Brightly Burning by Mercedes Lackey Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œLavan,” 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œLavan!” 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?”
    â€œI’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.
    Unfortunately, the relief of escaping from the Sixth Form for a day didn’t bring an end to the pounding in his head. He dropped down onto his bed, his head buried in his hands, wishing for an end to the pain.
    The housekeeper tapped on his open door, and he looked up. She wiped her hands on her coarse linen apron as she examined him.
    â€œYou might as well lie down,” she said, and looked at him again with a less critical eye. “You do look puny,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll send one of the maids up with a hot-bag and willow tea.”
    He didn’t grimace at the idea of the bitter tea; at this point he would drink down oak gall if it would help his head. Evidently the housekeeper considered his ailment serious enough to warrant the household’s attention; one of the giggly little maidservants brought him the tea almost immediately, and he drank it down gratefully. It took a bit longer for the hot-bag, a linen pillow filled with buckwheat husks and herbs which had to be put into the bread oven to absorb heat. About the time that the tea took the worst edge off the pounding in his skull, the girl brought him the hot-bag, wrapped in a towel, to put on his forehead. She closed the door after herself, leaving him alone in his room, sprawled still clothed on the coverlet—though he had taken off his boots. His mother would kill him if she caught him on the bed with his boots still on.
    With the