That was not so much the case this year—although he often felt he teetered on the edge of failure. He had progressed beyond merely igniting a few lowly bits of lint, and in the Collegium at least, his Gift was no longer a secret.
They were starting to call him "Lavan Firestarter," a name that pleased him and made him feel queasy at the same time. He didn't in the least mind shedding his surname, but he wished that this new one was less—sinister.
Many things made him uneasy and uncertain about this new role that Fate had cast him in. Heralds did so much more than he had ever dreamed they did! Not that Heralds had crossed his mind so much before all of this, but it had never occurred to him that they were more than the mouthpieces of the King.
That was what was occupying his mind as he trudged back from his last class—which was a combined lesson for him and some of the final-year students. They were doing archery practice; he, however, had taken his Gift into the realm of the practical.
The scenario was simple enough. The archers were firing at moving targets. He was trying to incinerate the arrows before they hit those targets. The archers were not launching their arrows singly anymore, but in volleys, as they would in combat. So it wasn't just one arrow he had to get, but many.
He was exhausted. Today he'd had to take a long walk with Kalira after the lesson, to cool down the terrible anger he'd had to raise. It made him feel sick—but something about the cloaked anxiety of his mentor Herald Pol told him that there was a reason, a good one, for the relentless pace being set for him. That in itself worried him. Something was going on, something that no one was talking about openly.
And yet, he seemed to be the only one of the Trainees that was aware of the subcurrent. Everyone else went to classes, to meals, gossiped, complained, and went on with their lives just as they always had.
The regular class load was bad enough without this added, unacknowledged pressure. Heralds did so much! With the Bards, they passed on news, but theirs concentrated on the edicts of law and government. They made certain that everyone actually understood new laws and decrees. They acted as judges and juries, but also investigated crime, or suspected crime. They went for help when needed, for nothing in the Kingdom could travel as fast as a Herald and Companion. They organized and trained local militia; they led militia when something more than simple home defense was needed. They carried secret messages, they acted as spies, and very rarely, as assassins. Some with very specific Gifts—such as his—worked with the Guard and army. They were posted as diplomats, or as adjuncts to diplomats. They had to know geography and history, not only of Valdemar but of the lands around it. Mathematics, orienteering and navigation, rudimentary artifice, sleight-of-hand, literature, manners, the whys and wherefores of many religions—these and many more disparate classes filled his days and nights with study.
No one person could do and be all these things, but that was why everyone had at least rudimentary lessons in them. How could you know what you were good at if you didn't at least try it?
But, oh, the burden of all those classes!
He thanked the gods for a mentor like Herald Pol, who understood as no one else could exactly how much stress he could bear without cracking. A few days ago, Pol had gotten together with all of his teachers and laid down certain guidelines—which included the order that no one, absolutely no one was to assign him after-class work for the evening after a Gift-practice. That had given him some breathing space, sorely needed. He'd also arranged that Lan got a tray in his room on those evenings, rather than eating with the rest of the Collegium. His nerves were just too raw to bear the company of even his closest friends so soon after the lessons.
:Oh, my dear, you'll feel better after a hot meal,: Kalira said cheerfully. :And you have all of the evening for yourself.:
:I wish it was warm again,: he fretted. He still was not much of a reader unless he read aloud to an audience. That was as much because he had discovered a pleasure in acting things out for others—which would probably thoroughly horrify his mother if she knew, for she would be certain that he was going to have a second career as a mountebank. There was far less pleasure in reading alone.
:You need something active to do,: Kalira acknowledged. :But something other than riding. You're getting quite enough of that, I think.:
:I never get enough of you, Kalira,: he said obliquely. :But you've had quite enough of riding in Companions' Field, I know,: she laughed. :Get something to eat, warm up, and see if you can find something to read. And if you can't—maybe there are enough of your friends free to play some taroc.:
Being warm surely sounded attractive right now. He was always warm enough when he was using his Gift, but as soon as he stopped, all the energy ran out of him and his feet and hands grew cold and numb in no time, no matter how many gloves and socks he wore. At least Kalira kept him from having reaction-headaches now.
