“See to it that you do,” Pol replied, remaining stony-faced as the manservant reappeared with the bridle. With a wave of his hand, he directed the Guard at the door to accept it. Then he backed up Satiran a pace, turned him, and led the way out of the courtyard into the street. The mounted Guard followed, then the last Guard mounted his horse, and took up the rear. Master Jelnack watched them leave, silently, afraid to make any show that might be interpreted as disrespect until they were out of the court. Only then did he close the door—very, very gently.
There wasn’t a sound in the street; if it hadn’t been for all the watchers, Pol could have believed that there wasn’t a soul about. The hooves of the two Guards’ horses clicked on the stones; Satiran’s made that distinctive chiming sound that only Companions produced.
:I would have said that you were too hard on him, except that he should have figured out last night that Lan really was a Trainee,: Satiran remarked. :I mean, really! A silver-worked bridle, the sound of Kalira’s hooves—you can’t counterfeit those! If he’d had any sense, he would have been at the Herald’s Gate with the bridle in his hands, begging for forgiveness within a candlemark of Lan’s return.:
Pol sniffed. :The only reason I wasn’t harder on them is because I don’t want to push things too far. They would be within their rights to demand that Lan undergo Truth Spell, and then the cat would be out of the bag.:
Satiran put his ears back. :Huh. I hadn’t thought of that. That would be messy.:
Pol wished he’d dared to take the woman into custody there and then and turn her over to the Healers—in protective custody, of course, with a Guard on her; he couldn’t explain why, but he neither trusted her nor felt he could depend on her husband to keep her out of mischief. She was clever and entirely used to getting her own way. That was a bad combination.
But he’d done all he could for the moment. Keeping Lan away from family celebrations was the only other thing he could think of to do.
:That won’t be difficult,: Satiran retorted. :I think it would be harder to force him to go.:
THE Chesters had made a second, and much more palatable, Feast for Lan. He was greeted as enthusiastically as if he had been gone for a month, and when he walked into the cottage, a dozen delicious odors hit his nose and nearly bowled him over. It was clear from the preparations that they were not going to feed him with leftovers.
He was doubly, triply glad now that on the way here he’d stopped to use the Midwinter gift of money his mother had sent to his room at the Collegium this morning (another guilt offering, perhaps) to buy gifts for everyone in the Chester household, from Granny on down. There was a Midwinter Fair in full swing outside the gate he’d left by, and he’d taken great care in selecting things he thought would please.
He presented them now, straight from the packs, in part to let their pleasure help erase the bitter memory of last night.
“I’ve got a few things for you all, to thank you for opening your home to me,” he said, as he passed them out, casually, hoping that they would not think themselves obliged to respond in kind. “I hope you like them. Granny, these looked useful to me for stitching in the winter,” he continued, handing Granny a set of gloves with cut-off fingers that left the last joint uncovered, made of chirra wool. He’d observed her rubbing her knuckles and wrists as if they ached, and he wondered if something like this would help. She tried them on, looking puzzled at first, and then delighted as the warmth penetrated her hands without impeding her dexterity. “And I know that these will help you, Ma.”
This time what he handed out were another sort of gloves, or rather mittens, with leather palms, the kind that some smiths who worked very small pieces used to handle hot metal. She saw that they were intended for immediately.
“Oh! Just the thing for handling hot pans and things from the oven!” she exclaimed happily.
Yet another set of gloves for Pa Chester came out of the pack, this time work gloves thickly padded on the back, with rough leather palms, triple-stitched to prevent tools from slipping. These had been quite new to Lan, and from the admiration with which Pa regarded them, they were new to him. “Why didn’t some’un think of this before?” he asked rhetorically, passing them to Ma and Granny to see. “Brilliant! These are jest brilliant!”
