Mercedes Lackey - Brightly Burning

Lavan had made another major mistake in his first week; he'd tried, shyly, to make up to one of the pretty girls in Fifth Form. How was he to know that she was the girlfriend of one of Tyron's hangers-on?

She'd rejected him quite out of hand, and he'd overreacted by withdrawing from all the girls. Now the Sixth Formers had another name for him.

Shaych.

When he'd found out what it meant, he'd tried to disprove it, but of course by then it was too late. Now there was another reason for Tyron and his friends to bully him.

After being shoved around like a game ball and then thrown sprawling for three mornings in a row, he decided that his best protection was the presence of the other persecuted. So for the past week, he'd waited for a group of the underdogs to arrive for classes, and ducked into their midst. With so many available targets, no one person got excessive abuse. At least, that was the case so far.

But the whole situation made him so angry he sometimes thought he was going to choke. It didn't help that he always turned a brilliant scarlet with suppressed rage whenever one of the bullies so much as looked at him. They seemed to find that terribly amusing, and went out of their way to put him in that state.

This very morning he had arrived at his desk with his face still flaming, his skin feeling slightly sunburned and tender—and all from his own anger.

"You looked like you were going to have an apoplectic fit this morning, Scr—I mean, Lavan," Owyn whispered as they took their seats for the first class of the morning.

"Is that why you got between me and Loathsome?" he whispered back. Owyn had begun to warm up to him, since he had never once called him by the hated name of "Owly"—and since the one piece of cleverness he had managed was to come up with names of his own for their tormentors. "Loathsome" for Loman Strecker, "Tyrant" for Tyron Jelnack (that was really too easy), "Dimwit" for Derwit, and so forth. It gave the younger students a crumb of comfort to have contemptuous titles for their persecutors, though they took care that the Sixth Formers never heard those names.

Owyn nodded solemnly. "You went purple, almost, and your eyes had a funny look to them, like you weren't there anymore."

Lan didn't have to reply to that, because just then the teacher entered the room and all discussion stopped. That was just as well, because he realized that he didn't actually remember Owyn getting between him and his tormentor. He just didn't remember anything from the time that Loathsome had started shoving him repeatedly into the wall, and then to his partner, Dimwit—only that someone had taken his arm and was pulling him out of harm's way while Owyn distracted the Sixth Former with some questions about the work he'd been ordered to do. Between the moment that Loathsome and Dimwit began shoving him back and forth between them and the moment that he found his feet on the stair, there was a blank.

Or, not precisely a blank, but a passage of time filled with such fiery rage that he couldn't even see or hear, much less think. Whatever had come over him, had turned him briefly into something less than an animal, into pure anger and hatred.

Not that it made any difference, except that he suffered for it for half the morning with an aching head and irritated eyes, though the sensitivity of his skin faded as the morning passed.

And for once at lunch the attention of the Sixth Form was off him. One of the Fifth Formers had failed to obtain Golden Beauty apples for Tyron's luncheon pleasure as he'd been ordered; this wasn't a trivial task, as Golden Beauty apples were just going out of season. Tyron wouldn't hear any excuses, nor was he placated by the offer of a basket of Complin apples instead. Two of his henchmen seized the unfortunate by his arms and hustled him away.

Lan was now welcome to sit with Owyn and his friends, and he turned his head just enough that he could whisper to the younger boy, "Where are they going with him?"

Owyn's eyes were as big and round as those of his namesake, and his face was pale. "They're going to flog him."

Lan felt his own face and hands grow cold. When Tyron threatened him with flogging that first day, he hadn't really thought they would actually do such a thing! It was one thing for the teachers to flog a disobedient pupil, but this!

"They can't do that, can they?" he whispered back desperately, hoping that something or someone might intervene.

Owyn just shook his head. "You ought to know by now they can do anything they want."

Lan lost his appetite, all at once, and as soon as he thought he could slip away unnoticed, he retreated to the classroom and buried his nose in his book. He stared at the same page without bothering to turn it, since there was no one there to see him.

What he wanted, with the purest desperation he had ever yet felt, was to be out of this place, to walk out now and never return. But that was an impossibility... his mother had made it even clearer than Master Keileth that this year's tuition had cost a very great deal, and it would be forfeit if he left. If I were to run off, I'd better run all the way to Hardorn; if Mother ever caught up with me, I would be turning a spit in the kitchen of the worst inn in Haven for the rest of my life. And that would be if she was feeling generous.

His head began to throb again, the headache growing worse with every passing heartbeat. And in fact, by the time the next teacher, a bored, middle-aged, balding scholar, arrived after lunch for the class, he felt (and looked) so miserable that even the teacher noticed.

"Lavan," he said sharply, and Lan's head snapped up. That only made the headache worsen, and he winced.

The teacher shook his head, and his bored brown eyes gazed critically at Lan. "You look as if you're sickening with something," the man stated, a combination of irritation and concern on his face.

I certainly am, Lan thought, but said nothing. The teacher studied him a moment more.

"I'm sending you home early. There's no point in having you here if you're too ill to learn."

Lan privately thought that the teacher was more concerned he might catch whatever it was that Lan was allegedly coming down with, but he kept his mouth shut and accepted the hastily scribbled note to give to his parents. All he could think of, other than the pounding pain in his head and an increasing nausea, was that at least today he wouldn't have to run the gantlet of Sixth Formers to get home.

Maybe I am getting sick.

He gathered up his books and plodded out into the empty hall, trying to walk softly so his footsteps didn't echo. As he exited the building and then passed the gates, he felt the relief of temporary escape, at least. He made his way through the uncrowded streets with no more than a single wistful glance at a passing Guardsman. It was chilly today, and overcast; the few ornamental plants in front of houses were evergreens, and wouldn't be touched by frost, but back in Alderscroft, people would be waiting for the first hard frost to turn the leaves to red and gold. Here, the gray sky, gray streets, and the unfriendly houses left an overpowering impression of bleakness.

There was no one home but the servants, who would certainly be surprised and taken aback by his return. He didn't bother to knock, but the housekeeper heard the door open and came running.

"Lavan!" she exclaimed, looking at him in shock, with her frilled cap slightly askew—and there was more than an edge of suspicion in her voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sick," he mumbled. "They sent me home. Here. This is for Mother." He just didn't feel up to making any more of an explanation, he just thrust the note at the housekeeper to give to his mother, and plodded upstairs to the sanctuary of his room, one slow step at a time.