Brightly Burning v(-10

by Mercedes Lackey

  "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 corning 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?"

  "I don't know...." Lan was still troubled, but Tuck wasn't listening to him, he was plowing straight ahead as if this was just another classroom exercise.

  "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 conies 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.

  As classes resumed, he found himself absorbed more and more into the life of the Collegium. Tuck's circle of friends accepted him without question; he often ran into Elenor on walks or visiting her father. She had taken a great interest in him, probably because of her specialty. He reckoned that to a Mind-Healer he must be fascinating, given all of the horrible things that had happened to him. She was a nice girl, though, and didn't make it obvious. And she was good company.

  Of all the places where he had lived, he felt most at home and happiest here. Even if he didn't always enjoy his classes, there were none he disliked, and most he found fascinating.

  And above all things, there was Kalira. She was more wonderful every day; he often thought that he could happily live in a desert as long as she was with him.

  The third week after Midwinter, he returned to his room to find a message waiting for him from his sister Macy. She wanted to pay him that promised visit. Since the day after the next was one where he usually had a free afternoon, he dashed off a quick reply to that effect, and made sure that he still did have that time free.

  Not only did he have it, but Tuck did as well, and his friend volunteered to wait with him at the gate for Macy's arrival.

  So the two of them waded through fresh snow up to their knees on the appointed afternoon, with more snow gently falling all around them. It was a particularly pretty, fluffy snow, falling through air that felt deceptively warm, covering bushes and coating the limbs of the trees. Daylight, filtered through clouds and falling snow, seemed to come from everywhere, gentle, soft, and pure. As they passed the Palace proper, courtiers and highborn were spread throughout the gardens, with the more high-spirited engaging in snow fights while the rest admired the scenery. Their handsome cloaks and coats of every possible hue, ornamented with fur and embroidery, made a fine show in the falling snow. The younger women, the Queen's handmaidens, dressed in various shades of blue ornamented with white fur and silver embroidery, watched and whispered among themselves as their suitors and would-be suitors showed off by pitching snowballs at targets and, occasionally, each other.

  "Huh," Tuck said, amused. "They wouldn't think it was such fun if they couldn't duck back into the nice, warm Palace and have servants rush up to them with dry clothes."

  "Probably not," Lan agreed. "But d'you know, there's no harm in them enjoying it either. Nothing better than a good snowstorm when you've got a nice fire in front of you—and who was it wanted us to get snowbound back home?"

  "Dunno," Tuck replied, trying to look innocent and failing utterly.

  They passed the formal gardens and the kitchen gardens, where the vegetable and herb beds, protected under mounds of straw, now had a smooth, insulating blanket of undisturbed snow on them that brought them up to the boys' waists. No one would dare plunder the kitchen gardens for snow for snowballs, not even during the hottest battle. The cooks and their helpers would have served a fricassee of the culprits' ears for dinner afterward.

  A scraper pulled by a team of horses was clearing the road to the gate just as the boys got there, so the last part of their journey was on cleared paving. The Gate Guard was warming his feet at a brazier when they arrived, and greeted them cordially.

  "Sister, eh?" the Guard said, when they explained their errand. "Older or younger?" A young man, well-muscled and good-natured, not terribly handsome but not ugly either, he obviously was not averse to a bit of flirting with a Trainee's sister.

  "Younger," Lan replied, and the guard feigned disappointment, shaking his head so that snow that had accumulated on his fur cap fell around him in little clumps.

  "And you've none older?" he persisted, grinning hopefully. "No chance there might be two sisters coming instead of one?"

  "He doesn't, but I do," Tuck
spoke up. "Two older sisters, very pretty, or so I'm told, and very friendly. And I might see my way clear to introducing them if you'd look the other way when I come in late some night—"

  The Guard laughed and shook his head reprovingly at Tuck. "No use asking me to do that," he chuckled. "The ones they pick for night-watch are all older fellows, with daughters of their own, probably daughters the same age as your sisters! They don't take kindly to lads who want to sneak out to town for a bit of fun and overstay their curfew."

  Tuck sighed gustily. "Just my luck!" he complained aloud. "I think I've finally got a use for the girls and it turns out they still don't do me any good!"

  Lan interrupted any further complaints. "There she is now!" he exclaimed, waving, as he recognized Macy in her brown wool cloak edged with fox fur, driving up the road in a hired pony cart painted red. She handled the reins quite neatly, but then back at Alderscroft she had done a great deal of the marketing in her own little two-wheeled cart when their mother was too busy or too deep in a project to go.