Brightly Burning

Last night he had slept dreamlessly; this night was the same. Given that he fought the Sixth Formers virtually every night in his dreams, this, too, was a welcome relief.

His second day as a 'patient' was similar to the first, although a different servant brought him meals, but his third night was different. His headache was almost gone, so he hadn't bothered to take the medicine.

In the middle of the night, he woke, unable to move, feeling that there was something, some heavy weight, sitting on his chest and smothering him, and something else standing at the foot of his bed, watching him with amusement. He didn't so much think as feel—and his feeling of helpless anger made him label the presence at his feet as his worst enemy.

Tyron!

Terror and rage drove out any coherent thought, filling Lan's mind with an explosion of white heat. He tried to scream, but nothing came out; tried to flail at the unseen weight, but couldn't move so much as a finger.

Then, suddenly, the fire in his fireplace flared up with a roar.

The room lit up, as if the noon sun shone at midnight; a flare of heat washed over him, snapping the paralysis holding him.

The weight left his chest; he sat bolt upright as the flames died down to mere flickers and coals again. He took a shocked breath—and the headache knocked him flat on his back, spasming in pain and near-blindness.

For a very long time he couldn't even move, and hardly dared breathe. Where a moment before, his entire universe had been terror and rage, now it was filled with pain. A solid bar of agony ran between his temples and, from the base of his neck to his eyes, his head throbbed.

Finally, between one breath and another, it ebbed just enough that he could grope his hand to the bedside table. He didn't trust himself enough to reach for the spoon; he pulled the cork from the bottle and took a full mouthful, gagging down the thick, bittersweet liquid and putting the bottle back on the table before the pain washed over him again.

Then, after what felt like a hundred, thousand years, came oblivion.

When he woke again in mid-morning, it was the pain that woke him, but this time it was more like the level of headache that had sent him home from school. He reached for the bottle and took a measured half-dose, which relieved enough of the anguish that he could eat, drink, and take care of himself. Then he took a second half-dose, and retreated into slumber.

He missed lunch altogether, and evidently even sleeping he had looked as miserable as he felt, for when he woke at last, one of the scruffy little kitchen boys was sitting on a stool at his bedside.

When he opened his eyes and started to sit up, the boy leaped to his feet and ran off down the hall and the stairs. It was Nelda who brought up his supper tray herself, as he slowly levered himself up into a sitting position.

'Your fever came back,' his mother stated, as she set the tray down and sat on the edge of the bed. 'Cook came to check on you herself this morning, and sent me a message that you were asleep and as hot as an oven.' She measured his temperature with her wrist, which felt pleasantly cool on his forehead.

'It came back last night, I guess,' he replied, speaking slowly and carefully to keep from jarring his head. 'I took some medicine right away.' This time, the medicine had worked its magic more quickly, but there was still an ache throbbing in both temples and the back of his head. He eyed the bottle with misgivings; there was just about a quarter of the stuff remaining; what if he needed more?

'Whatever it is, I certainly hope for all our sakes that no one else catches it,' his mother replied in a controlled tone, but with a gentle touch of her hand on his forehead. 'Your teachers sent to say they're satisfied with the work you've done, so I suppose it will do no harm for you to miss a few more days until we're certain this fever won't come back a third time.'

All he could feel was relief in spite of the pain. More days! This is—almost worth having my head try to fly apart—

'Are you hungry?' his mother asked, and to his mild surprise, he realized that he was ravenous.

'I... think so,' he said haltingly, with the feeling that it wouldn't do to look too healthy.

'Well, Cook informed me that 'feed a fever' is the rule, and the herbalist agreed, so I want you to eat,' she told him as she stood up. 'He also told me that drinking as much as you can is more important than eating, so we'll be keeping a pitcher of water beside your bed. I've sent for another bottle of this unpleasant concoction since it does seem to have done you some good, and it should be ready in a candlemark or two. He'd have had it ready sooner, but it started raining last night, and it seems everyone in the city is coming down with a cold or the grippe.' She looked at the window, though nothing could have been visible but the reflection, and sighed. 'It's a nasty, filthy, cold rain, and it's just pouring down. I won't let you go back as long as it lasts, even if it lasts a week.'

He sighed, and felt another measure of relief. 'Mother—'

Nelda paused and turned back at the door.

'What if this doesn't go away?' he ventured. 'What if I stay sick for a month?' I could live with that.

At that, she laughed, much to his surprise. 'Lavan, we're in Haven, not back in Alderscroft. The Healer's Collegium is on the other side of the city. If this mysterious illness of yours doesn't pass on its own in a few more days, have no fear, I'll have one of the Collegium Healers in to see you. The only reason I haven't had one here before is that this fever doesn't seem to be doing you any harm.'

With that, she left, not pausing long enough to see Lan's face plummet with his heart.

His appetite had vanished, but he dutifully pulled the tray to him and ate anyway.

I should have known better than to hope that this was anything more than a reprieve, he sighed to himself. Chewing was an ordeal; every movement of his jaw increased the ache, and he was glad when he'd finished enough that his mother and Cook would be satisfied. He poured himself another generous dose of his medicine, wanting to sleep as long as possible. Sleep seemed to be the one certain cure, and he wanted sleep and relief from pain more than he wanted anything else at that moment.