Brightly Burning

crisis—and no one liked it.

Weaponmaster Odo, who'd had some choice words for those who'd thought of it, liked it least of all. If it hadn't been that the Trainees themselves had been willing, even eager to go, the whole plan might well have collapsed at that moment. But the Trainees themselves talked the Weaponsmaster around, and so they went.

What disturbed Pol more than their leave-taking was that by the end of that same week, twelve Companions had presented themselves to be tacked-up, and had gone out to make their Choices. Twelve! Were they Choosing replacements for those who would soon die in this war? He didn't have the courage to ask Satiran.

All too soon, another set of too-young Trainees would follow the first set. And by spring—if not sooner—he and Lan would follow the same path.

He shook off his worries and headed for the Field, where Lan was waiting for him. Satiran stood at the fence, watching him approach with ears perked forward; he climbed the fence and used it as a help to get onto Satiran's bare back. His Companion carried him deep into the Field, to a spot where straw sheaves set up as targets by Master Odo were just barely visible. Pol slid down from Satiran's back; Lan smiled at his mentor, but his smile could not disguise the fact that he had dark shadows around his eyes, and that he was too thin. He had been working like one possessed, as if by working himself to exhaustion he could drive away the demons that haunted his dreams.

I can understand that, Pol thought, reflecting on his own dreams.

'Odo's ready,' he said, gesturing at the distant specks, well to the side of the straw targets. 'Get the straw bales first, then see if you can surround the practice ground at this distance.'

Lan nodded. He was long past merely flaming volleys of arrows; if that was all that was wanted, he could deal with archers from dawn to dusk. Now he was learning to reach distant targets, to create and hold walls of flame much longer and higher than the ones he'd used to pen in his attackers in the alley. Every day his control grew finer, his reach farther. Pol had always known that Lan's Gift was powerful, but until now, he'd had no way to judge how powerful it would be when he had learned to use it to its fullest.

Now he knew, and sometimes he shuddered to think about it. One day, perhaps one day soon, they would not call him Lavan Firestarter anymore. No—no, it would be another name entirely.

Lavan Firestorm.

It wouldn't happen here, though. The kind of raw emotion it would take to fuel a Firestorm couldn't be generated by the memories of old angers, though these days it only took a glance at the scar on Kalira's hip to produce as impressive a fire wall as was needed. The first Firestorm would probably come in a moment of desperate need on the front lines, and when it did—

Pol resolutely turned his thoughts away from that path; troubles enough dogged their footsteps without thinking too hard about that.

Lan shaded his eyes with one hand, the other on Kalira's neck, and frowned fiercely. Pol watched the targets; what Lan was working on now was the control that would permit him to ignite the targets instantaneously, with no smoke or heat to warn of what was happening.

Lan nodded, as if he was counting, and his frown grew fiercer.

Then—one, two, three, four!—deceptively tiny fireblossoms engulfed the far-off targets, and the specks that were Master Odo and his hand-picked Trainee volunteers leaped back. A moment later, the breeze brought the faint sounds of their voices, high-pitched exclamations that told Pol the trial had succeeded.

Frenzied activity around the burning targets ensued, until the fires were out. Then the distant figures gathered together in the center of the practice ground, very much like a beleaguered group of fighters trying to protect themselves and each other.

Lan's face twisted into a mask of anger; his free hand clenched at his side, he glared at the distant grouping. He'd brought up sheltering walls of flame before, but not at anywhere near this distance.

For a moment, as Lan's face grew red with strain, Pol thought he would not be able to manage it this time either. But then, a speck, a gleam of yellow against the white snow, warned him that Lan had managed something, at any rate.

Slowly enough that Pol could follow the track, a wavering line of flame encircled the group at a healthy distance. It remained no more than knee-high for a few heartbeats, then finally roared upward, a scarlet-and-golden waterfall in reverse. The flames reached to the height of a house, then stopped. Lan held them long enough to be certain that he could hold them for a candlemark at least, then with a gasp, let it all go.

The fire went out as if snuffed by a giant hand, and the distant helpers broke up their group and milled curiously about, examining the melted lines where the flames had been. That was a good trick, making flames burn on top of snow until the snow was melted enough to get to the fuel beneath. Pol still didn't know how Lan managed it.

'Good job!' he enthused, clapping Lan on the back. 'Go report to Master Odo for details, then go take yourself a short rest.'

'I will,' the boy replied, looking more drained than before, pulling himself up onto Kalira's back. 'I need it —'

'And get something to eat, too!' Pol shouted after him, as he and his Companion trotted off. 'You're too thin!'

He walked back with Satiran, watching from a distance as Lan discussed his actions with Odo and Odo's assistants, then rode to the door of the Collegium where he dismounted and went inside. Pol purposely hadn't accompanied him; he wanted the boy to learn to do things without being shepherded. When they got to the front, he'd have to think for himself.

He left Satiran at the gate with a pat on his neck, and went back into the Collegium to report on Lan's progress.

Once inside, young Tuck hurried past him, with his arms full of books and dark circles under his eyes. Pol intercepted him.

'Isn't this supposed to be your free time?' he asked.