"Right; let's take a break here—or at least, a break for you." Pol smiled at Lan's look of relief. "Kalira will link you in to me, and you'll see how this is done."
"Why can't Kalira show me?" Lan wanted to know. "If she can control the power, why can't she show me how to do it myself?"
:Because I'm not handling the power the way that you and Pol will,: Kalira replied. :I'm doing something only a Companion can do. We're born in energy and live in it all the time, that's why we're white. This kind of energy bleaches every live thing that it contacts after a time.:
"It is?" Lan asked, intrigued. Even Pol was intrigued; this was new information to him. Usually Companions revealed very little about themselves; he hadn't realized that they were so intimately involved with the force behind the Gifts.
:Indeed. You can't dye us either,: she chuckled. :We bleach right out in a few days.:
"Annoying of you," Pol put in. "It would be so much more helpful to Heralds who are trying to gather information unobtrusively if you could just become an ordinary chestnut color once in a while."
:Learn from adversity, Herald; we won't do everything for you.: Kalira was still highly amused, and Pol sensed that Satiran was, too.
But her sire was willing to put up with only so much insolence from his offspring. :Respect your seniors, Companion,: the stallion chided. :At this point in his life, Pol has accomplished more than you have ever dreamed of doing. Let's get on with this.:
:Sir!: she replied promptly; obedient, but with a hint of amusement, still.
Pol felt Kalira form the link between himself and his pupil. This way Lan was not directly in his mind, nor was he in Lan's. This was a much better way of dealing with the task; he didn't want Lan privy to his uncensored thoughts, and he certainly didn't want to experience the poor lad's uncensored emotions.
He shifted his concentration to the lint, not that he had to concentrate a great deal. What he did have to do was slow things down so that Lan could see exactly what happened.
It wasn't spectacular; basically, it was very similar to using the Fetching Gift at a very tiny scale. Although he no longer had to think about how he did this, he vibrated the materials until the heat they generated ignited them. He moved infinitesimal bits of the oil and lint so that they rubbed against each other, creating heat by friction, until the lint burst into flame.
When the lint flamed, he looked up at Lan, and saw the Trainee's eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed with concentration, but his mouth forming a slight "o" of surprise.
"So that's what's happening!" he said, looking up into Pol's eyes.
"Basically, yes; just very, very quickly. And in your case, it's—" he tried to think of an analogy, "—hmm. Like an avalanche instead of a single, aimed stone. You just pour out power, and everything in its path goes up in flames. Things that are very flammable burn immediately, things that are around or near fire have flames jump to them, channeled by the power."
Lan winced, but nodded. Pol was deliberately reminding him of what had happened, because he also wanted these sessions to desensitize Lan to what had happened by accident—
—because one day, he might have to do it on purpose. He couldn't keep wincing away from creating a major fire. He had to be able to create it when and where it was needed, even offensively.
Pol was privy to information known only to the King, the King's Own, and a few other, carefully selected members of the Council. What no other Herald teacher in the Collegium knew was that the situation on the Border with Karse was getting more serious with every passing day. They were taking advantage of the milder southern climate to increase their probes along the Border. If there was a war—ready or not, Lan might be needed.
Trained or not, he may be needed. It was a sobering thought, and one that kept Pol lying wakeful at nights. If—no, when war came, more Trainees than Lavan would be thrown into Whites, all unready, and sent out to the South. More young Healers would follow; and young volunteers to the Guard.
Best to end it quickly, and for that, it might be necessary to unleash Lavan Chitward's power, unchecked, unhindered, in all its ferocity.
"So, do you think that if Kalira controls the amount of energy you get, you can replicate what I just did?" Pol asked.
Lan drummed his fingers restlessly, his eyes looking off at some far distant point while he sorted things through in his own mind. "Not yet," he decided. "Can you show me again, three or four more times, I mean?"
"Certainly." Pol was actually relieved to hear Lan's caution. "Kalira, if you would be so kind? Link and hold the link for four repetitions of the exercise?"
:Certainly, Pol,: Kalira said cheerfully. She insinuated the link with great skill and delicacy; Pol spared a moment to admire her touch.
Four times, he ignited tiny balls of lint, going so slowly that it was possible to see a minute coal form at the heart of the ball before the flame rose. Four times, Lan "watched" with his eyes closed in concentration. The third and fourth time, the furrows in his brow eased, and he nodded slightly when the lint caught fire.
After the fourth iteration, he looked up and smiled.
"I can do it, Herald," he said with confidence. "Let me try again, doing it right."
Pol placed another lint ball on the altar of sacrifice, and Lan stared at it.
In three heartbeats, as Lan's smile increased to a grin, it was nothing but ash.
Pol was flatly astonished. He had never had any pupil with one of the odder Gifts catch on so quickly before.
On the other hand, their problem was usually in accessing their power, not in controlling it.
