Daja's Book Read online

  “That won’t be necessary.” Niko stepped to the edge of the dropcloth, and took a deep breath. Lark drew or motioned everyone away from the copper plant.

  “What’s he doing?” Polyam whispered to the others.

  It was Tris, Niko’s student, who answered. “His magic has to do with seeing things, all kinds of things. He’s going to change how people see what’s on this spot.”

  “Hush,” Niko ordered without opening his eyes. Pressing his hands together, he bowed his head. White fire streamed across the space between him and the copper plant. Sinking to the ground, it wrapped itself around the metal, forming a cylinder that built until it was nearly five feet tall. Branches thrust out from it, and sprouted twigs and leaves. The white fire grew dim, replaced by brown or green color. At last Niko dropped his hands, and opened his eyes. His perfect tree illusion solidified and settled.

  “Very nice,” said Briar with approval. “Couldn’t have done better myself—”

  “Couldn’t do it at all yourself,” muttered Tris.

  Briar ignored her. “But you’d never find a cork oak in these parts. Too cold.”

  Niko looked down his nose at the boy. “I beg your pardon?”

  Briar shrugged. “Just thought I’d mention it.”

  Niko glared. The tree-shape rippled, and became a long-needled pine sapling. “All right?” he demanded, stalking over to gather his saddle and bridle. “If we are done picking at nits, I would like to return to Gold Ridge!”

  Grinning, Briar went to saddle his own mount.

  By the time they approached the cut where the river entered Gold Ridge Valley, they could see that the smoke lay even thicker there than it had before. Tris retreated behind a damp handkerchief tied over her nose and mouth. Soon everyone but Daja chose the same kind of protection. Nothing kept the smoke from stinging their eyes, and all of their horses made it clear they did not appreciate riding toward the smell of fire.

  Polyam slipped between Daja and Tris, the worst riders, to help them control their ponies. “What price for your vine?” she asked Daja, wet cloth muffling her words as they rode between the twin watchtowers. “Tenth Caravan Idaram will be here one more day, but then we must go. Frankly, if you will excuse the play on words, things are getting a little too hot around here.”

  Tris groaned and coughed.

  “I thought, two gold majas,” replied Daja soberly, looking up at Polyam. “That would increase your zokin even more, since you told them you thought I’d sell at three.”

  “What kind of Tsaw’ha are you?” demanded Polyam. “This isn’t about my zokin, but your profit! You know as well as I that gilav Chandrisa thinks she can get at least six gold majas in a sale.”

  “I don’t need a lot of money right now,” said Daja with a shrug. “You people will want to buy from me again, yes? When I know what I’m doing and I create things because that’s what I want to make, not because I had an accident, then I’ll charge more. It doesn’t feel right to get rich off something that’s a mistake.”

  Sandry took pity on Polyam, who stared at Daja slack-jawed. “Why not pay two gold majas and three gold astrels?” the noble suggested. “That’s over half a maja more—they’ll think you bargained until Daja was addled, to get her to sell at a price like that.”

  Daja grinned at Polyam. “She’s right, you know. Your zokin will be higher than ever. You’ll be known as the hardest-trading wirok north of the Pebbled Sea.”

  On and on they debated as they passed from the smaller valley into the larger one. Looking across the river, Lark cried out in dismay.

  A hundred yards downslope from the far watchtower, an almond orchard was in danger of fire. Its only barrier was a fringe of dry, open grass just thirty feet wide. A band of low, hungry flames was gnawing on that. Already sparks and stems of burning grass were drifting into the trees.

  Lark fumbled for her saddlebags, muttering. Niko stopped her with a soft word as Yarrun rode out from under the trees, onto the grass. Halting his mount, he threw his fire-stopping powder into the air. His horse, it seemed, was used to such antics and remained stock-still, only twitching its ears as the powder drifted past.

  Speaking that unfamiliar language, Yarrun shaped signs with his fingers, just as he had their first night in the valley. Once again the fire went out. The mage slumped in his saddle, bent over the horn. Lark started to urge her mount to the bridge, to see if he was all right, but he straightened and shook his head at her. Fumbling in his saddlebag, he drew out a flask and removed the cap. He held it up as if toasting Niko.

  “I have my uses, don’t I?” he cried, his voice harsh. “At least I’m important for half the year! They wouldn’t give me a teaching position at Lightsbridge, no, but here no one could manage without me!”

  Shivering, Lark turned her mount and urged it up the road to the castle. Silently, the rest of the small company followed. Niko came last this time, looking back often at that lone figure on the riverbank.

  9

  The only one who enjoyed the rest of the ride was Briar, and he felt restless. Passing the saffron terraces, they caught a glimpse of Rosethorn, laboring with a handful of farmers in the many pockets of soil. Briar growled, seeing her there without him. He wanted his magic back; he wanted it fixed.

  Since that was out of his hands, and he knew it would hurt Sandry if he complained, he tried to put it out of his mind. He succeeded for the most part, though every now and then the picture of Rosethorn barefoot in sandy earth returned to itch him.

