Brightly Burning

mounts, and were rounding up the men who had ambushed them; the Herald rode forward as Lan slumped over the pommel of his saddle, then slid down off Kalira to take his weight from her wounded hindquarters.

'I'm Herald Sharissa,' said the newcomer, dismounting quickly and going at once to Kalira, who shivered and shook with pain and reaction. Lan could only hold her head and shake, himself; tears poured down his face as he cradled her against his chest.

'Hold on, little one, this is going to hurt.' The Herald took hold of the shaft of the crossbow bolt and gave a quick pull; Kalira's body convulsed with the pain when the bolt came free, and she gave a low moan, a moan that Lan echoed as he endured her agony with her.

The Herald took them both in charge, binding a crude dressing on Kalira's wound, taking Lan up behind her, and getting them both away before the Guard had even finished trussing up the ambushers. The streets passed in a kind of blur; all that Lan could think of was Kalira. He was frantic now, wanting to urge Herald Sharissa to greater speed, then wanting to beg her to hold back to a mere crawl. If he could have carried Kalira, he would have.

'Easy on, lad,' Sharissa murmured from time to time. 'Easy on. She hurts, but she's not in any danger.'

But watching Kalira limping painfully behind them, feeling her agony with every step she took, did nothing to convince Lan of that.

Halfway to the Collegium, Pol and Satiran came pounding up, shaking him out of his daze of fear and hurt. He stared dumbly at Pol and was vaguely astonished at the unfettered anger he saw in his mentor's face.

But Pol only looked him over quickly, then he and Satiran moved to Kalira's side. Sharissa's Companion took his place on Kalira's opposite side, and Pol buckled Kalira into a peculiar harness he had brought with him, fastening the other two into it as well. In a moment, Lan saw what they were about; the two stallions were much larger than Kalira, and they were able to take most of the weight off her hindquarters. The relief to Kalira was so great that Lan burst into tears of gratitude.

Now they were able to move more quickly, and soon Kalira was in the hands of real Healers in her own stall in the stables.

Lan hovered anxiously outside the stall, still full of fear, although he felt everything that Kalira felt, and knew for himself that they were easing her pain and knitting her wound closed with their Healing Magic. He couldn't see what they were doing, though, and he couldn't be right with her, and that was horrid.

Finally they all cleared away, and he dashed into the stall to fling himself down on the straw next to her and cry as he had not since he was an infant. His thoughts were a tangle of guilt and anger, guilt because if he hadn't gone into the city, this never would have happened, and anger at those who had dared to harm her. His throat and stomach were one long knot; his cheeks raw, his eyes burning, and still the tears fell.

'This is all my fault!' he sobbed into her neck. 'You should never have Chosen me! If you hadn't, you'd be all right!'

'Shh, lad,' said Pol, dropping to his knees beside them. Lan had been so hysterical he hadn't even heard Pol approach. He put his arm around Lan's shoulders, dropping the load of blankets he'd brought with him. 'If she'd Chosen someone else, she might well be on the Southern Border fighting Karse at this moment. She knows that Heralds and Companions can't escape danger, don't you, little girl.'

Kalira raised her head with an effort and looked up at them both. :I just—wish that danger didn't hurt so much,: she said ruefully, and nuzzled Lan. :I couldn't—wouldn't—have anyone but you, Chosen. Ever.:

Before that could bring a new spate of self-accusation, Pol shook his shoulder a little. 'I thought you'd probably want to stay with her tonight, so I brought up some bedding for you, and a hot brick. If you get cold, there'll be a couple more bricks on the hearth over in the tack room. Now, let's get a bed made up for you before you fall on your nose.'

Making up a bed in the straw took what was left of Lan's energy and all his concentration. When Pol left them, blowing out the lantern at the end of the stall as he went, it was all Lan could do to get into his crude bed and curl up with one hand resting on Kalira's foreleg. She was already asleep, and he lay there, listening to her breathing, to the mice rustling in the straw, to the occasional stamp of a hoof in one of the other stalls. He thought he would never be able to sleep, no matter how tired he was, but it was very dark in the stable and as warmth crept into him from the hot brick he lay curled around, he felt his knotted muscles relaxing from sheer exhaustion. And finally, his eyes closed all by themselves and he, too, slipped into sleep.

EIGHTEEN

POL'S breath hung in clouds before his face; the icy air was as still as death, and the silence that hung over the gathered crowd made it seem that everyone in the Great Square had been turned into ice statues. Not in fifty years, perhaps even a hundred, had a King of Valdemar held an open Judgment like this, with everyone in Haven that could fit crowded into the Great Square in front of the City Hall. More folk still hung out of the windows or stood on the balconies of the buildings surrounding the Great Square.

Theran sat in stony silence on a temporary platform draped in white, the King's Own on his right, armed to the teeth, his bodyguard of Heralds around him, also armed, and all their Companions ranged in front of the platform. They could have been a grim snow sculpture; there wasn't a hint of a smile on any face in that grouping. The only touch of color other than white was in the form of one set of Formal Grays, Grays worn by Lavan Firestarter, who stood at Theran's left hand. The poor boy's face was as snowy as Theran's Royal Whites, but he was holding up gallantly; Pol was very, very proud of him. He was not the one waiting to be sentenced, but you wouldn't have known that from his face.

In a clear space below the platform, surrounded by a half-circle of Palace Guards in their special midnight- blue uniforms, stood the accused. Or perhaps, better to say the condemned, for their guilt was clear and they waited only for a chance to speak before Theran passed judgment on them.

It was not likely that the seven hired thugs who'd accepted the job of murdering Lavan would say much;