Only young Malken has had the same problem as Lan, it occurred to him. And Malken is not ready to control it. Poor Malken had been so overwhelmed by his Foresight that Herald Evan had finally decided to shut it down altogether. It was a temporary measure, but until the child was older and stronger, there was no way he could understand what he was seeing and why he was seeing it so he could control it. "I am not risking a child's sanity," Evan had said flatly. "Nothing is worth that."
He'd gotten no argument from anyone on that score.
Pol lined up lint balls, directing Lan to ignite them in a specific sequence; after a bit of fumbling, Lan did just that. He made the piles of lint bigger, then smaller. Finally, he took the bucket of water, extinguished the tack-room fire, and had Lan relight it with the remainder of the lint as kindling. In order to get the now-wet wood going properly, Lan had to concentrate his force on the fire until the water had evaporated and the wood could burn.
"Enough!" Pol ordered when that exercise was over. Lan was pale, but triumphant; he looked eager to keep going, but Pol knew weariness when he saw it. "That's enough for the first day, Lavan. Quite enough. We'll start on real targets and more distant targets tomorrow. How are you feeling?"
"Tired. And my stomach's in knots," Lan said truthfully. "I don't like having to get angry like this, but—but I don't think I have to get quite as angry now as I did when we started."
"That's good." Pol hoped he was right. "Go on back to the Collegium and your classes; I'll clean up, and I'll see you here tomorrow."
Lan turned to go, and Pol called after him, "No practicing on your own, promise me!"
"I promise," Lan called back over his shoulder. "No fear."
:I wish that was the only thing we had to worry about, Chosen,: Satiran said soberly.
Pol sighed. "The sooner we can say he's fully trained, the more likely he is to be sent out—" He shook his head. "Gods. Now I know how the Weaponsmaster feels."
:I always did,: said Satiran, and left it at that.
SEVENTEEN
POL paused for a moment with one hand on the latch of his room, and the other massaging his own shoulder. The hallway was cold, and his room would be warm, but he was very nearly too tired even to open his own door. It had been a long day; a very, very long day. Why he should have been selected to be on the elite committee of Those Who Knew What Was Going On With Karse—
&
nbsp; Bother. He knew why. Lavan Chitward—or Firestarter, as the King had begun to call him—was the reason why good old dependable Herald Pol should suddenly be counted among the important minds of this land. The boy was shaping up to be a very important player in the coming war, and Pol was his teacher, his mentor, and his friend. Pol's Companion was the sire to Lavan's Companion, giving him yet another source of insight into Lavan's young mind. If Pol and Satiran knew what was coming, they could prepare the boy to face it.
Pol was dancing on the edge of his energy, though; he was forced to juggle teaching, tutoring Lavan, and meetings with the Select Council, along with whatever incidental tasks came up. He wasn't young anymore, and his body reminded him of that sad fact rather frequently these days.
So, for that matter, did Satiran, who nagged him about slowing down at least once a day. Not that there was anything Pol could do about it. His body, mind, and spirit were not his to command.
At last he opened the door of his room, and stared in bewilderment to see his daughter Elenor in her mother's chair by the fire, waiting patiently for him, with a tray full of covered dishes beside her.
"Elenor! What are you—" He stopped himself in mid-sentence and shook his head in mingled disbelief and dismay. He couldn't have forgotten the weekly dinner they always shared, could he? "It's not—I thought it was—"
"Yes, Father, you've lost track of time again," Elenor sighed. "When you didn't come to Healers', I knew you'd forgotten what day it was. I also thought that you'd probably forget you were supposed to have dinner at all, so I had one of the servants bring dinner here."
The fire crackled cheerfully as Pol shook his head at his own forgetfulness, and took his chair across from hers. "I'm glad you did. I'm so tired I probably would have just opted for some fruit and cheese."
"Assuming you remembered to eat anything before you went to sleep." Elenor began uncovering the platters and fixing a plate of food for him. "I won't ask why they're running you out like this, but I hope it ends soon."
He didn't say anything; he couldn't. He knew very well that the secret meetings wouldn't end until the entire Kingdom knew that Valdemar was at war with Karse—and then, it wouldn't just be meetings that she would be worrying about. The only thing he could do was something he already had done. He'd extracted a promise from Theran that Elenor would never have both parents on the front lines of the fighting at the same time. This was not to say that they wouldn't both be down near the Border, but they would never be near the fighting simultaneously.
Elenor had ordered a wonderful meal, and he gave it its due attention, although he didn't neglect conversation to do so. He told her what he could of the doings of Circle and Collegium, and she shared stories of the interesting or the funny from her end of the grounds. But when they reached the dessert, Elenor brought up a subject he had not been anticipating.
"So, has Lavan found a sweetheart among the Trainees?" she asked, so casually that Pol didn't believe for a moment that she felt casual about the subject.
