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.
Tuck grimaced. "If I'm going to go with you and Lan, I've got to get a better handle on my Karsite," he replied, and hurried off. Pol sighed.
He's working himself as hard as Lan is. Gods above, what are we doing to these children? Tuck was determined to be with Lan when he was sent out, and had lost all of his lazy habits in an effort to cram as much as he could into every candlemark so that when Lan was sent south, he, too, would be deemed ready. That would give Pol not one but two Trainees to keep track of. On the other hand, Tuck would supply a second hand at keeping Lan settled and in control of himself. Pol knew that very well, so how could he discourage the boy? The best he could do for Tuck was the same he was doing for Lan—try to make sure he ate and slept enough. It could have been worse for both of them. There were plenty of children in impoverished families who would have thought their current situation the equivalent of a holiday.
So many of the Trainees were driving themselves just as hard that Pol hardly knew whether to admire them or despair. Of all of them, however, only Lan had ever been the target of an enemy determined to slay him; they had no idea what they were going to face.
It's a wonder Odo isn't a drunkard. I don't know how he manages to train these children to go out and get hurt or killed, year after year. Of course, that was the case with all of the teachers, but only Odo had that fact shoved in his face day after day.
And yet, the Trainees were better equipped and better warned for what they would face than all those fresh-faced, eager volunteers for the Guard and the army. From cities and towns, from farms and fields, from every imaginable background, they formed up little Companies and marched themselves to the capital. New cadres arrived in Haven daily, to camp in the meadows outside the walls, train for a few weeks under the stern eyes of Guard sergeants, and march on with newly-assigned officers from the seasoned troops. They trained as they traveled and, presumably, would be fit for combat when they arrived at the Border. But even at that, they wouldn't get much more than a moon's worth of battle training before they took up their arms in earnest. Pol was thankful he didn't have charge over them; he'd never be able to sleep at night.
:You don't sleep that well as it is,: Satiran observed correctly, :you carry enough burdens of your own. Speaking of which, are you going to another Privy Council meeting? If so, they're in the King's quarters, not the Lesser Council Chamber.: