Brightly Burning

'I think I'm finished here, Owyn—and thank you, very much.' Owyn stood up quickly, and took Pol's extended hand in a much firmer grip than before. 'I doubt that your school will reopen for a fortnight or more, until we get things sorted, but don't allow that to be an excuse for falling behind in your work.'

Owyn didn't snort, not in front of a Herald, but it was clear that he felt this was an unwarranted comment. 'I never fall behind, sir,' was all he said. Pol managed to keep his mouth from twitching up into a smile.

But that was the last smile he was to have for the rest of the day. The remaining interviews with the youngsters on Owyn's list who were least likely to break down were very uncomfortable. All boys, all had been caned at least once by the bullies, and half had been caned several times. When Pol heard from their own mouths the alleged reasons for the caning—including the boys who had been ordered to bring Tyron Jelnack and his cronies special gifts and treats—he was livid. Of all of them, only one had been a punishment specifically assigned by a teacher, and it hadn't warranted a flogging.

He and Satiran returned to the Palace and Collegium in a state of suppressed rage themselves. He went straight to the Captain's office, hoping to catch him before dinner.

He succeeded; and by the time he had given the officer the terse, bare-bones facts of the case, the Captain was left sitting in his chair with his mouth hanging open.

'How did they manage to get away with all that?' he sputtered. 'Abuse, extortion—and how long has this been going on?'

'Not long, I don't think—at least, not long at this level of abuse,' Pol said, some of his anger cooling, although he was still too keyed up to sit. 'I suspect a great deal of this was due to the ringleader. Still.'

'Still—I'm issuing an order closing the school until the Council has sorted things out and assigned a new Master,' the Captain said, scribbling quickly. 'That much is in my power.'

'That much will do very nicely,' Pol told him. 'I'll take care of getting this in front of the Council, and I'll get the interviews with the rest of the children on the list.'

The Captain shook his head. 'We never would have gotten this much out of the children,' he admitted, and touched his forehead in a sketchy salute as Pol turned to go. 'I'm glad we have you white-coats around.'

The Seneschal's Herald, Trevor, took Pol's report in silence. When Pol was done, Herald Trevor tapped his lips with his pen as he sat in thought.

'This isn't a matter for the full Council, but as it affects the Trades and Crafts, I think the Council ought to hear a full report when we've decided what to do,' Trevor said at last. 'Hmm. I think the Seneschal, His Majesty, Her Majesty, and Jedin and I can make a quick decision.' He gave Pol a knowing glance. 'There are always more people worthy of good academic positions than there are positions to fill,' he observed dryly. 'Putting a real teacher in charge of this school should solve most of the problems. I do agree with you, by the by, that it is much too valuable a resource to shut down.'

'Do you still want me to get interviews with the rest of the children?' Pol asked, cast in doubt by the Herald's quick resolution of the problem.

'Oh, absolutely—and take your daughter, the Empath—what's her name? Elenor. Yes, take Elenor with you.' Trevor's tight-lipped smile did not bode well for the adults who would be hearing the judgment laid on them. 'When we present our verdict, I don't want there to be the slightest doubt in anyone's mind that we were not only entirely justified, but lamentably tardy in discovering what was going on. I also want you to interview this Lavan Chitward, when he recovers. There is still no evidence of what happened in that room, and there are four dead boys to account for.'

'Yes,' Pol replied instantly. 'There are. And even if they richly deserved punishment—

'—and even if they caused their punishment themselves, by their own actions, we must see to it that we know what happened.' Trevor rubbed one temple carefully, with the first two fingers of his right hand. 'I would like less mystery and more fact—and I would like to be certain that no one can point a finger at the Chitward boy in any way when this is over.'

So would I, Pol thought, taking his leave of Herald Trevor, I just hope we can manage that.

NINE

LAN lay floating in a sea of soft fleece, not quite connected to the world. He wasn't in his own room, but in a bright little chamber with soft, green walls and hardly any furniture. From time to time, someone in dark or pale green came in and did things to him, made him eat, or drink, or simply laid hands gently on his head. He knew they were Healers, but he didn't have any inclination to go any further with that thought.

For that matter, he really didn't have any inclination to go very far with any thought.

He knew that he hurt, but it was pain at one remove—very distant, and not really affecting him, although he heard himself whimpering and groaning from time to time. He knew he wasn't dead, and though he was a little surprised, that didn't matter very much either.

He slept a great deal, and he wasn't entirely sure that the Healers tending him were aware that he was aware of them. They certainly treated him as if he wasn't.

He... drifted. That was the best word for it. When he was awake, he watched the clouds and the rain through his window, without a single thought interrupting his passive observation for candlemarks at a time. When his eyelids grew too heavy to hold up, he slept, dreamlessly. Something warned him that he didn't want to think about why he was here; whenever any of the Healers said anything that pointed his mind in that direction, he shied violently away from the topic and dove into sleep.

The pain drifted, too—drifted away from him, over the course of two days, perhaps three. As it drifted from