Read Brightly Burning for Free Online Page A

‘sir’ and ‘mistress’—unless you happen to prefer ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady,’ in which case you may use those terms instead.”
    Somebody sniggered, and the leader turned a cold gaze on him; the sniggering stopped immediately.
    â€œYou, on the other hand, will be known by the name we have chosen for you—in your case, Scrub—and you will answer to that name, or be flogged, or suffer whatever other punishment we deem appropriate.” The handsome Sixth Former was obviously in his element and enjoying himself very much; Lan thought with fury about how much he wanted to blacken those blue eyes and rub mud into that beautiful blond hair. “You will give place to us, give way before us, speak only when you are spoken to, and accomplish whatever task we set you, or be punished. And it is no use complaining to the Master, because if you do, we shall flog you with twice as many strokes. The Master has given Sixth Form the responsibility for maintaining discipline, and he’ll assume you are a liar, a slacker, or both if you complain to him. You are nothing; we are everything. Do you understand?”
    Lan’s throat was so tight with anger that he couldn’t have gotten out a single word, but his second tormentor, hand still firmly buried in his hair, forced his head to nod like a puppet’s while the rest laughed like madmen.
    â€œVery well, Scrub,” the leader said genially, “You’re let off this time. Just make sure you stay properly within the rules from now on.”
    The one holding Lan’s hair suddenly shoved him forward and let go of his head, so that he sprawled at the leader’s feet, invoking more peals of laughter. “Now Scrub,” the leader said tenderly, “it isn’t necessary to kiss my feet, but that was a good thought and the proper attitude.”
    The Sixth Formers dispersed and went back to their chairs as Lan got slowly and angrily to his feet. He made no move to dust himself off, but dropped down into his seat with his head aching from all the anger he was holding in.
    â€œJust do what they say, ’specially what Tyron and Derwit say,” the girl they had called “Froggy” whispered urgently, with a sidelong glance at the retreating backs. “They’ll leave you alone, mostly, if you do.”
    Now they were turning their attention to Owyn and his friends; Tyron addressed Owyn as “Owly” and demanded “the work.” A moment later, and Tyron was accepting sheaves of paper from Owyn and his friends. “They have the smart ones do their sums and sometimes other schoolwork for them,” Froggy explained, her eyes watering. “But if you aren’t smart, they make you do other things for them.”
    The Sixth Formers had returned to their seats, where they distributed the papers among themselves and sipped small ale poured by the servants, who ignored the rest of the table. Froggy’s eyes burned as she gazed on them.
    â€œJust two more years,” she said, as if to herself, with the longing of a starving man in her voice. “Just two more years, then it will be my turn!”
    But Lan, as he looked more closely at the Sixth Form group, saw that there was a central core of the group who were the true masters of the rest. These numbered about twenty, enough to give them enough muscle to have their way, so long as the less fortunate remained disorganized. The rest hung about the periphery of the group, ignored for the most part, but occasionally tendered an abusive or scornful comment, occasioning much laughter among the rest. When Tyron or one of the others of his clique gave a careless order, it was one of these hangers-on who jumped to execute it just as quickly as if they were not of the Sixth Form themselves.
    Somehow, Lan doubted that it would ever be Froggy’s “turn” to be one of the select few.

    LAN had the sense to finish his