Oh, gods, no— he thought, with a sinking heart. There was only one thing that could prompt a question like that; Elenor was smitten with the boy. Oh gods. Grant that it isn't serious yet. His tired mind, which had been sinking into a state of comfortable relaxation, suddenly lurched into frantic activity again. He knew from his experiences with her older sisters that the last person a girl confides her romantic hopes to is her father. Somehow, some way, he had to dissuade her from setting those hopes on Lavan Firestarter. Assuming it wasn't already too late.
But what to say?
"He's not going to. You're more like to see that fire iron take a sweetheart," Pol settled on, with a yawn to cover his anxiety. Above all, the one thing he must not do was appear opposed to her infatuation. Nothing watered and fed the young plant of love like parental opposition.
"Oh, come now, Father, you are never going to convince me he's shaych," she replied with a laugh, that faded as he didn't reply. "Is he?" she faltered.
It was so tempting to let her believe that, but she was a Healer, and she would be able to figure the truth of that out for herself without too much difficulty. "No, he's not shaych," Pol replied, and interrupted her sigh of relief with, "But he might just as well be. Any girl who pins her hopes on him as a sweetheart is going to have her heart broken. He's already lifebonded."
He hoped that Elenor would leave things at that, but no. She looked at him sharply, as the fire flared beside her. "I thought you said he didn't have a sweetheart—oh, she's not in the Trainees?" Her brow wrinkled with puzzlement and annoyance. "But he hasn't seen anyone but his sister—" And now her expression turned to one of horror. "He can't be lifebonded to his sister?"
She jumped to her feet; Pol rose and grabbed both her elbows, holding her fast, so that she had to look into his eyes. "Elenor, listen to me. Lavan is lifebonded to Kalira. There is absolutely no doubt of it."
"Kalira?" She stood very, very still, and he let go of her arms. "Kalira? His Companion?"
Pol sat down heavily, and she copied him unconsciously. He nodded, watching her closely. "Kalira. His Companion. There is no room in his life or his heart for any other female except as a friend."
Firelight created changing shadows over her face, a face whose expressions changed as quickly as the shadows. "But that's not possible," she said aloud, hardly seeming to be aware that she was speaking. "That can't be possible."
"It is possible, and it is the truth." Pol said bluntly, now hoping to hammer his point home with repetition.
"But Kalira—" She turned her eyes toward her father entreatingly. "A Companion isn't human—a Companion can't be—" She flushed a bright crimson. "A Companion can't—she isn't human—"
He decided to be as obtuse and diplomatic as possible. "It doesn't matter. Not when they're lifebonded. They are bound to each other in a way that nothing can change."
But Elenor wasn't going to take the hint. "A Companion isn't a woman. Kalira can't be what I—ah, a woman can be!"
"Elenor, it doesn't matter. Listen to me; I know. I'm not speculating, I know. It. Does. Not. Matter." He leaned forward and took her hands before she could withdraw them, using every, voice trick and Gift he had mastered in all his years as a Herald to make her listen and believe. "He will never love a human as anything other than a friend. Don't lose your heart to him, because you'll only end up breaking it over this, and it won't be his fault that you do. I'll comfort you, but I won't sympathize with you."
Her expression gradually settled to one of dazed confusion. He let her hands go, then, and she put her right to her temple. "I just—it doesn't—" she faltered. Then she rose slowly. "I think I'd better go get some rest."
"I think you should, too," he replied soothingly, putting his arm around her as he escorted her to the door. He kept his own feelings behind hard shields; the last thing she needed was to sense his aching heart, she already had her own to deal with. "It's been a long day for both of us. Thank you for dinner; I enjoyed it very much, and your company."
She came to herself long enough to give him a wan smile and a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Father. I love you, too."
He closed the door behind her, and leaned against it, waiting until she was long gone from the building, well on her way to Healers' Collegium, and as preoccupied as she was, unlikely to sense his emotions.
He let his shields down, and metaphorically leaned on Satiran's shoulder, his heart surely as sore as Elenor's was. My poor baby! Even if it was only infatuation, it hurt, and she'd never had her heart wounded before. Just now, all she knew was grief; she didn't know that grief can heal, or that some can be greater than others. First love was no less real than mature love, and first heartbreak hurt worse. He buried his head in his hands and hot tears of the sorrow only a parent can know for the hurts of his child slipped through his fingers.
:There is nothing harder than being a father or mother,: Satiran said, with an understanding deeper than the words could ever reach.
:Ye
s,: he replied, and with that one word said all that could be said.
*
LAN always thought that this was the saddest part of the year, the time when it seemed that winter would never end. The excitement of Midwinter was over; hard-packed snow blanketed the ground, and an unending sea of gray cloud blanketed the sky. The cold was relentless, leaking in around door- and window-frames, sending unexpected chills down the back. You couldn't escape it, except in bed, and you knew that when you woke up again, you'd be battling it from the time you turned back the covers.
Lan hated this time of year. There was nothing to look forward to; the days dragged on with soul-deadening sameness until, at last, spring arrived, and it was impossible to believe in spring when the ground was frozen rock-hard.
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.
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