Brightly Burning

at the foot of the cot. 'Lord Marshal wants to see you as soon as you've got something to eat. Can't just rest on your laurels, you know! More things to do, if we're going to scare those beasts back across the border for good and all!'

Tuck's solid, ordinary matter-of-factness was the best tonic Lan could have had. He scrambled out from under his warm blankets and into the chill air, stripping off his old uniform and putting on a new one. 'I thought there were more people in this tent,' he said, as he pulled on his boots.

'There were, but Pol and I chased 'em out,' Tuck said. 'Just you, me, and him—and Kalira and Satiran; no more room in the tent for anyone else. He's the Lord Marshal's Herald now, Pol is, so how is that for a promotion? Lord Marshal says he sees more using Satiran's eyes than any four people using their own.'

Lan's throat closed in a spasm; he swallowed hard to clear it. No matter what he did, he'd never be able to undo what had happened to Pol....

And he recalled, only too vividly, a scene that had played out in the tent before Tuck had come to replace Elenor.

'I can't do it!' Ilea had wept, quietly, hopelessly. 'I've tried everything I know, and I can't—I can't Heal him, and I never will! He's going to be blind for the rest of his life, and it's my fault!'

No it isn't, he'd wanted to shout. It's my fault, all mine, and I'm so sorry—

'Mother, you can't do it all at once,' Elenor had soothed, taking her mother away.

He hadn't heard anything after that, for they had been outside the tent, but he had turned his face to the wall and wept into his pillow, crying himself to sleep with the pain of his own guilt.

'Anyway,' Tuck continued, blithely oblivious, 'Ilea isn't arguing; if the promotion sticks, Pol will never have to leave the Collegium again, and she says she'll stick to teaching.'

'That would be nice for them,' Lan managed to say, without sounding like he was about to cry. 'Where's the food?' Guilt-ridden or not, his stomach was oblivious to his emotions, and wanted tending.

Tuck laughed and gave him a hand up, then led the way to the mess tent. The army was spread out over the expanse of several hillsides, but there were several mess tents, it seemed, and the nearest was not that far from their own camp. It wasn't a very large tent, and served mostly, it seemed, to keep the snow and wind out of the cook-fires. Army rations weren't the most elaborate in the world; Lan got a bowl of grain porridge from a big kettle, and considered himself fortunate to have that. It was sticky and full of lumps, but it was food, and there was enough honey to make it taste all right. Outside the tent, logs had been set up along the hillside to make rough seats, so that was where he and Tuck took themselves; Tuck had decided in favor of skipping a second breakfast. Lan polished off the bowl, ignoring the whispers as some of the fighters recognized him. It made him feel even more awkward and unhappy as some of them left their meals and scuttled off, though.

Joyous. I get rid of the Karsite monsters, but now I'm a monster.

Tuck kept up a bright stream of chatter, and Lan shoveled in his food, forcing it past the lump in his throat. More people crammed into the area outside the tent, staring at him and whispering, and he ate faster.

'Let's get out of here,' he whispered to Tuck as he shoved the last bite into his mouth.

'Sure,' Tuck agreed, and they left they stood up to leave—

—only to find that the crowd near the tent was the merest hint of the one on the opposite side of it.

Lan backed up a pace; feeling cold and queasy, he stared back into all those strange faces, wondering what they wanted. Were they only curious? Or were they as afraid of him as his own parents were? They pressed in around him, separating him from Tuck, surrounding him on all sides. He couldn't see any officers, much less other Heralds.

What do they want? Where was Kalira? Had they bound her up somewhere so that they could deal with him without her interference?

He straightened up, and faced them squarely; there was a whisper of voices from farther out in the group, but those nearest him didn't seem hostile—

The chant started in the rear of the crowd—a few voices at first. And for a few doubtful moments, he couldn't tell what they were saying.

Then it became clear.

'—Firestorm, firestorm, firestorm—'

More voices took up the chant.

'Firestorm! Firestorm! Firestorm!'

Now they were all shouting it, and the crowd surged forward, seizing Lan and hoisting him up onto their shoulders.

When they grabbed him, he very nearly passed out—

But the huge grins and enthusiasm quickly persuaded him that they meant no harm, and when he realized that they meant to thank him by parading him around the entire camp, the excitement made it very hard to breathe. More and more people joined in as Lan's bearers trotted him through the lines of tents, swelling the chanting chorus until he couldn't hear anything else. Up and down hills, even out to the sentries and back, running now, so that he hung on to the shoulders of two of his supporters for dear life!

They finally marched up the hill with him, heading toward the command tent, where the Lord Marshal and his generals were standing, with Pol and Satiran beside them.

For the first time, he wondered what the Lord Marshal would have to say about this demonstration. To Lan's relief, the Lord Marshal had a smile on his face; he didn't look at all angry about it.

:Well, you are the hero of the Battle of White Foal Pass,: Kalira said, poking her head over her sire's shoulder. :Be properly gracious, now.:

Lan's supporters deposited him in front of the Lord Marshal, and finally the chanting died away. The old man