Brightly Burning (9 page)

The headache had not returned for a third time, perhaps because the herbalist had suggested the use of an ongoing sleeping aid. It was a much, much milder potion than the medicine he'd sent to cure the headache. There had been no more night horrors, at any rate, and when Lan had no more symptoms for a week, his mother had ordered him out of bed and back to school.

He knew, he just knew, that his worst fears were about to be confirmed. By this time, the rotten weather had kept the Sixth Formers from their after-school pleasures for at least a week, and they were surely exercising their wits at the expense of their schoolmates by now.

He saw ample evidence of that as soon as he entered the gate and stepped into the front court of the school.

The Sixth Formers had gathered in a group around some hapless victim, while the other possible targets took advantage of their preoccupation to slink past them and into the front door. Lan did the same, but couldn't help glancing at the group as he slipped past, when a burst of laughter followed Loman's command of, “Jump, Froggy!”

In the middle of the circle stood the unfortunate Froggy, her eyes bulging more than ever, her face smeared with a bright green cosmetic that almost matched her woolen cloak.

Lan averted his eyes before she could catch his gaze, and scuttled for the safety of the door. If the others saw her looking imploringly at someone, they would probably turn to see who she was looking at, and seize on him as a fresh source of amusement.

Another evidence that the Sixth Formers had gotten bored enough to increase their persecution sat in the desk right in front of Lan. Owyn sported a sour expression and a pair of feathers in his curly hair, one over each ear. They did, indeed resemble the false ear-tufts on an owl. Lan resolved to take no notice of the unorthodox ornaments.

Their teachers certainly seemed oblivious. The lessons went on as normal, with perhaps a little more attention paid to Lan, to make certain that he had kept up with the rest of the class. No one commented on Owyn's feathers.

Lan not only proved he had kept up to the satisfaction of the teachers, he was actually able to relax a little, as he had read a trifle ahead of the rest. Confined to bed as he'd been, with the only possible amusement being his books, he'd begun to find them more interesting than he'd thought. He
still
would rather be roaming the woods around Alderscroft, but reading was better than doing nothing.

“Well, if this is the effect of your little fever, Lavan, I could wish that the entire class would catch it,” one of the teachers said dryly. As a nervous chuckle ghosted up from another part of the room, the teacher glared in that direction and added, “Perhaps some of you might consider following your classmate's example and actually
study
when you are at home.”

But as the lunch hour neared, Lan felt more and more nervous. The Sixth Formers had surely noticed that he'd been gone—had someone told them why? What had they been planning for him? How could he possibly anticipate what Tyron would demand?

He might not demand anything. He might actually feel sorry for me. I
have
been sick. He might be afraid he'll catch whatever I have. Or maybe the Schoolmaster told him to leave me alone until they know I'm well. . . .

There was nothing for it. When the bell rang for lunch, he left with the rest, and did his best to slip in unobtrusively. He avoided Froggy's company as if she had plague, but so did everyone else. The girl sat all by herself with a ring of empty seats around her, her bright green face hidden by her hair as she kept her head bowed.

Lan could only feel relief that it was Froggy sitting there alone, and not him.

He embedded himself in a group of Fifth and Fourth Formers and ate quietly, with one ear on the Sixth Form table.
I'm not here,
he thought fiercely at them.
Don't even think of me. I don't exist.

He tried to eat at the same rate as the others, though tension made it difficult to swallow. He wanted to leave when they did, in the crowd, to put off the moment when Tyron noticed he was back as long as possible.

But sudden silence at his end of the table, the stares of those across from him, and a heavy hand on his shoulder told him that all his subterfuge was in vain.

“Come along, Scrub,” said Loman, clamping his hand on Lan's shoulder hard enough to bruise, and lifting him up out of his seat. “Tyron wants a word with you.”

The Sixth Former shoved him roughly up the aisle between the tables, until they arrived at Tyron's seat. Tyron had turned his chair about and was waiting, watching them down his nose, for all the world like he thought he was the King himself on his throne. Then again—here, he might just as well have been.

Lan stumbled to a halt, managing not to fall when Loman gave him a final push. “So, Scrub, you've been gone a while,” Tyron said, with a glittering, false smile.

“I've been sick . . . sir.” It was hard to choke out the last word, but he did, anger smoldering, but not yet burning. He dropped his eyes to the wooden floor, determined not to let Tyron see anything in his face that he could use.

“So I've been told. And do you know, I don't believe it. I think you're lying, Scrub. I think you're a slacker, and a liar.”

Lan gritted his teeth and said nothing.

Tyron raised his voice so that the whole room could hear—easy enough, now that every other voice had been silenced. “I think you were feigning. You just wanted to slack off, wanted a little holiday for yourself. You might have fooled your mummy, but you can't fool me. Now what have you got to say for yourself?”

“No one fools my mother, least of all me . . . sir. Especially not when it costs her money for the services of the herbalist.” He managed not to throw Tyron's accusation back in his teeth, and to keep his tone level, though every muscle in his body strained. And—thank the gods!—Tyron laughed at that. “And when I wasn't drinking the herbalist's wretched medicines, she saw to it I got no holiday from books.”

“Owly!” Tyron called. “Is that true?”

“He's ahead of the rest of us, sir,” Owly replied sullenly.

Tyron laughed again. “And that's one in your eye, isn't it, little bookworm? That's one in your eye!”

Lan thought for a moment that he might escape, that he'd provided Tyron with enough amusement for the moment.

