Brightly Burning (52 page)

Pol got cool cider to drink in short order, and a blanket warmed over the brazier, pain medicine, and piece of bread with cheese melted over it, along with a snow-pack laid gently across his eyes to ease the burning.

When the drug in his drink eased the pain as well, then summoned him down into slumber, he went. Willingly. With his hand clasped in his beloved Ilea's to give him comfort.

S
OME time during the ride to the headquarters, Pol had made up his mind on several points; it had given him relief from the pain to work things logically through in that way. Losing his eyesight was
not
going to be a tragedy, and if Ilea could not Heal him, then he would simply accept that.

The events of the evening only confirmed that belief. He worked through everything as logically as he could during the ride, and during that night and the day and night that followed, in his dreams he was able to employ a technique called directed dreaming to work through things emotionally. It wasn't easy; he exhausted himself all over again, weeping for what he had lost and raging against everyone involved, including himself. But it had to be done, and quickly, and dreams were the best and least harmful place to do so. As a consequence, when he woke, he actually felt remarkably normal.

Ilea was not with him, but Satiran was, lying beside his cot on a thick layer of straw laid over the canvas floor of the tent. That was how Pol was able to see that Lan was still unconscious on the cot on the opposite side of the tent with Kalira beside
him,
a charcoal brazier warming the air between the two Companions, and everything else that had been in the tent with them except for a third cot was gone.

:The other Heralds removed their things last night,:
Satiran informed him.
:They've moved into a different tent. Just as well; it would have been very crowded in here. Ilea has been with you most of the time, until the Chief Healer here came and chased her off to a bed around dawn.:

A pile of uniforms lay stacked at the foot of the cot; Pol sat up stiffly, stripped off his bloodstained clothing and gratefully donned a clean, new set of Whites. The only things he retained were his boots. “Let's go find the Lord Marshal,” he said aloud, standing up with care and one hand on the wall of the tent, moving to the side so that Satiran had a bit more room. “I have the feeling he needs more of that reassurance.”

Satiran got to his feet with an eye on the brazier, once Pol had a secure hold on his mane, the two of them went out into the cold morning. The scent of stale smoke still hovered over the camp, and the blackened pass below was an ever-present reminder of what had so recently happened. Smoke still rose from the stumps of trees, giving the oddly disconcerting effect of dozens of black chimneys sticking up out of the earth, as if there was an entire village underground down there.

There was no sign of the Karsites. Anything that had been in their camp was ashes, indistinguishable from the ashes of trees and bushes; the Karsites themselves were nowhere to be seen.

:Well, given what happened to them, would
you
come back here?:
Satiran asked reasonably. He raised his head and looked around alertly.
:I believe that the Lord Marshal is in the command tent, and as you suggested, still in need of a level head to point out that Lan is no danger to our side. The vista that lies below us did not give him much of a sense of comfort this morning. I can't imagine why not.:

Well, Satiran was back to normal, at any rate.

The two of them made their way to the command tent, and this time Satiran just poked his head inside without an invitation, decided there was enough room in there for him, and squeezed his considerable bulk along one side of the map table, much to the Lord Marshal's gape-mouthed surprise.

“Sorry, my Lord, but Satiran is necessary,” Pol said apologetically, wedging himself in on the same side as his Companion. Satiran seized a camp chair in his strong teeth and pulled it over to Pol, who felt it over, then sat down in it gratefully. Turag looked at both of them and then turned to the Lord Marshal.

“My Lord Weldon,” he said, “I would like to be put back on duty with the rest of the army.”

Pol was probably as surprised as the Lord Marshal himself; that venerable gentleman was taken entirely aback.

“Hear me out,” Turag continued earnestly. “My only Gift is Mindspeech, which, I'll grant you, is very strong—but I have no battlefield experience, no leadership experience, and this is not the time or place to get them at the possible expense of making blunders. Herald Pol has both, you are known to each other, and even more important, he is the mentor of that—ah—
remarkable
youngster, Herald Lavan. Please, I beg you; let me go back to a job I know how to do, and put Herald Pol in my place.”

“Hrmph,” coughed the Lord Marshal, fingering his beard and looking at Pol with speculation. “I don't want you to think that
you
haven't been doing a good job—”

“I know my own abilities and limitations, my Lord,” Turag relied. “I have been doing an adequate job. You need someone outstanding.”

Meanwhile, Pol's spirits rose; the plain fact was that Turag was right—even without the use of his own eyes, he would be just as good a Marshal's Herald as Marak had been. Not that he wouldn't be happy to hand Marak's job back to him as soon as he was fit again, but in the meantime. . . .

“Pol, how do you feel about this?” the Lord Marshal asked. “I don't want you to think this is offered out of pity, because it isn't. You're good—you may not be the strongest Mindspeaker about, but you're strong enough, and your Companion can make up for that. Being the youngster's mentor makes you doubly valuable to me.”

Pol smiled wholeheartedly for the first time since he had lost his eyesight. “My Lord, I would be pleased and honored to accept. Herald Turag, I am and will be forever grateful for your generous offer and great soul.”

