"Mercedes Lackey - Brightly Burning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

walk out now and never return. But that was an impossibility . . . his mother had made it even clearer
than Master Keileth that this yearтАЩs tuition had cost a very great deal, and it would be forfeit if he left. If I
were to run off, IтАЩd 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.
тАЬLavan,тАЭ he said sharply, and LanтАЩs 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. тАЬYou look as if
youтАЩre sickening with something,тАЭ 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.
тАЬIтАЩm sending you home early. ThereтАЩs no point in having you here if youтАЩre too ill to learn.тАЭ
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 wouldnтАЩt 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 didnтАЩt 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 wouldnтАЩt 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 didnтАЩt bother to knock, but the housekeeper heard the door open and came running.
тАЬLavan!тАЭ 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. тАЬWhat are you doing here?тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩm sick,тАЭ he mumbled. тАЬThey sent me home. Here. This is for Mother.тАЭ He just didnтАЩt 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 didnтАЩt 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.
тАЬYou might as well lie down,тАЭ she said, and looked at him again with a less critical eye. тАЬYou do
look puny,тАЭ she said grudgingly. тАЬIтАЩll send one of the maids up with a hot-bag and willow tea.тАЭ
He didnтАЩt 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
householdтАЩs 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 hot-bag a comforting, warm weight on his face, he tried not to think at all, just to try and