He stamped his boots clear of snow at the door, but little trails of melted water showed that not all of his fellow Trainees had remembered to do so. There was a Trainee down at the other end of the hall with a mop and bucket, remedying the situation until a servant could do a proper job.
The warmth of his room didn't penetrate to the chill core of him until he had taken off his cloak and boots and settled down to his tray at the fire. And it wasn't until he'd finished eating that he saw the small white square of a note on the floor just inside his door; there was a bit of boot print on one corner, so he must have trod right over it when he came in.
He got out of his chair and picked it up, unfolding it. The paper was soft, erased and reused many times, since paper was too expensive to be wasted in the Chitward household.
Lan, I want to go skating in the moonlight, it read, and Mother won't let me unless I've got an escort. Sam said he's too busy; have you got the evening free? Besides, I want to talk with you in private. If you can, come straight to the house. Macy.
Well, if that wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping for! He liked to skate, and hadn't out skating in ages, not since back in Alderscroft. His skates should still be in the storage box in his room, along with a few other belongings.
:Very good!: Kalira enthused, "looking" over his shoulder. :It's only just dusk, we should get there in plenty of time for a couple of candlemarks of skating. And you can bring your skates back here with you, after. That will give you something active to do. I'll go nudge up one of the grooms, and I'll meet you at the door.:
Yes, and he probably could organize some of the others for games on the ice, once he started skating at the Collegium. Broom-ball was always fun; skates weren't that hard to come by, you could always make a pair of wooden runners if you didn't have the ready money to buy steel ones. He thought with pleasure of being able to show Tuck how to skate, if he didn't already know how.
Feeling much more cheerful and ready to go, he pulled a heavy knitted garment, shapeless, but warm, over his shirt and canvas tunic, shoved his feet into his boots, and threw his cloak on over all. He left his tray outside the door to be picked up later, and headed back out again, pulling on his gloves as he walked.
The Trainee with the mop was nowhere in sight, but the floor was dry and clean again. He met the cold at the door with determination that brightened when he saw Kalira waiting for him.
:What do you suppose Macy wants to talk about?: Kalira asked, as they passed the Guard, who waved at them as they went by.
:I'm not sure,: he replied. It was so quiet out here—he was getting used to the constant buzz of the Collegium, and even in Alderscroft in the middle of winter there were noises from the forest and barns. Here in the heart of Haven, where he had least expected it, he found silence. The homes of the wealthy, enclosed behind their walls, only showed that they were inhabited by the shadows moving in the curtained, lighted windows. Even the sound of Kalira's hooves was muffled by the packed snow, and he was reluctant to break the silence by speaking.
:She's not the only one who wants to talk in private, though,: Lan contin
ued. :I want to talk to her about Elenor.:
The young Healer had been acting very peculiar, to his way of thinking. One moment she was friendly and her normal self, the next, withdrawn and watching him with the most peculiar expression. Tuck was no help; he was completely infatuated with Macy, and kept turning the conversation back to Lan's sister. And he hadn't been able to talk to Macy alone, because whenever she visited the Collegium, Tuck was with them every step of the way.
:Hmm. Not a bad idea. I haven't been with you enough to see how she's acting,: Kalira admitted. :Macy is probably the best one to ask. I hope Elenor isn't worried because there's something wrong with her father; Satiran doesn't tell me much.:
That could well be the case. :Pol's been looking strained and rather seedy lately,: he replied, now concerned himself. :I hadn't thought of that. You don't think he's sick, do you?:
:Not sick, but overworked, and certainly there is something that has him very concerned, enough to prey on him night and day.:
That got Lan's attention. :I wonder what's on his mind? I hope it isn't me—I mean, I hope I'm not getting horribly behind or something—:
:Something to do with the Kingdom, not you, Chosen,: Kalira assured him immediately. :They've put him on the Privy Council, I'm not sure why, but he's spending a great deal of time in meetings.: She looked back at him over her shoulder, and cocked her ears at him.