“Still, you've not been
here,
have you? You've not been here to have, oh, any number of tasks set you.” Tyron's voice took on that cloyingly pleasant tone it always did when he was about to do something appalling. “So I believe I'll have to set you something that will make up for your absence. Your father is a cloth merchant, is he not?”

Lan couldn't imagine what his father would have to do with this, but he nodded, rather than trust his tone not to betray him.

“Good. I need a new wardrobe for Midwinter, and my parents are being stubborn about expenses. Bring me a tunic length of scarlet velvet tomorrow. Silk velvet, mind, not wool plush. I have appearances to keep up.”

At that, Lan's head snapped up as his mouth dropped open. “How am I supposed to do
that?
” he squeaked incredulously. Silk velvet was worth a gold piece an ell—and scarlet was worth twice that! He couldn't just waltz up to his father and ask for two ells of the stuff!

“You've pocket money, don't you?” Tyron asked, his eyes sparkling maliciously.

“No! I
don't!
My parents—” he choked on the words, blushing as scarlet as the coveted velvet at having to confess in public that he was not given the pocket money that every other student seemed to have.

“Well, then, I suppose you'll just have to find some other way, won't you?” Tyron lounged back in his chair and waved his hand idly. “I'm sure you'll think of something. Remember, two ells of scarlet silk velvet, by tomorrow. I'm sure you know what will happen—” the greedy eyes gloated at him, “—if you were to fail to get it for me.”

He stumbled back down the aisle, now as much of a pariah as Froggy; people actually drew back from him, as if afraid his misfortune would contaminate them. He didn't even try to take his seat; he had no more appetite anyway. Instead, he went straight to the classroom, waiting in a dull fog for the rest to return. As he sat there, hands clenched in a knot in front of him, the others filed in, wordlessly, casting odd glances at him. He still felt hot, and that smoldering anger had made such a red-hot coal in his chest he didn't feel able to speak. Not that any of them said a word to him.

Maybe his expression warned them away.

But when the teacher came in,
he
didn't nook as if Lan appeared any different. The teacher looked over the whole class, then rested his gaze on Lan, and said only, “Lavan. Can you recite yesterday's lesson for us?” as if Lan hadn't been away at all. “I hope you've been as diligent for this class as you seem to have been for the others.”

Lan stood up with some difficulty, for there was a sort of roaring in his ears and his knees felt wobbly. He opened his mouth to speak—

And the next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, with Owyn's anxious face leaning over him and the teacher saying sharply, “Clear back, all of you!” As he tried to sit up, he gasped with pain and fell back again. The headache was back, with a vengeance.

And he could have wept with relief instead of pain. He welcomed the agony, every throb, every lancing blow through the temples, as the teacher assisted him to his feet and helped him out of the classroom. The gods had granted him a reprieve, once again, and redemption. Not even Tyron would dare accuse him of fakery after this—

He only got halfway down the hall before he blacked out a second time. When he woke again, it was to find himself lying on a couch in Master Keileth's office, with an old man in Healer Greens examining him. He looked up into the old man's aged face to see warm blue eyes, half-hidden in wrinkles, regarding him with compassion.

The old man was speaking, he realized vaguely, but not to him.

“—not an illness. My guess would be dazzle-headaches, though they don't usually come with fever like this.” The old man was saying. Then he noticed Lan's open eyes, and he passed his hand over his bald head. “Ah, awake are you? How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Lan croaked. The pain hadn't abated one bit, and the light hurt his eyes.

The old man nodded, helping him sit up enough that he could drink a potion he recognized by its taste. “Send him home, Master Keileth, until this attack's passed. That's all we can do for such things once they're well started like this one. I'll take him home in my carriage, talk with his parents, and leave another medicine at his house that should help prevent them in the future.”

Master Keileth gave a sigh that was half exasperation and half relief. As the pain potion took hold, the Healer helped Lan to his feet and got him out the door, down the stairs in the chill air, and into the carriage. He was amazingly strong for such a wizened old fellow. Once there, safely outside the walls of the school, Lan's relief was so profound that the medicine worked even faster and Lan let himself fall into induced slumber. His last coherent thought was that Master Keileth was undoubtedly annoyed at the inconvenience of having a pupil pass out in his school, but probably relieved that
he
couldn't be held responsible.

Nor would he have to refund all that tuition money.

HE roused when they arrived at the house, and the servants brought him up to his room with a great deal of unnecessary fuss. Three of them descended on the carriage—the housekeeper and two of the manservants. The housekeeper directed the operation like a shrill-voiced general as the two manservants each draped an arm over their shoulders, and with Lan dangling between them, took him up the stairs and dropped him onto his bed, where he sat, blinking owlishly, too fogged to think of what to do next. The manservants stripped him to his skin and threw a nightshirt over him, then bundled him into bed with brisk and impersonal efficiency.

His mother was home already, for some reason, and followed them up, right behind the old Healer. When Lan was settled into bed, she faced the Healer with a tight-lipped expression, waiting for an explanation. The Healer was not at all cowed by her, which Lan thought was incredibly brave of him.

“Madam, your son is not
seriously
ill,” he began, “although I can tell you that what he suffers from is not in the least feigned. And although his pain is in his head, so to speak, it is not in his mind.”

I'd better . . . try to stay awake for this,
Lan thought. Neither the Healer nor his mother paid any attention to him, but that was hardly an unusual occurrence. They conducted their conversation over his head, as he fought the medicine to try and listen.