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; caught in the act, their guilt was beyond question. But the wife of the Head of the Silversmith's Guild, Jisette Jelnack, was definitely going to speak her piece. She practically shook with rage and outrage, and her face was as pale as Lan's, looking bloodless against the black of her gown. She twisted a handkerchief in her hands, the action suggesting that even now she longed to twine it around Lan's throat and strangle him with it.
Of all her family, only her husband was here, and he stood apart as if in a vain attempt to dissociate himself from her. He stood within the half-circle of Guards, but not himself under arrest. There was not one single member of the Silversmiths' Guild here in attendance, in fact, they were notable in their absence; Pol did not doubt for a moment that by the end of the day there would be a new Guildmaster in that House.
He was warned. If he couldn't keep Jisette from doing something foolish, he should have turned her in to the Guard, and this would never have become a public matter. And he had to know. Hired assassins don't come cheaply, especially ones who are thorough enough to track the target's movements and friends, forge notes, and arrange to block streets with wagons and fighting gangs. Where did that money come from, if not the household coffers? Surely he didn't think she was spending that much money on household expenses!
Hoarfrost rimed every surface of the buildings around the Square, muting the colors; the sky above, a flat gray, promised nothing and added nothing. It seemed that all the elements had agreed to contribute to the atmosphere of rejection that Theran had concocted.
Theran stood, and slowly scanned the entire gathering, the force of his personality ensuring that every single individual in the Square would be willing to swear later that the King had locked eyes with him, personally. Theran took a deep breath, and his voice rolled over the silent crowd.
"We are here to pass judgment," he said, each word weighted carefully. "You are here to bear witness that justice has been done. These seven men—" he gestured slightly at the hired thugs, "—were captured in the act of attempted murder of one of Valdemar's Heraldic Trainees; this boy, Lavan Chitward, called Firestarter."
Pol's swift intake of breath was echoed by many others; this was the first time that Lan's Gift had been acknowledged publicly, and those who knew that he had been one of the boys involved in the Guild School fire would now be putting two and two together. This was no accident on Theran's part, but what was he going to accomplish with this information?
"These seven men stand convicted of that crime, and of the crime of attempted murder and injury of one of Valdemar's Companions, the Companion Kalira, bound to Lavan Firestarter."
Another and more general gasp; for most people, the very notion that someone would deliberately harm a Companion was shocking. To actually see the men who had done such a thing was an outrage to their sensibilities.
"Have you men anything to say for yourself before we pass judgment upon you?" Theran stared down at them; his look one of utter disgust. Pol didn't really expect them to say anything at all, but to his surprise, one of them stepped forward.
"We wasn't to hurt the horse—I mean, Companion," the grizzled, mustached man said defiantly. "And we was just doin' the job we'd been hired to. By her—" and he pointed at Jisette Jelnack.