Trees actually exploded from the heat, burning pieces flying in every direction except toward the Valdemaran forces.
The fire crawled slowly away, and where it had been there was only bare earth and the smoldering remains of stumps. It retreated up the pass, presumably sending the Karsites fleeing before it.
:What's Lan doing?: Pol prompted.
Satiran swung his head about, obedient to Pol's wishes.
Satiran couldn't see Lan's face from this angle, but the boy was no longer standing rock-steady. He swayed a little, and so did Kalira.
That wasn't what made the hair on the back of Pol's neck stand up, though. What he saw was chilling and was probably sending a finger of fear down the spine of everyone else who could see the boy.
Tiny blossoms of flame danced around Lan, flickering in his hair, floating in the air above him, twirling on his fingertips, and the tiny fires swayed to the same directions as the greater fires.
Blessed gods!
If there was anyone who hadn't known of Lan's powers before, they certainly were in no doubt of them now.
Lan's hand spasmed in Kalira's mane; the flamelets vanished.
The boy collapsed, his knees giving out beneath him. He slid down Kalira's side to land in a crumpled heap on the snow.
And the firestorm below faltered.
As quickly as it had begun, it died, until there was nothing in the pass but burning tree stumps, glowing coals, and blackened ground.
No one moved for a long time. Although normally this would have been an occasion for cheers, the sheer and terrifying power of the fire had left mouths dry with unspoken fear—and no one dared to approach the creator of that terror.
No one, except Elenor, who shook off her mother's hand and ran to Lan's side.
Kalira first knelt, then carefully laid herself down beside her Chosen, and Elenor propped Lan's head up against her flank as Pol finally broke his own paralysis and sent his litter bearers stumbling toward them, with Satiran right beside him.
"He's just exhausted," Elenor said, looking up at her father with relief. "He needs to be put to bed, though, and he'll need to eat like a starving man when he wakes."
Pol didn't doubt that in the least and fortunately the young Herald Turag was near enough to hear her. Without being asked to, he moved to Elenor's side, carefully scooped the boy up in his arms, and carried him off, Elenor running alongside.
Kalira remained where she was, she was probably just as exhausted as Lan was.
:Turag's Adan will stay with her,: Satiran said, moving in Herald Turag's wake. Pol went with him, lying flat and exhausted on the stretcher himself, one hand still on Satiran's shoulder. They caught up with the Lord Marshal's Herald just as he shoved his way through the entrance of a tent.
"He can have my bed for now," Turag told Elenor as Pol reached for the tent flap and held it open so Satiran could see inside by the light of the lamp that burned beneath the center-pole. There were several cots set up, heaped with blankets; from the clothing scattered about, this tent was shared by several Heralds. Turag put Lan down on one of the cots, and Elenor carefully covered him over, taking a cushion from nearby and settling herself on the floor beside him.
Turag backed away, then turned and motioned to Pol's litter bearers to bring him inside as well. With Satiran outside—there was no room for him in the crowded tent—Pol was left in darkness again. They transferred him to another cot, as Turag hovered nearby.
"What happened?" the young man asked Pol anxiously. "Did that boy—I mean—"
"The boy is Herald Lavan Firestarter, and yes, he caused—all that." Pol waved his arm in the general direction of the pass. "Mind you, his strength comes from anger, and if we hadn't been attacked today, I don't know that he could have...." His voice trailed off, and he shrugged as Turag took in the bloodstains on his Whites.
"I forgot. You were the ones that were ambushed. I suppose that would give him enough anger for anything," Turag replied, his mind clearly more on Lan and the firestorm than anything else. "I'm not really suited for this position, I—" He seemed to suddenly wake up, and looked sharply at Pol. "Sir, would you please be willing to put off your rest for a little longer? I think the Lord Marshal will want an explanation."
Ah, gods, not more— He wanted so badly to sink down into the blackness of sleep, rather than the blackness of sightlessness. "All right—" he began.
"A handful of words!" Ilea said angrily. "And no more!"
The Lord Marshal did, indeed want an explanation. The Lord Marshal also wanted a great deal of assurance that Lan was no danger to their own people.
Finally even Pol's patience and strength were exhausted, and Ilea's was already strained to the breaking point. "My Lord," he snapped, his head pounding and his eyes one long streak of agony, "enough."
Ilea took this as her cue to speak the words that had probably been trembling behind her lips for the past candlemark. There was no mistaking the anger in her voice. She couldn't revenge herself on the man that had attacked him, but she could, and would, vent some spleen on the Lord Marshal. "With all due respect, my Lord—you know the King's position on this boy already, and my husband is tired, wounded, and should have been in a bed the moment we entered this camp! If you must have reassurance, seek it somewhere else!"
Pol knew that tone of voice, and pictured her in his mind without any difficulty, her eyes flashing, her head up, quite ready to do battle with the King himself at this moment. The Lord Marshal was no match for her in this mood.
Thank the gods. Pol didn't think he could have stayed there for another moment, and he didn't have to. With stammered apologies, the Lord Marshal sent for servants, who bustled about the tent, fetching food, drink, and a fresh brazier, emptying the tent of all the cots but the ones Lan and Pol were on, and a third one left for Tuck, who was already asleep on it.
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.
TWENTY-TWO
SOME 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.