Brightly Burning

tormentors. How he had done so, he had no idea. It might have been his own feeble powers of Empathic projection, it might have been a miracle. It might even be the work of Kalira, Lavan's new Companion, for there was no doubt that she could, and would, do anything she had to in order to protect him.

Now the four of them—himself, young Lavan, Kalira, and Satiran—were alone in the garden. There was plenty of light to see by, although it was well past midnight. They had gathered, ironically enough, beneath the huge garden torch; there seemed no reason to extinguish it. They needed to have open space for the two Companions, since the Healers wouldn't allow Lavan out of their sight, which meant Pol couldn't carry him off to the Collegium.

Yet.

Lavan stood no taller than Pol's shoulder; short for his reputed age of sixteen, thin, and lanky, with the loose-jointed, unfinished air of a boy who hasn't yet grown into what he will one day be. He had chestnut hair, more red than brown, with a slight wave to it, hazel eyes prone to change colors as his mood changed, and a thin, finely chiseled face, delicate, but in no way effeminate. Not a boy one would have ever suspected as the cause of so much horror.

The Healers had reclothed him and examined every bit of him for new burns, but in the end, only needed to replace the bandages. This time his powers had done him relatively little damage, other than to ruin his clothes. Pol had sent at once for a proper Trainee's Grays; it had reinforced his arguments with Captain Telamaine when the boy reappeared in the garb of a Heraldic Trainee.

Now the only question was—what was Herald's Collegium to do with him?

:What do you think?: asked an unfamiliar mind-voice; female, and there was only one creature it could be. Pol stared at Kalira in astonishment; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that a Companion had ever Mind-spoken to someone other than his Chosen Herald.

:Are you—Mindspeaking me?: he asked in shock.

:Of course I am!: she said tartly. :Don't be ridiculous, Pol. You need to talk to me directly, not through Satiran. And as for what you will do, you Heralds—you will take him, and train him, that is what you will do with him.:

He gazed at her dubiously. Lavan was oblivious to the conversation, although Pol was certain he heard it; sitting on the bench with one hand and his forehead resting on her flank. He was exhausted, and more than a little befogged by the drugs the Healers had given him.

:How?: Pol asked her. :How do you train something like— this?: There hadn't been a Firestarter in the Heraldic Circle in all the time he could remember, not one of any power, at least. He was the only Herald with even a trace of the Gift, and all he could manage to do was light an occasional bit of tinder. A powerful Firestarter came along once every two or three generations—someone like Lavan, never before. He was unique—and not a little frightening.

:How can we deal with this?: he continued. :It's not a Gift, it's a curse! He's got no control over it. It damned near took him, and the gods only know what would have been unleashed if it had!:

Kalira raised her head and stared at him defiantly. :I can control it,: she replied. :I can, and I will. He will be of no danger as long as I am with him, and I will never leave him.:

:Kalira—: Satiran interjected haltingly. :He has murdered four already. Is this any kind of person to Choose?:

Satiran gazed at the other Companion with eyes dark with fear and worry, and well he might. Kalira was his daughter.

:He didn't murder anyone; it was part accident, part horrible bad luck, and part provoked. I Chose him, Satiran; it is my Choice, not yours. He needs me. Would you have another Tylendel?: she asked harshly, and Pol saw Satiran wince.

He moved to the side of his old friend, and laid his arm along Satiran's neck, hoping to give him some comfort, as Satiran had so often given comfort to his Chosen. 'Children grow up and make their own paths,' he murmured. 'It's not for us to force them out of the roads they pick, however much we might wish to. The Choice is made; now let's deal with it.'

Kalira cast him a glance that was half gratitude, half defiance, then turned her head to nuzzle her Chosen. What passed between them was not for Pol or Satiran to hear, but the boy turned his head and looked to them with a bit more life in his pallid face. And anguish, terrible anguish, more than any boy his age should have to feel.

'Oh, sir—I didn't mean—' he began, and started to cry, the sort of helpless, hopeless weeping of one who is weary far past his strength. His face crumpled, and Pol heard his spirit crumbling in his tears.

Pol was not proof against that agony. Gingerly, he sat down beside the boy, and when Lavan didn't resist, put an arm around his shoulders. 'I know you never meant any of this to happen, Lavan,' he told the youngster, and somewhat to his own bemusement, he knew at that moment that he had spoken nothing but the truth. Lavan Chitward had probably fantasized about dealing the bullies the same punishment they'd inflicted on him, but he would never have been Chosen had he been the kind of person who could actually carry out those fantasies. How could anyone blame him for what had happened? Even the mildest of creatures fights back when cornered, and it was just everyone's misfortune that Lavan had teeth and claws that were sharper than swords and more deadly— and hadn't known it.

'I didn't!' Lavan sobbed. 'I didn't! Oh, gods, why didn't I die, too?'

:He means it,: Kalira said warningly, and turned her attention back to the boy.

'You didn't die because you don't deserve to die!' Pol said firmly, closing his hand on the boy's shoulder and willing him to believe.

'Neither did they!' Lavan moaned, shrinking into himself.

'That may be. Look at me, Lavan!' He turned the boy's tear-streaked face up so that he had to look into Pol's eyes. His swollen eyes begged for the reassurance that Pol was about to give him. 'Now, listen to me! If those boys, out of ignorance, had teased a herd of horses and stampeded them, were the horses to blame?'

'N-no.' Perhaps it was the drugs, perhaps the exhaustion, but Lavan had not dropped into unreasoning