:Ah,: Lan said, relieved, and dismissed Pol from his concern. If it was Kingdom business, there was nothing he could do about it.
The uncomfortable silence in the residential district gave way to sound as he and Kalira entered the first street of shops. But here they ran into a slight problem. A furniture shop was taking a delivery—a very bulky delivery—and the street was blocked. A wagon loaded with massive, carved furniture, pulled by four oxen, had backed up to the store front, probably because the wagon was too large to fit into the alley behind it. The wagon and its team completely crossed the street. Nothing bigger than a cat was going to get by for a while. They stopped, and Lan eyed the blockage.
:Bother,: Kalira said cheerfully. :Well, no matter. I know a way around, but we'll have to go through a rather rotten district.:
:Rotten or not, they're not stupid enough to bother a Trainee,: Lan replied. :Are they? I mean, most people know we could call for help.:
:I was just pointing that out because you'll probably see a lot of unpleasant things.: Kalira sighed, :You won't like it. It was one thing to be poor in a little village like yours; it's entirely another to be poor in a city. Even Haven has its share of thieves, beggars, and ne'er-do-wells.:
:But as a Herald, there's going to be a lot of things I won't like. I might as well get used to it. And if there's something going on that somebody should know about, then we can call for help.: That seemed perfectly reasonable to him, and Kalira evidently agreed, for she shook her head and cut down a side street.
The problem with Haven was that once you got off the main thoroughfares, you couldn't necessarily get from one place in the city to another very easily. It was designed that way, to confuse invaders and force them to divide their numbers, thus rendering them more vulnerable to the defenders. Valdemar was long past the time when anyone needed to think about invaders taking Haven, but the main part of the city could not be changed at this late date. Shops and houses were backed not by alleys, but by continuous walls. The only way to get into an alley was through the building. This would be another unpleasant surprise for an invader, and another opportunity to trap small parties of invaders and finish them off.
Lan had no idea of how to get through this maze, but Kalira did, so he relaxed and let her pick out the way. Within a very short period of time, he was in an entirely new sector; a farmer's market. It was empty now, the stalls holding nothing more than a few wilted cabbage leaves or chicken feathers, but the faint scents and the arrangement told him what it was. Kalira picked her way through it daintily, and exited the area through an alley on the other side.
This was another residential district, but a poorer one than Lan had seen before. No silence here; babies squalled, adults quarreled, drunks sang, children played or fought, all at the tops of their lungs. There was light, but it was from oil torches, fueled with something that smoked and had an unpleasant smell. There was no glass in the windows to keep out the cold; just shutters, most of them with rags stuffed into cracks.
Another sound broke through the general babble; the sound of a serious fight. Ahead, two gangs of boys clashed, fists and feet flying—and landing, with muffled thuds. They screamed at each other at the tops of their collective lungs, adding to the din. Shutters all up and down the street flew open; people leaned out of the windows, gawking, then shouting to the boys and each other, some laying bets on the outcome.
:Another detour, I think,: Kalira said promptly; she increased her pace to a trot, and made a quick turn into yet another side street. He could see, as the noise died away, that this was a dead end, culminating in a cul-de-sac with one of the oil torches at the end.
:No worries,: Kalira said cheerfully. :We just nip down this alley and come back out on another street: She suited her actions to her words, and made a quick turn into a dark alley. The only light came from the street behind them, and Lan looked nervously back over his shoulder. It was as dark as the inside of a black bag in this alley, and suddenly Lan was no longer so confident that as a Heraldic Trainee his safety was a certainty.
The alley was awfully long—
And why couldn't he see light at the other end?
Then it was obvious why, as Kalira suddenly stopped, ears up in surprise and radiating annoyance; this alley was a dead end as well, with a wooden barricade built across it, a few arm's lengths from Kalira's nose.