For the girls, Lan had brought various trinkets; a box of brightly colored or pearly shells from Lake Evendim to be made into ornaments and jewelry, a box of glass beads for the same purpose, a bunch of ribbons and a hank of lace; those were for the three oldest. And for the two youngest girls, doll heads of wax-over-porcelain, to replace the battered, featureless heads of two of their own dolls. Both little girls immediately rushed to their room to pick out the dolls to have the transplant. Glass-and-stone marbles in a pouch for the youngest boy, and new pocketknives for Tuck’s three older brothers, each of whom solemnly presented him with a groat in exchange, in order that the knife not be a gift, for it was held that the gift of a knife would cut the friendship. And last of all, for Tuck, not a pocketknife, but a real dagger. Lan knew good steel when he saw it, and this dagger had been the outstanding example in a collection of lackluster second-hand blades. Tuck took it with his mouth dropping open, and almost forgot to get a groat to give him in return.
“You’ll probably get your Whites long before I do, and I want you to have something to remind you that I’m still getting belabored by the Weaponsmaster,” Lan joked. Tuck’s radiant smile told him he’d picked the right present.
“Well, now, let’s cap this by a good meal,” Ma Chester said heartily. “ ’Tis only a stewed bird, that nasty old hen that pecked at the girls one too many times, but I reckon revenge’ll make her tasty!”
Lan couldn’t believe that the hen had ever been old, for the meat fell off the bones, and all the fixin’s that Ma had made to go with her were just as good. Lan ate with a much heartier appetite than he had yesterday, and when the dishes were cleared away and cleaned, he and Tuck went out for a ride before milking. Pa had promised to teach him how to milk—it looked like a very soothing sort of occupation—saying that no learning was ever wasted, and he might need to know how to some time.
“So was your Midwinter Feast really horrid?” Tuck asked sympathetically.
“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I surprised my parents with the Formal Grays. Most of the family didn’t know what to think of me, but the younglings thought I was the best entertainment they’d ever had.” With a sigh, he urged Kalira into a canter, hoping that Tuck wouldn’t ask any further questions. He didn’t want to talk about the Jelnacks or Jisette Jelnack’s accusations.
There was just enough truth in what she’d said to make him sick with guilt. No matter what, there was one thing that was irrefutable. If he had not lost control of his power, no one would be dead. It might have been an accident, but it was still because of him that it had happened.
Tuck didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he turned the conversation to what Lan wanted to do in the next few days.
“Well, the first thing I want is a good gallop!” Lan replied.
“What, so the wind can play a tune, whistling through your ears?” Tuck teased, and without warning, he set off in the lead.
The one thing he didn’t have to worry about was that either Companion would step in a hole and break a leg. They seemed to know exactly what lay under the snow, and never put a foot wrong.
Kalira stretched out her neck and went into her top speed; Lan tucked his head down and held on for dear life, his heart pounding with excitement. It was wonderful, and just as wonderful, he had to concentrate on the mechanics of riding and couldn’t think of anything else.
He wanted it to last forever; it couldn’t, of course, but if he’d had his way, it would have.
When they finally returned to the farmhouse, Tuck filled up the silence with cheerful chatter of his own, mostly about past winters and the prodigies that had occurred. “If we’re really lucky, we’ll get snowed in and get a couple more
days of holiday,” he said, as they brought their Companions into the barn for a thorough grooming.
“And I think ye’ll not, young jackanapes!” said Pa Chester from the back of the barn, where he was readying the stalls for the cows. “Never have heard of a snow so heavy yon Companions couldn’t get through, so don’t be thinkin’ ye can cozen more free days that way!”
“Oh, Pa,” Tuck moaned.
“An’ none of that, neither. If there be a blizzard, I’ll be callin’ on ye both t’give me the truth of what yer Companions have t’ say about it.” Pa Chester came out of the stall and winked. “Now I’m thinking ye’d best get these fine ladies taken care of for the night, eh?”
“Yes, Pa,” they both said obediently, and made sure that both of the “ladies” were groomed to the sheen of silver and well provided for.
“Now, Lan,” Pa called, as the cows filed into the barn all on their own—it was a wonder to Lan that they could be trusted to come in out of the pasture all by themselves when milking time came, and each would go into her own stall and not that of another. Pa beckoned from the stall of a fine brown cow with a white blaze on her nose. “Come ye here.”
