Brightly Burning (27 page)

He sighed, a little bitterly. “Even if the control isn't mine.”

:That is hardly your fault,:
the stallion replied instantly.
:Your Gift was forced to ripeness, in order to defend itself and you. In a better world, you would have felt it slowly, slowly, stir; in four or five moons, as you began to feel that something odd was happening to you, Kalira would have come for you, and you would have had your Gift come upon you
here,
and after Pol had identified what it was.:
Rolan sighed gustily, and Kalira echoed him, her flanks heaving under Lan's legs.
:It is not a better world, and we must deal with things as they are. May I?:

Belatedly, Lan realized that Rolan was waiting for his answer. He
could
say no, but why should he? Actually, he felt rather better about the Companion rummaging around in his head than some strange Herald. And at least Rolan had asked permission first. “Go ahead,” he replied.

He didn't know what to expect; what happened was the oddest sensation of having someone actually
in
his head with him, taking control of what he was thinking. He was whisked along at blinding speed through his own thoughts and memories; he didn't even have time to identify what they were before being flown through the next.

It happened so quickly that before he had quite grasped what was happening, it was over.

He shook his head dizzily, clutching Kalira's mane, the world trying to spin with him as the center.

:My apologies,:
Rolan said, as his head steadied and the Grove stopped rotating.
:Some effects are unavoidable. Thank you; you have allowed me to confirm Kalira's judgment and Choice. That can only be good for all of us.:

“I hope so,” he sighed. “I really hope so.”

Unexpectedly, Rolan took a pace forward, and briefly touched Lan's leg with his nose.
:It is hard, having to prove yourself over and over, I know,:
the Companion said sympathetically.
:Please remember, when this happens so often you are sick of it—you will never have to prove yourself to us. Come to the Grove or the stables, and you will be surrounded by no one but friends.:

Lan looked down into Rolan's eyes, a much deeper sapphire than Kalira's sky-blue, and was moved for a moment almost to tears by the Companion's extraordinary promise. “Thank you,” he said softly aloud, “I will.”

He hadn't noticed another person had entered the Grove until a severe-looking, raven-haired man actually walked up and placed his hand on Rolan's shoulder. “Let's hope Rolan never has to make good on that promise,” the Herald said, his lips slowly curving into a smile. “If I have my way about it, he never will.” He held out his hand to Lan, who accepted it; the Herald's grip was firm without being intimidating. “I'm Jedin, and I'm pleased to meet you in person, Lavan.”

It broke on Lan at that moment that the man who was shaking his hand was the King's Own Herald—the third most important person in the entire Kingdom! No wonder he looked as if that severe expression was habitual. “I—the—the honor is mine, sir,” he stammered out.

Jedin's smile widened. “Not that much of an honor, I assure you. Plenty of people will tell you that they'd much prefer to see rather less of me than more. Did you realize that along with one rare Gift, you have a second?”

Lan shook his head, unable to think of anything that would pass for a Gift.

“You have the ability to inspire Companions to not only trust you, but to leap to your defense without ever actually meeting you themselves.” Jedin raised one eyebrow. “I wish I knew why, but there you have it.”

Kalira looked innocent; Rolan enigmatic. Lan could only shrug helplessly. “I don't know, sir,” he said, as honestly as he could. “It doesn't make any sense to me.”

“Hmm.” There was a look in Jedin's eyes that made Lan want to squirm, a look that suggested that even though Lan didn't know any reason why the Companions should offer their friendship and defense, Jedin could think of one or two.

“Well, you'll have some learning to do before we find out, anyway,” Jedin said after a pause. “And we two have some exercising to do, if we aren't to get fat and ugly.” He slapped Rolan on the shoulder, and the Companion neighed laughter.

:Too late,:
Rolan taunted, as Jedin put both hands on Rolan's back and vaulted into place without having to use anything to help him.
:You're already ugly.:

Without waiting to hear Jedin's reply, the Companion cantered off under the trees.

“Were we supposed to hear that?” Lan asked aloud, a little aghast.

:We aren't horses, but we aren't some sort of heavenly creatures either, my love,:
Kalira told him, moving out of the Grove in a slightly different direction.
:We're a lot like our Heralds.:

It seemed that every passing candlemark brought another surprise or revelation; a breaking of one assumption, the bending of another. He wondered if he'd ever get used to it. Or would things settle down as he began to learn what life as a Herald would
really
be like, past the tales and the blaze of silver-and-white uniforms, the dazzle of Companions?

:You aren't the only case of bad timing right now,:
Kalira went on as they came out of the trees and within sight of the stables.
:Just the more serious of the two. Lada is in foal, and had to go after her Chosen with less than two moons to go. Poor things! Lada is probably going to drop tonight, and Wrenlet hasn't been here more than a fortnight! They're both going to have a bad night, I think. The stable has fireplaces, but it's drafty, and Lada's a bit on the small side. They'll be up all night at the least.:

“Is Lada's Chosen going to wait out the night with her?” he asked, all sympathy, for he had once taken foal-watch on one of his ponies.

“That's a good point.” He remembered how he'd felt about it, nervous, anxious, excited, and afraid—and that had just been a pony! He couldn't imagine how wrought up he'd be if it was Kalira who was going to drop a foal! He'd be worse than any anxious father in a joke!

