Brightly Burning

'There is no mistake,' Pol said, using the authoritative Voice, a skill all Bards and most Heralds mastered. 'Last night, in the presence of many of your household, you and your wife unlawfully detained and accused a Heraldic Trainee, one Lavan Chitward. You endangered his safety, threatened him, and stole the formal bridle of his Companion, said object made of blue leather and adorned with silver fittings and silver bridle bells, engraved with his Companion's name, said object being worth twenty crowns. I should think that as a Master Silversmith you would recognize this article I have just described. Do you deny this? I should warn you that if you do deny this, I have the authority to have the truth from you by means of the Truth Spell.'

The blood drained from Master Jelnack's face; he knew now he wasn't going to be able to bully or bluff his way out of the situation. He also knew that now every neighbor knew what his household had been up to last night.

'Cast your spell, Herald!' Jisette said shrilly, pushing past her husband despite his efforts to keep her out of the way and quiet. 'That creature you claim is a Trainee murdered my son and slandered him after his death! Nothing you can say will make me believe otherwise! I demand justice! The blood of my son demands justice!'

'You, lady, have already gotten justice for your son,' Pol told her angrily. 'Whether you believe it or not, it's no odds. Your son tortured and abused dozens of smaller, younger children for his own pleasure, forced them to act as his servants and even steal for him. The only person to be blamed for his death is Tyron Jelnack. Had he not been the kind of sadistic bully he was, he would be alive now. And you—' he concluded, again in the Voice, seeing that Jisette was about to launch into a tirade, 'You will be silent!'

The use of the Voice, directed at her and only at her, and with all of the force of Pol's minor Gift of Empathic Projection behind it, struck her dumb.

Now he turned to Master Jelnack. 'I am sorry that your son's death has so clearly deranged your wife's mind,' he continued crisply. 'And given that it is obvious that she is not thinking clearly or able to act rationally, the Crown may be willing to drop the charges, provided the bridle is returned and that you are able to demonstrate your ability to keep your wife under control until her clarity of thought returns. I must say that I am very much surprised and disappointed that she was able to sway all of you to believe in her delusions, but now that you know the truth, I trust you will treat her fantasy as it deserves to be treated, and ignore it.'

Master Jelnack had seemingly also lost his power of speech, but he did nod. He swallowed once or twice, then half-turned and whispered something to the manservant, who vanished.

Satiran stamped decisively. 'I must warn you that if you fail to keep this afflicted lady from acting on her delusions, she will have to be confined by the Crown,' he continued. 'And, of course, the charges will be reinstated. I believe you know better than I what such a reinstatment would mean to your reputation and career.'

If it had been possible for Master Jelnack to grow any paler, he would have. Pol knew very well what would happen. With even a charge of theft laid against him, Jelnack would lose his position as Guildmaster.

Jelnack clamped his hand on his wife's wrist, and pulled her behind him. 'We'll see to it that she is watched over and gets proper treatment,' he said fervently. 'I'll talk to the Healers myself.'

'See to it that you do,' Pol replied, remaining stony-faced as the manservant reappeared with the bridle. With a wave of his hand, he directed the Guard at the door to accept it. Then he backed up Satiran a pace, turned him, and led the way out of the courtyard into the street. The mounted Guard followed, then the last Guard mounted his horse, and took up the rear. Master Jelnack watched them leave, silently, afraid to make any show that might be interpreted as disrespect until they were out of the court. Only then did he close the door—very, very gently.

There wasn't a sound in the street; if it hadn't been for all the watchers, Pol could have believed that there wasn't a soul about. The hooves of the two Guards' horses clicked on the stones; Satiran's made that distinctive chiming sound that only Companions produced.

:I would have said that you were too hard on him, except that he should have figured out last night that Lan really was a Trainee,: Satiran remarked. :I mean, really! A silver-worked bridle, the sound of Kalira's hooves—you can't counterfeit those! If he'd had any sense, he would have been at the Herald's Gate with the bridle in his hands, begging for forgiveness within a candle-mark of Lan's return.:

Pol sniffed. :The only reason I wasn't harder on them is because I don't want to push things too far. They would be within their rights to demand that Lan undergo Truth Spell, and then the cat would be out of the bag.:

Satiran put his ears back. :Huh. I hadn't thought of that. That would be messy.:

Pol wished he'd dared to take the woman into custody there and then and turn her over to the Healers—in protective custody, of course, with a Guard on her; he couldn't explain why, but he neither trusted her nor felt he could depend on her husband to keep her out of mischief. She was clever and entirely used to getting her own way. That was a bad combination.

But he'd done all he could for the moment. Keeping Lan away from family celebrations was the only other thing he could think of to do.

:That won't be difficult,: Satiran retorted. :I think it would be harder to force him to go.:

*

THE Chesters had made a second, and much more palatable, Feast for Lan. He was greeted as enthusiastically as if he had been gone for a month, and when he walked into the cottage, a dozen delicious odors hit his nose and nearly bowled him over. It was clear from the preparations that they were not going to feed him with leftovers.

He was doubly, triply glad now that on the way here he'd stopped to use the Midwinter gift of money his mother had sent to his room at the Collegium this morning (another guilt offering, perhaps) to buy gifts for everyone in the Chester household, from Granny on down. There was a Midwinter Fair in full swing outside the gate he'd left by, and he'd taken great care in selecting things he thought would please.

He presented them now, straight from the packs, in part to let their pleasure help erase the bitter memory of last night.

'I've got a few things for you all, to thank you for opening your home to me,' he said, as he passed them out, casually, hoping that they would not think themselves obliged to respond in kind. 'I hope you like them. Granny, these looked useful to me for stitching in the winter,' he continued, handing Granny a set of gloves with cut-off fingers that left the last joint uncovered, made of chirra wool. He'd observed her rubbing her knuckles and wrists as