Turag heaved a sigh of relief. “You're the generous one, Herald Pol,” the young man replied. “And I'm the one who is grateful! Now, if you don't mind, I'll excuse myself and Adan and we will take ourselves back to the unit we came from!”

Turag lost no time in making himself scarce, which left Pol and the Lord Marshal alone for a moment or two—until the next crisis came on.

“How's the boy?” the old man asked, betraying just a hint of his unease.

“Still recovering. Last night's exhibition was well out of his normal abilities.” Pol felt the edge of the table and pulled himself closer to it. “I hope you aren't planning on more of the same, because I'll be honest with you; I don't think he can do that sort of thing very often.”

“Ah.” That seemed to be exactly what the Lord Marshal needed to hear. “On the other hand, the Karsites don't know that, do they?”

“So any time fires start—” Pol allowed himself a cruel chuckle. “I can't say that seeing them run like frightened mice is going to make
me
unhappy. Well, let me tell you what Lan
can
do on a regular basis.”

Briefly he outlined what Lan had been practicing, and the Lord Marshal nodded as he listened. “We can extract a great deal of tactical advantage from having him. Not to mention that
he
can rid us of that nocturnal enemy that gave the Karsites an advantage over
us.
How long do you think he'll need to recover? We can hold camp here for another day or so, if that's all it will take.”

:Kalira thinks he'll be up and able by tomorrow morning,:
Satiran reported.

“That should be long enough,” Pol replied.

“Excellent.” The Lord Marshal rubbed his hands together and flexed his fingers. “Now, come over here and have a look at this troop disposition—”

It was Satiran who craned his neck over the map table as the Lord Marshal pushed tokens about, but it was obvious that this made no difference to the leader of Valdemar's armies. Pol bent over the table, holding his head up in both hands, suggesting possible strategies, and felt whole once again.

LAN woke slowly; Elenor wasn't sitting there next to him, but Tuck was, and he was just as pleased with that substitution. It was easy enough to tell the difference even with his eyes closed; Tuck didn't hover over him.
I guess Healers think they have to loom over their patients all the time.
When he finally stretched and opened his eyes, he discovered that there were only three cots set up in the tent, which he recalled as holding more than that.

“Hey,” Tuck said cheerfully. “You're finally awake! Wait until you see what you did the other night, out there in the pass! It's pretty impressive!”

“Um.” Lan wasn't all that sure that impressive was the proper word for it. “I, ah, just did what I could to get rid of those
things
the Lord Marshal was afraid of. I thought, you know, if I got rid of those Dark Servant priests and chased the rest away, that would—be a good thing—” He really didn't know what else to say at that point.

“And believe me, the entire camp is grateful! Two entire nights without bogles howling around the camp and people dying in their sleep,
and
two days without fighting!” Tuck replied, and threw him a clean uniform from a stack at the foot of the cot. “Lord Marshal wants to see you as soon as you've got something to eat. Can't just rest on your laurels, you know! More things to do, if we're going to scare those beasts back across the border for good and all!”

Tuck's solid, ordinary matter-of-factness was the best tonic Lan could have had. He scrambled out from under his warm blankets and into the chill air, stripping off his old uniform and putting on a new one. “I thought there were more people in this tent,” he said, as he pulled on his boots.

“There were, but Pol and I chased 'em out,” Tuck said. “Just you, me, and him—and Kalira and Satiran; no more room in the tent for anyone else. He's the Lord Marshal's Herald now, Pol is, so how is
that
for a promotion? Lord Marshal says he sees more using Satiran's eyes than any four people using their own.”

Lan's throat closed in a spasm; he swallowed hard to clear it. No matter what he did, he'd never be able to
un
do what had happened to Pol. . . .

And he recalled, only too vividly, a scene that had played out in the tent before Tuck had come to replace Elenor.

No it isn't,
he'd wanted to shout.
It's my fault, all mine, and I'm so sorry—

“Anyway,” Tuck continued, blithely oblivious, “Ilea isn't arguing; if the promotion sticks, Pol will never have to leave the Collegium again, and she says she'll stick to teaching.”

“That would be nice for them,” Lan managed to say, without sounding like he was about to cry. “Where's the food?” Guilt-ridden or not, his stomach was oblivious to his emotions, and wanted tending.

Tuck laughed and gave him a hand up, then led the way to the mess tent. The army was spread out over the expanse of several hillsides, but there were several mess tents, it seemed, and the nearest was not that far from their own camp. It wasn't a very large tent, and served mostly, it seemed, to keep the snow and wind out of the cook-fires. Army rations weren't the most elaborate in the world; Lan got a bowl of grain porridge from a big kettle, and considered himself fortunate to have that. It was sticky and full of lumps, but it was food, and there was enough honey to make it taste all right. Outside the tent, logs had been set up along the hillside to make rough seats, so that was where he and Tuck took themselves; Tuck had decided in favor of skipping a second breakfast. Lan polished off the bowl, ignoring the whispers as some of the fighters recognized him. It made him feel even more awkward and unhappy as some of them left their meals and scuttled off, though.