Brightly Burning

down on one of the cots, and Elenor carefully covered him over, taking a cushion from nearby and settling herself on the floor beside him.

Turag backed away, then turned and motioned to Pol's litter bearers to bring him inside as well. With Satiran outside—there was no room for him in the crowded tent—Pol was left in darkness again. They transferred him to another cot, as Turag hovered nearby.

'What happened?' the young man asked Pol anxiously. 'Did that boy—I mean —'

'The boy is Herald Lavan Firestarter, and yes, he caused—all that.' Pol waved his arm in the general direction of the pass. 'Mind you, his strength comes from anger, and if we hadn't been attacked today, I don't know that he could have....' His voice trailed off, and he shrugged as Turag took in the bloodstains on his Whites.

'I forgot. You were the ones that were ambushed. I suppose that would give him enough anger for anything,' Turag replied, his mind clearly more on Lan and the firestorm than anything else. 'I'm not really suited for this position, I—' He seemed to suddenly wake up, and looked sharply at Pol. 'Sir, would you please be willing to put off your rest for a little longer? I think the Lord Marshal will want an explanation.'

Ah, gods, not more— He wanted so badly to sink down into the blackness of sleep, rather than the blackness of sightlessness. 'All right—' he began.

'A handful of words!' Ilea said angrily. 'And no more!'

The Lord Marshal did, indeed want an explanation. The Lord Marshal also wanted a great deal of assurance that Lan was no danger to their own people.

Finally even Pol's patience and strength were exhausted, and Ilea's was already strained to the breaking point. 'My Lord,' he snapped, his head pounding and his eyes one long streak of agony, 'enough.'

Ilea took this as her cue to speak the words that had probably been trembling behind her lips for the past candlemark. There was no mistaking the anger in her voice. She couldn't revenge herself on the man that had attacked him, but she could, and would, vent some spleen on the Lord Marshal. 'With all due respect, my Lord—you know the King's position on this boy already, and my husband is tired, wounded, and should have been in a bed the moment we entered this camp! If you must have reassurance, seek it somewhere else!'

Pol knew that tone of voice, and pictured her in his mind without any difficulty, her eyes flashing, her head up, quite ready to do battle with the King himself at this moment. The Lord Marshal was no match for her in this mood.

Thank the gods. Pol didn't think he could have stayed there for another moment, and he didn't have to. With stammered apologies, the Lord Marshal sent for servants, who bustled about the tent, fetching food, drink, and a fresh brazier, emptying the tent of all the cots but the ones Lan and Pol were on, and a third one left for Tuck, who was already asleep on it.

Pol got cool cider to drink in short order, and a blanket warmed over the brazier, pain medicine, and piece of bread with cheese melted over it, along with a snow-pack laid gently across his eyes to ease the burning.

When the drug in his drink eased the pain as well, then summoned him down into slumber, he went. Willingly. With his hand clasped in his beloved Ilea's to give him comfort.

TWENTY-TWO

SOME time during the ride to the headquarters, Pol had made up his mind on several points; it had given him relief from the pain to work things logically through in that way. Losing his eyesight was not going to be a tragedy, and if Ilea could not Heal him, then he would simply accept that.

The events of the evening only confirmed that belief. He worked through everything as logically as he could during the ride, and during that night and the day and night that followed, in his dreams he was able to employ a technique called directed dreaming to work through things emotionally. It wasn't easy; he exhausted himself all over again, weeping for what he had lost and raging against everyone involved, including himself. But it had to be done, and quickly, and dreams were the best and least harmful place to do so. As a consequence, when he woke, he actually felt remarkably normal.

Ilea was not with him, but Satiran was, lying beside his cot on a thick layer of straw laid over the canvas floor of the tent. That was how Pol was able to see that Lan was still unconscious on the cot on the opposite side of the tent with Kalira beside him, a charcoal brazier warming the air between the two Companions, and everything else that had been in the tent with them except for a third cot was gone.

:The other Heralds removed their things last night,: Satiran informed him. :They've moved into a different tent. Just as well; it would have been very crowded in here. Ilea has been with you most of the time, until the Chief Healer here came and chased her off to a bed around dawn.:

A pile of uniforms lay stacked at the foot of the cot; Pol sat up stiffly, stripped off his bloodstained clothing and gratefully donned a clean, new set of Whites. The only things he retained were his boots. 'Let's go find the Lord Marshal,' he said aloud, standing up with care and one hand on the wall of the tent, moving to the side so that Satiran had a bit more room. 'I have the feeling he needs more of that reassurance.'

Satiran got to his feet with an eye on the brazier, once Pol had a secure hold on his mane, the two of them went out into the cold morning. The scent of stale smoke still hovered over the camp, and the blackened pass below was an ever-present reminder of what had so recently happened. Smoke still rose from the stumps of trees, giving the oddly disconcerting effect of dozens of black chimneys sticking up out of the earth, as if there was an entire village underground down there.

There was no sign of the Karsites. Anything that had been in their camp was ashes, indistinguishable from the ashes of trees and bushes; the Karsites themselves were nowhere to be seen.