Brightly Burning

Lan hated this time of year. There was nothing to look forward to; the days dragged on with soul-deadening sameness until, at last, spring arrived, and it was impossible to believe in spring when the ground was frozen rock- hard.

That was not so much the case this year—although he often felt he teetered on the edge of failure. He had progressed beyond merely igniting a few lowly bits of lint, and in the Collegium at least, his Gift was no longer a secret.

They were starting to call him 'Lavan Firestarter,' a name that pleased him and made him feel queasy at the same time. He didn't in the least mind shedding his surname, but he wished that this new one was less— sinister.

Many things made him uneasy and uncertain about this new role that Fate had cast him in. Heralds did so much more than he had ever dreamed they did! Not that Heralds had crossed his mind so much before all of this, but it had never occurred to him that they were more than the mouthpieces of the King.

That was what was occupying his mind as he trudged back from his last class—which was a combined lesson for him and some of the final-year students. They were doing archery practice; he, however, had taken his Gift into the realm of the practical.

The scenario was simple enough. The archers were firing at moving targets. He was trying to incinerate the arrows before they hit those targets. The archers were not launching their arrows singly anymore, but in volleys, as they would in combat. So it wasn't just one arrow he had to get, but many.

He was exhausted. Today he'd had to take a long walk with Kalira after the lesson, to cool down the terrible anger he'd had to raise. It made him feel sick—but something about the cloaked anxiety of his mentor Herald Pol told him that there was a reason, a good one, for the relentless pace being set for him. That in itself worried him. Something was going on, something that no one was talking about openly.

And yet, he seemed to be the only one of the Trainees that was aware of the subcurrent. Everyone else went to classes, to meals, gossiped, complained, and went on with their lives just as they always had.

The regular class load was bad enough without this added, unacknowledged pressure. Heralds did so much! With the Bards, they passed on news, but theirs concentrated on the edicts of law and government. They made certain that everyone actually understood new laws and decrees. They acted as judges and juries, but also investigated crime, or suspected crime. They went for help when needed, for nothing in the Kingdom could travel as fast as a Herald and Companion. They organized and trained local militia; they led militia when something more than simple home defense was needed. They carried secret messages, they acted as spies, and very rarely, as assassins. Some with very specific Gifts—such as his—worked with the Guard and army. They were posted as diplomats, or as adjuncts to diplomats. They had to know geography and history, not only of Valdemar but of the lands around it. Mathematics, orienteering and navigation, rudimentary artifice, sleight-of-hand, literature, manners, the whys and wherefores of many religions—these and many more disparate classes filled his days and nights with study.

No one person could do and be all these things, but that was why everyone had at least rudimentary lessons in them. How could you know what you were good at if you didn't at least try it?

But, oh, the burden of all those classes!

He thanked the gods for a mentor like Herald Pol, who understood as no one else could exactly how much stress he could bear without cracking. A few days ago, Pol had gotten together with all of his teachers and laid down certain guidelines—which included the order that no one, absolutely no one was to assign him after-class work for the evening after a Gift-practice. That had given him some breathing space, sorely needed. He'd also arranged that Lan got a tray in his room on those evenings, rather than eating with the rest of the Collegium. His nerves were just too raw to bear the company of even his closest friends so soon after the lessons.

:Oh, my dear, you'll feel better after a hot meal,: Kalira said cheerfully. :And you have all of the evening for yourself.:

:I wish it was warm again,: he fretted. He still was not much of a reader unless he read aloud to an audience. That was as much because he had discovered a pleasure in acting things out for others—which would probably thoroughly horrify his mother if she knew, for she would be certain that he was going to have a second career as a mountebank. There was far less pleasure in reading alone.

:You need something active to do,: Kalira acknowledged. :But something other than riding. You're getting quite enough of that, I think.:

:I never get enough of you, Kalira,: he said obliquely. :But you've had quite enough of riding in Companions' Field, I know,: she laughed. :Get something to eat, warm up, and see if you can find something to read. And if you can't—maybe there are enough of your friends free to play some taroc.:

Being warm surely sounded attractive right now. He was always warm enough when he was using his Gift, but as soon as he stopped, all the energy ran out of him and his feet and hands grew cold and numb in no time, no matter how many gloves and socks he wore. At least Kalira kept him from having reaction-headaches now.

He stamped his boots clear of snow at the door, but little trails of melted water showed that not all of his fellow Trainees had remembered to do so. There was a Trainee down at the other end of the hall with a mop and bucket, remedying the situation until a servant could do a proper job.

The warmth of his room didn't penetrate to the chill core of him until he had taken off his cloak and boots and settled down to his tray at the fire. And it wasn't until he'd finished eating that he saw the small white square of a note on the floor just inside his door; there was a bit of boot print on one corner, so he must have trod right over it when he came in.

He got out of his chair and picked it up, unfolding it. The paper was soft, erased and reused many times, since paper was too expensive to be wasted in the Chitward household.

Lan, I want to go skating in the moonlight, it read, and Mother won't let me unless I've got an escort. Sam said he's too busy; have you got the evening free? Besides, I want to talk with you in private. If you can, come straight to the house. Macy.

Well, if that wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping for! He liked to skate, and hadn't out skating in ages, not since back in Alderscroft. His skates should still be in the storage box in his room, along with a few other belongings.

:Very good!: Kalira enthused, 'looking' over his shoulder. :It's only just dusk, we should get there in plenty of time for a couple of candlemarks of skating. And you can bring your