Brightly Burning by Mercedes Lackey

hot-bag a comforting, warm weight on his face, he tried not to think at all, just to try and relax and wait for the pain to go away.
    The herbs in the bag gave off a pleasant scent; he didn’t know enough about them to identify them, but they were nice. The sounds of the servants going about their business came up to him, muffled by the closed door. One of the girls sang to herself as she swept, a simpleminded love song that was very popular just now. Lan would have preferred something bleaker, to match his mood, but he wasn’t about to get up to make a request.
    Down in the distant kitchen, the cook bellowed and pots and pans clattered; distant enough not to be irritating. Outside, the occasional horse or mule passing by was all he heard of the sparse traffic this time of day. Later, as suppertime neared, there would be more noise outside; sometimes even a great deal of noise if one of the neighbors got a large delivery.
    His headache responded to the heat; it lessened to a dull ache just behind his eyes and in the back of his head. As the pain faded, he wished he could sleep, but his thoughts were too restless and wouldn’t be still.
    There was more trouble ahead of him; every day was colder and shorter. How long would it be before the Sixty Formers could no longer pursue their after-school entertainments? He’d heard them speak of court tennis, of fencing lessons, of riding in the fashionable Leeside Park, before they all went off in a mob. None of those things would be comfortable or possible in a bitter rain or with snow on the ground. And then what would they do for sport?
    As if I need to think about it. They’ll go hunting for sport at school, of course.
    The subject made him feel sick all over again, and strengthened his headache.
    I hate them, I hate them, I hate them! he thought fiercely, his hands clenching in the coverlet. If they keep on coming at me, I’ll kill them, I will!
    Really? asked a dry voice in his mind. You, undersized and outnumbered, you’re no threat to them. You can’t even stop them from pushing you around. How do you propose even to impress them enough to leave you alone?
    He couldn’t; he knew he couldn’t and that frustration was as bad or worse than the anger.
    Why couldn’t they leave him alone? He was nothing to them; he was less than nothing. He wanted so badly to batter those smug faces, to pound Tyron until his fists hurt. Not a chance, not a chance in the world that it would happen. Even if he could get Tyron alone, he wouldn’t stand a chance against someone so much bigger and stronger than Lan was. Not someone who was so fit and athletic. No matter what sort of fighting Lan learned or practiced, Tyron would always be ahead of him by virtue of his inches and muscles.
    Footsteps outside his door warned him someone was coming, so when the door opened, he pulled the hot-bag off his eyes and turned his head to see who it was.
    â€œYour teacher seems to think that you’re ill, or becoming ill,” Nelda said, giving him the same critical glare that the housekeeper had. Today she was gowned in an amber brown with bands of her own embroidery around the hems.
    â€œMy head hurts,” he said simply. “A lot.”
    His mother came to his bedside and tested his forehead with the inside of her wrist, then tested the hot-bag. “You’re hotter than the compress; you’ve got a fever. There is something going around they tell me,” she admitted with a slight frown. “Your teacher seems to think you should stay home for a few days and study on your own.”
    A few days? It was more of a reprieve than he had ever thought he would get! But if I look too eager, she might send me back tomorrow.
    He closed his eyes as a jolt of pain lanced across his head from left to right. He certainly didn’t have to feign that. “I’ll try, Mother,” he said truthfully. “If you think I should stay home—but if