Obediently, Lan gave Kalira a pat and went to the stall where Pa Chester waited.
“This ’un be Brownie.” The farmer gave his charge a fond pat. Lan had already noticed that the names of the cattle did not show much imagination, but then, it didn’t seem likely that a cow would ever demonstrate enough personality to require an imaginative name. “Now, set ye down on this stool, an’ I’ll show ye the trick of it. Brownie’s a good gel, she won’t be kickin’ the pail over, nor tryin’ to slap yer face wit’ her tail. Be gentle wit’ her, she’ll be patient with’ ye.”
Pa Chester directed Lan to put his hands atop the farmer’s so he could feel how the milk should be coaxed from the udder, with firm, steady, pulling strokes. Then he let Lan take over, and after a couple of fumbles, Lan found that he was milking just as well as Pa had. He leaned his forehead against Brownie’s warm flank, breathing in the scent of fresh straw and warm milk, and watched the white streams hiss into the pail. It was somehow a very soothing experience, though by the time he’d filled the pail and Brownie had nothing more to give, he discovered that his hands were tired and a little sore.
He brought the pail to Pa Chester, who took it with a grin after a quick glance inside to measure the level by eye. “Good lad! Ye’ve a natural hand for it, I see. Fingers sore?”
Lan nodded, flexing them.
“That’s expected. Takes practice, just like anything else. Think ye can do another?” Lan took a glance around and saw that Tuck had already joined his brothers at the chore, so he nodded, and Pa Chester gave him a new, clean pail and carried off the full one to the dairy house. Lan got his stool from Brownie’s stall and wondered which cow he should try next.
“Take Swan, she’s gentle, but watch her tail,” Tuck called; Lan looked around at the nameplates until he found one for “Swan,” with a white cow munching hay in the stall beneath it. He approached the heifer making the same soothing noises he’d heard the others make, and when she looked around at him with mild, curious brown eyes, he put one hand on her haunches and ran it along her side. He put his stool down beside her and got into position.
Just as he got his hands on her udder, something warned him to turn his head aside, and as he did, he caught a blow on the back of his head that stung. “Hey!” he said indignantly, as the cow turned her head guilessly to look at him again. “What was that about?”
“Warm your hands up; she hates cold hands,” one of the other boys said. “Well, how would you like cold hands on you there?”
“I don’t have a there,” Lan retorted, but he saw the point, and stuck his hands in his armpits until they were warmed up. This time when he tried his luck, Swan sighed and let down her milk for him.
He milked one more cow before his hands refused to cooperate anymore, but by then, most of the milking was finished anyway. He went into the dairy and washed up, then helped to pour the pans for rising; Pa and Ma insisted on a scrupulously clean dairy.
Dinner was concocted from the leftovers of the noon meal, but the food was no less tasty for coming around the second time. After dinner, one of the older boys showed Lan how to carve, using the old pocketknife that Lan’s gift had replaced, and he spent the remainder of the evening whittling on what he hoped would be a reasonable boat for Tuck’s youngest brother. This time Tuck took the turn at reading, and did a tolerable job at it. Granny kept holding up her warm hands to admire her fingerless gloves, which tickled him considerably, and before everyone went off to bed, Ma produced an apple pie and a wedge of cheese for a treat.
When Lan and Tuck went up to bed, though, Lan kept staring into the darkness, thinking about Jisette Jelnack, unable to sleep.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Tuck whispered, finally. “You’re keeping me awake.”
“Am I really?” Lan whispered back, startled.
“Well, not thinking loud; I’m not that good a Mindspeaker. But you are keeping me awake. What’s wrong? Was it something that happened back in Haven?” Tuck’s acuity startled Lan; he hadn’t expect that sort of insight from his friend. “You might as well tell me. If I don’t get it out of you myself, Kalira will tell Dacerie and Dacerie will tell me.”
“Isn’t there anything secret to them?” Lan replied, both irritated and touched by his concern.