:This isn't supposed to be here!: she said in indignant surprise, when a faint sound behind and the flare of light above alerted both of them.
Kalira spun on her heels; two light baskets now hung from chains coming from second-story windows on either side of the alley, and between them and the exit was a group of villainous-looking men with bows, arrows already nocked to the strings. Six? Eight? Too many—
Gods!
Lan sat frozen with shock, unable to do more than stare as they aimed, and let fly.
Kalira was not so paralyzed; she darted to one side, writhing to avoid the falling arrows, quick as falcon and lithe as a mink. She reared up on her hind legs and twisted her forequarters to the side to present the smallest possible target. Somehow Lan managed to hang on, bending over her neck and clinging to her with both hands tangled tightly into her mane, and somehow he managed to remain untouched by the half-dozen arrows.
Kalira was not so lucky.
With a shock they both felt, a bolt struck her hindquarters, driving in deeply in a lance of pain they shared. She shied sideways and screamed, and Lan screamed with her—it felt as if a red-hot sword drove into his hip and out the other side.
But her pain and danger woke the serpent asleep inside him and roused it in a single instant to action.
Red rage rose within, uncoiling with terrible swiftness, and giving birth to the fire; the next volley of arrows burst into flame in midair.
Arrowheads clattered to the frozen ground beside him, and a drift of ash flew away through the flames.
The volley after that never left the bows.
The arrows nocked to bowstrings flared once; for a moment, arrow-shapes of ash holding for a heartbeat, before crumbling in their fingers. The arrowheads dropped to the ground, as the bows ignited. With startled shouts, the men flung their weapons away.
His sight was filmed with red, and he prepared to strike a third time—
:Lan—hold them. Just hold them. Don't kill them, please!:
Kalira's mind-voice penetrated the rage as nothing else had; with a wrenching effort, he held and redirected his strike.
As they turned to flee, they were barred by a wall of flame that rose between them and the end of the alley. A second wall penned th
em away from Lan and Kalira.
Lan held the anger in with all his strength as it tried to escape him and take its rightful prey. It didn't feel like a serpent anymore; it felt like a dragon, mindless and raging, and very, very hungry.
Trapped, they lost their heads and their cohesion as a group; they abandoned anything like sense and climbed over each other in a panic, trying desperately to find an escape. When the mounted Guardsmen pounded up to the rescue, led by a Herald, they were jabbering and begging for mercy from within their cage of flame.
The flames licked at them hungrily; Kalira helped Lan to hold onto control and keep back the fires. Lan wasn't really thinking now; he was consumed by the fires within and without, and only Kalira's aid allowed him to hold onto sanity and control.
Lan sat in his saddle as rigid as a statue until the moment that help arrived. He didn't even realize they were there until a strange mind-voice called to him; he was too intent on what lay within the fire to pay attention to what was outside it. It was so tempting—the fires beckoned so seductively—and it was such a struggle to keep himself from burning those evil creatures to a crisp. Nor was that all; he had to fight to keep the fires where they were, confined within the walls of the alley. If he lost concentration for a moment, they would escape, leap to the wooden building on either side of the alley, incinerating the innocent people inside. Thanks to Kalira, the dragon had been confined, but it was not tame and never would be. If he lost his hold on it for even a moment, all would be lost. His body was so tense he couldn't move a single muscle, and although his head was clear, it was full of the rage and the fire.
:Lavan!: a woman's voice called. :Trainee Lavan! You can let them go now!:
With a start, Lan came back to himself.
:It's all right, Lavan. Let them go; that's right. We'll take them now. We're here to help you.:
With an effort, he let the fires die, and with them his anger.
:Good, Lavan, excellent. Thank you—: The Guards had come down off their mounts, and were rounding up the men who had ambushed them; the Herald rode forward as Lan slumped over the pommel of his saddle, then slid down off Kalira to take his weight from her wounded hindquarters.
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