When he opened his eyes and started to sit up, the boy leaped to his feet and ran off down the hall and the stairs. It was Nelda who brought up his supper tray herself, as he slowly levered himself up into a sitting position.

“Your fever came back,” his mother stated, as she set the tray down and sat on the edge of the bed. “Cook came to check on you herself this morning, and sent me a message that you were asleep and as hot as an oven.” She measured his temperature with her wrist, which felt pleasantly cool on his forehead.

“It came back last night, I guess,” he replied, speaking slowly and carefully to keep from jarring his head. “I took some medicine right away.” This time, the medicine had worked its magic more quickly, but there was still an ache throbbing in both temples and the back of his head. He eyed the bottle with misgivings; there was just about a quarter of the stuff remaining; what if he needed more?

“Whatever it is, I certainly hope for all our sakes that no one else catches it,” his mother replied in a controlled tone, but with a gentle touch of her hand on his forehead. “Your teachers sent to say they're satisfied with the work you've done, so I suppose it will do no harm for you to miss a few more days until we're certain this fever won't come back a third time.”

All he could feel was relief in spite of the pain.
More days! This is—almost worth having my head try to fly apart—

“Are you hungry?” his mother asked, and to his mild surprise, he realized that he was ravenous.

“I . . . think so,” he said haltingly, with the feeling that it wouldn't do to look too healthy.

“Well, Cook informed me that ‘feed a fever' is the rule, and the herbalist agreed, so I want you to eat,” she told him as she stood up. “He also told me that drinking as much as you can is more important than eating, so we'll be keeping a pitcher of water beside your bed. I've sent for another bottle of this unpleasant concoction since it does seem to have done you some good, and it should be ready in a candlemark or two. He'd have had it ready sooner, but it started raining last night, and it seems everyone in the city is coming down with a cold or the grippe.” She looked at the window, though nothing could have been visible but the reflection, and sighed. “It's a nasty, filthy, cold rain, and it's just pouring down. I won't let you go back as long as it lasts, even if it lasts a week.”

He sighed, and felt another measure of relief. “Mother—”

Nelda paused and turned back at the door.

“What if this doesn't go away?” he ventured. “What if I stay sick for a month?”
I could live with that.

At that, she laughed, much to his surprise. “Lavan, we're in
Haven,
not back in Alderscroft. The Healer's Collegium is on the other side of the city. If this mysterious illness of yours doesn't pass on its own in a few more days, have no fear, I'll have one of the Collegium Healers in to see you. The only reason I haven't had one here before is that this fever doesn't seem to be doing you any harm.”

With that, she left, not pausing long enough to see Lan's face plummet with his heart.

His appetite had vanished, but he dutifully pulled the tray to him and ate anyway.

I should have known better than to hope that this was anything more than a reprieve,
he sighed to himself. Chewing was an ordeal; every movement of his jaw increased the ache, and he was glad when he'd finished enough that his mother and Cook would be satisfied. He poured himself another generous dose of his medicine, wanting to sleep as long as possible. Sleep seemed to be the one certain cure, and he wanted sleep and relief from pain more than he wanted anything else at that moment.

But sleep seemed long in coming this time; he tried to soothe himself by reminding himself that he had a few more days of peace, if nothing else. For a few more days, he need not even think of Tyron.

At least when sleep did come, it brought no dreams.

W
RAPPED in a heavy, brown wool cloak, a sheepskin hat jammed down on his head, Lan plodded unhappily down the gray, cheerless streets under a leaden sky to his first class since his illness. Cold air numbed his nose, and even through his woolen gloves, his fingers were getting chilled. It wasn't quite cold enough for snow; icy rain had been falling for the last three days, and the skies threatened to make it four days in a row.