“No. Get used to it,” Tuck replied promptly. “Now, spit it out so we can both get some sleep.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Lan told him what had happened when he and Kalira had been waylaid by the Jelnacks, and for the first time, he told someone besides Pol just what had happened that night in the school. “What’s bothering me is that she’s right. I am responsible—”
“Huh.” Tuck didn’t immediately launch into assurance, which in a curious way, comforted him more than that assurance would have. He wasn’t going to give Lan a comforting answer just because he was Lan’s friend. . . .
“All right, I can see your point. And you are responsible; I mean, if they’d been picking on someone other than you, nothing would have happened. But that doesn’t mean that the old bag is right either. You’re not a murderer.”
“How am I not—” he began, then stopped. “Because I didn’t intend to kill them?”
“Right. And maybe that seems like an irra—erra—” Tuck searched for the word he wanted.
“Irrelevant?” Lan suggested.
“Right. That kind of difference. But it’s not. It’s a big difference.” Tuck sounded quite sure of himself, and a moment later Lan found out why. “I’ve had First Level Judgment, and in the law there’s a big difference. There’s premeditated murder, and that’s where the guy plans it out and goes and does it in cold blood, on purpose. Then there’s simple murder, where maybe the guy gets into a fight with someone, and instead of backing off, gets a weapon out and kills the other guy. Now, that didn’t happen with you, because you never got a chance to defend yourself, and you were ganged up on. That’s the law. So you aren’t a murderer.”
Tuck was so sure of himself that Lan began to believe him. “So what am I?” he asked, uncertainly.
“I’m working that out; give a fellow a moment, I haven’t even gotten a test on this yet!” Tuck replied a little crossly. “Now, what’s next?” Silence in the darkness, then, “Ah! Got it. There’s manslaughter, where a guy kills someone by accident, but that isn’t you either, because it has to be someone helpless, and that toad Tyron wasn’t helpless, you were. So what that leaves is accidental death in self-defense.” Solid self-satisfaction filled Tuck’s voice. “That’s the one that fits, all right. You were the helpless one, you got ganged up on, they wouldn’t let you go, and they were going to hurt you a lot. You couldn’t help it if your Gift got away from you—heckfire, you didn’t even know what it was and you hadn’t got any training in it! How could you do anything with it? And how could anybody expect you to?”
“Eyah, that’s it. And the law says ‘not guilty.’ That’s the law. You can’t hold somebody responsible for what happens when they’re pushed to the edge and things get out of hand.” Now Tuck seemed to recollect that Lan was the subject of this exercise, and his voice took on a coaxing tone. “Honest, Lan, I’m positive on this one. Cross my heart!”
:I told you,: Kalira seconded. :Now you’re heard it from me, from Pol, and from Tuck. Would you like me to ask Rolan’s opinion? I already know that Jedin would agree with Tuck, and for that matter, so does the King.:
Lan gulped. The King? The King knew about him?
But when it all came down to it, it was Tuck, honest, clear-minded, transparent Tuck who convinced him. Tuck couldn’t lie if he wanted to; it was as if a permanent Truth Spell was working on him. And Tuck was convinced of his innocence.
“I think I’m still going to feel horrid—” he ventured.
“Well, you’d be a miserable dog if you didn’t!” Tuck retorted, “and I wouldn’t be your friend anymore! But you don’t have to feel guilty. So let’s get some sleep; morning comes early around here.”
“All right,” he replied. “Thanks, Tuck.”
“No problem,” Tuck mumbled, already half asleep.
Lan yawned, closed his eyes, and after a few moments more of thought, followed Tuck’s example.
SIXTEEN
WHEN everyone got back to the Collegium and back to lessons, no one said a word to Lan about his encounter at Midwinter. Lan breathed a great deal easier when it looked as if no one had heard a word about it. He really didn’t want to say more to anyone than he had to; if the entire Collegium and Circle chose to ignore what had happened, he was perfectly happy to go along with that.
Brightly Burning Page 25