:Well, you won't have to worry about that with me; I never saw a stallion worth going through
that
for,:
Kalira said lightly, easing the sudden surge of anxiety the thought provoked.
:Now if you were a stallion, I might consider it, but not for anyone else in the herd.:

He blushed, pleased and embarrassed, but not sure why. “Not even Rolan?” he ventured.

:Not even Rolan,:
she replied firmly. He felt absurdly pleased by that, though he had no idea why he should be, and he held that feeling close inside to keep him warm as he walked through the chilling wind back to the Collegium.

L
AN passed an old account book back to his teacher, who waved it at the class and addressed them all. “Now, presented with this set of accounts and the story I've told you, what sort of judgment would you make? All of the clues you need are there.”

This was Herald Artero's class, one called “Field Investigations.” Other than the ability to read and write, this class had no special requirements, but it was one that every Trainee had to take. Here the students were presented with stories and sometimes evidence connected with cases that other Heralds had dealt with while on their circuits, and asked for their own conclusions. As often as not, a Herald on circuit would spend a great deal of his or her time being investigator, jury, and judge; even if a local judge had already made a decision, any case could be appealed to a Herald. The easy cases were those whose intricacies could be solved by application of the famous Truth Spell to one or more of the plaintiffs or defendants. This class did not concern those.

This class was about cases where evidence had to speak for itself because either some of the witnesses were dead or fled, or it was something where there were no witnesses at all. Mostly the cases were trivial enough, a dispute over a boundary, or ownership of land or property. Sometimes, though, a life could hang in the balance. And sometimes it wasn't life, but honor—which some would hold more precious than their lives.

This time the question concerned a curious case. A merchant had died, and his grown son had accused his stepmother of appropriating money that, according to the accounts,
should
have been there in his cash boxes. The Truth Spell had revealed that the stepmother was not guilty of helping herself to the money stowed in the cash boxes, but where
had
the money gone? Suspicion was rife in the village by the time the Herald arrived. Although people had refrained from making actual accusations, all the tension had poisoned relationships throughout the area.

The Trainees knew all of this, and that a solution to the puzzle had been found. Their teacher had given them a great deal of background, and the last bit of physical evidence: the account books.

The account books were passed from hand to hand, and each of the four students had a chance to examine them carefully. Lan had noted something awry, and he wondered if any of the others had.

“I checked the addition, and he hadn't made any mistakes there,” said Tuck, scratching his head. “That was the first thing that I thought of, that'd he'd just been bad at arithmetic.”

“Anyone else?” Artero was physically very like an older version of Tyron, which had rather put Lan off at first, but his personality could not possibly have been more different. Artero never sneered, never was anything other than intense and earnest. When he was excited about what he was teaching, his eyes positively glowed. “Lavan, you took a long time over those pages. Did you see anything in them to give you a clue?”

Lan hesitated a moment, then reminded himself that the case was long over, and presumably had been solved correctly. Nothing he said would make any trouble for anyone now. “The addition was right—it was the
numbers
that were wrong,” he said at last. “No one dealing in small items like spices ever makes a bargain that ends in round numbers like that. And I think that some of those debits might have been too low, but I don't know enough about foodstuffs to tell for sure.” The merchant in question had trafficked in spices and dried or preserved fruits; not exactly Lan's area of expertise. But he
did
recall vividly going with his mother to the market as a small child, and her spirited bargaining over every clipped copper coin.

“Were the numbers altered in any way?” ventured another Trainee, a girl named Mona. “Could someone besides the widow have taken money? Or did someone alter the books to make trouble for the widow?”

“No, to all three questions—and I have a set of altered books to show you some of the common ways in which documents can be changed, and how you can tell, but we'll get to that in a moment.” Artero smiled at Lan encouragingly. “Now I'll draw on our newest student's experiences with merchants and traders, and ask Lavan if
he
can think of a possible scenerio that would suit the evidence.”

Lan thought very hard, and something else popped up in his memory. The widow, who had been as sharp as she was pretty, was a merchant herself, crafting jewelry in silver and gems, and as such, had been meticulous in making certain that she was not wedding into a failing business. It had taken her elderly suitor a long time to persuade her that her own earnings would not be used to support his trade. In fact, the match was as much a business transaction as a marriage, as was often the case among tradesmen and merchants. Surely she would have checked the books before signing the marriage contract!

On the other hand—much to the son's anger—the spice merchant had been totally besotted with his much younger bride. He had been courting her for three years, and had brought her to the marriage after many gifts, assidious attention, and many sincere love letters. They hadn't been married more than a couple of months when the old man died. The son had even accused the widow of murdering his father for the inheritance, until it transpired that the old man's will made him the heir to the lion's share of the ready cash, and his wife the heir to the house and goods. Neither house nor goods would have been of any use at all to the son.

“The dead man probably had two sets of books, this one on paper and one either hidden, or in his head,” Lan said at last. “The books we looked at were created to make his business look a lot more prosperous than it really was, so the girl he was courting would marry him. So the money wasn't missing, it was never there in the first place.”

The other Trainees looked at him with surprise and some skepticism, but Artero slowly nodded, his smile broadening. “And why didn't our widow notice this in the first place?” he asked.