Brightly Burning

There was more trouble ahead of him; every day was colder and shorter. How long would it be before the Sixty Formers could no longer pursue their after-school entertainments? He'd heard them speak of court tennis, of fencing lessons, of riding in the fashionable Leeside Park, before they all went off in a mob. None of those things would be comfortable or possible in a bitter rain or with snow on the ground. And then what would they do for sport?

As if I need to think about it. They'll go hunting for sport at school, of course.

The subject made him feel sick all over again, and strengthened his headache.

I hate them, I hate them, I hate them! he thought fiercely, his hands clenching in the coverlet. If they keep on coming at me, I'll kill them, I will!

Really? asked a dry voice in his mind. You, undersized and outnumbered, you're no threat to them. You can't even stop them from pushing you around. How do you propose even to impress them enough to leave you alone?

He couldn't; he knew he couldn't and that frustration was as bad or worse than the anger.

Why couldn't they leave him alone? He was nothing to them; he was less than nothing. He wanted so badly to batter those smug faces, to pound Tyron until his fists hurt. Not a chance, not a chance in the world that it would happen. Even if he could get Tyron alone, he wouldn't stand a chance against someone so much bigger and stronger than Lan was. Not someone who was so fit and athletic. No matter what sort of fighting Lan learned or practiced, Tyron would always be ahead of him by virtue of his inches and muscles.

Footsteps outside his door warned him someone was coming, so when the door opened, he pulled the hot- bag off his eyes and turned his head to see who it was.

'Your teacher seems to think that you're ill, or becoming ill,' Nelda said, giving him the same critical glare that the housekeeper had. Today she was gowned in an amber brown with bands of her own embroidery around the hems.

'My head hurts,' he said simply. 'A lot.'

His mother came to his bedside and tested his forehead with the inside of her wrist, then tested the hot-bag. 'You're hotter than the compress; you've got a fever. There is something going around they tell me,' she admitted with a slight frown. 'Your teacher seems to think you should stay home for a few days and study on your own.'

A few days? It was more of a reprieve than he had ever thought he would get! But if I look too eager, she might send me back tomorrow.

He closed his eyes as a jolt of pain lanced across his head from left to right. He certainly didn't have to feign that. 'I'll try, Mother,' he said truthfully. 'If you think I should stay home—but if you don't want me to, I won't.'

That must have been the right thing to say. 'You must be sick,' she said reluctantly. 'All right; I'll have your meals brought up on a tray, and we'll keep you home for a while. There's no point in spreading whatever you've caught to the rest of the family.' She pursed her lips as Lan looked up at her. 'I'll send to the herbalist for something better than willow tea for your head. Meanwhile, you lie back down.' He obeyed, meekly, and she felt his forehead with a surprisingly gentle expression on her face. 'Lavan, you've been driving me to distraction since we moved to Haven, but I still love you. It's not been easy for the rest of us here in Haven either.'

A pang of conscience penetrated the pain in his head. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, feeling ashamed.

'Just keep on with this school as you have been, and you won't have a reason to feel sorry anymore,' she said, spoiling his moment of contrition, as she put the hot-bag back on his forehead.

Just keep on with the school—if the Tyrant will let me! he thought in despair, and the headache returned with a vengeance.

As aromas that should have been savory and only made him feel sick floated up from the kitchen, he fought down nausea and his pain.

When footsteps came up the stairs again, he thought it was the servant with the promised tray, and took off the hot-bag to send her away. But it wasn't; it was the maidservant all right, a vaguely pretty girl with a round face and red cheeks, but she had a bottle and spoon in one hand, and another hot-bag wrapped in a new towel dangling from the other.

'This is from the herbalist for you,' the maid said, with a sympathetic smile, holding out the bottle and spoon. 'Just take a spoonful; he says it's mortal strong.' Lan was surprised and touched by the sympathy. Evidently, now that it was clear he wasn't making his illness up, the servants were less inclined to be critical of him.

She left the hot-bag beside him as he took the medicine from her, leaving him alone in the darkening room. After a moment of thought, he lit his candles at his fireplace, although bending over nearly made him pass out.

Strange. I don't remember anyone coming in to light the fire. It hadn't been lit when he came home, had it?

I—I must have forgotten, my head hurt so much. When the room was full of light, he stripped and got into his nightclothes and got properly into bed, just in case the medicine was as strong as it was supposed to be. He didn't have a great deal of faith in the promises of herbalists, but it might very well be powerful.

His skin felt tender again, that slightly-sunburned feeling. As he stretched out under the bedclothes with the new hot-bag on his head, he was glad he'd gotten out of his clothing. The wool trews had been itchy; the soft linen felt much better.

Downstairs, people were starting to arrive home, and the house hummed with conversation and activity. No one else came near him, though; he experienced the odd sensation of eavesdropping on his own family.

As if I were a ghost.

It was... interesting. The maid had left his door open, so he heard most of what was going on fairly clearly. No one seemed to notice his absence until dinner, when his mother's brief explanation brought an expression of detached sympathy from Sam, and an exclamation of 'Don't let him get near me!' from his sister.