  Once their group reached the castle, it broke up. Niko went in search of Lady Inoulia to discuss matters like glacier water and a new copper mine. Polyam returned to her caravan to report the result of her efforts. At last it was only Lark and the four young mages in the rooms they’d been given. Little Bear was there to greet them, out of his mind with joy after having been left behind. It took them a while to calm him down.

  Once everyone was seated, Sandry brought out the rolled up backstrap loom. Hooking one end around a table leg, she stretched out the length of woven threads, straightening the edges until each fiber lay completely flat. Briar soon found he didn’t want to look at the thing. Its ghostly colors shifted under his eyes, as if he viewed the work through a heat haze. Little Bear sniffed it and jumped halfway across the room with a yelp. After that, he kept his distance.

  Sandry looked at her work, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. “Lark?”

  “We need to do one more thing to make it stable,” the dedicate said. She opened the leather pouch she took wherever she went and drew out a long, thin vial. From it she poured a mound of colorful dust into one hand.

  “What is it?” Tris wanted to know. “What’s it for?”

  Lark smiled. “It’s powdered flint, hematite, angelica, star anise, and lotus,” she replied. “When I need to see magic in my cloth, see it as Niko does, this is what I add to the fabric. It should help us sort out the map that Sandry has made.”

  She knelt beside the weaving and motioned for Sandry to do the same. “Hold out your hands,” she instructed. When Sandry obeyed, Lark poured the powder into the girl’s cupped palms, asking, “Can you feel your power in the weaving?” Sandry nodded. “Call it into the dust,” Lark instructed. “Then sprinkle the dust on the cloth. Try to cover every speck of woven material. I’ll be inside the working with you, but just as your guide. All right?”

  Sandry closed her eyes and nodded.

  The powder blazed: Briar, Daja, and Tris covered their eyes. Little Bear fled into a bedchamber. It was impossible to see what Lark and Sandry did, but the others felt it. Tris’s teeth ached. Briar’s nose was running; he groped for a handkerchief. A fierce ache spread from Daja’s stomach to her bowels. She curled up, clutching her belly. They all heard Sandry cough thinly.

  The pain and pressure stopped. The light faded.

  “Ow,” Daja said weakly, straightening.

  Briar lurched to his feet, blowing his nose.

  “Excuse me,” Lark said weak
ly. She ran into their privy. From the sound, she made it just in time as her lunch came up.

  Sandry tried to stand and fell against the table. She clung to it in a panic as she struggled to keep her knees from buckling and throwing her onto her work. Just then she would have been quite happy never to look at that weaving again. She was certain the warp threads had been replaced by her veins, the weft threads by every fiber in her muscles. She hazarded a look at Tris. The redhead had not taken her hands from her eyes.

  “Tris,” she croaked. “It’s all right.”

  “Tell me you didn’t know it would be that bad,” was the whispered reply.

  “I had no idea it would—it would have so much kick.” That was Lark, using the door frame to brace herself. She finished wiping her face with a wet handkerchief. “It’s never been so violent before.” She cleared her throat. “The difference is you four. You were strong to begin with. Then you were spun together, and made stronger. Now you are all tangled, so the effect is—expanded.” She gestured weakly at the loom. “If we can untangle you, things should be more manageable.”

  Sandry wiped her face on her sleeve and looked at the thing she’d made. Now the colors were so dark it was impossible to believe that she had used undyed thread. She could also see clearly what had become of their magic. For an inch or so her stripes were clear and even, as straight as if drawn with a ruler. Past that one-inch mark, hair-fine fibers strayed, first across the borders between stripes, then further. By the point where she had four or five inches of cloth, the colors were hopelessly scrambled as green, orange, white, and blue formed a satiny layer over the warp threads. Putting her nose to the cloth, she tried to pick through that smooth coat to see its underpinnings, without success. She would have to respin the silk to make it form individual threads again.

  “This explains more than it doesn’t,” Lark commented. “And separating your powers after this will take days. You’ll start with your fresh silks. Each time a fiber splits off, you’ll have to stop and force it back into its proper thread.”

  “We’d be like we were at the beginning of the summer?” Tris inquired. “Me all weather magic, Sandry all thread magic—”

  “I don’t like having lightning pop out of me,” Briar said, “but this mix-up isn’t all bad. It’s fun seeing magic, like we caught from Tris—”

  “I like weaving fire,” pointed out Daja. “I made a lamp for myself that way, when I was in Kahlib’s smithy, and the square I made yesterday turned out useful, too.”

  “Would we stop talking mind-to-mind, like we do now?” Tris asked. “That started after Sandry spun our magics together in the quake.”

  “I don’t know,” Lark admitted.

  “And this living metal thing is useful,” argued Briar. “Look how much the Traders will pay for the iron vine. We found that copper because of it.”

  “But something has to be done,” Lark reminded them. “There has to be some control of your power. You know there does.”

  “What if I just separate this mess into stripes again, and keep the übers from escaping the threads?” inquired Sandry. “I could put a border on each stripe from here on. Our magic will still be mixed, but if each stripe is enclosed—”

  “You’ll be able to grip your powers,” Lark murmured, running her fingers through her glossy curls as she paced. “They won’t stray from your control.” She looked at the weaving, and sighed. “I certainly can’t be sure that we’d succeed in pulling your magics apart, or that they would stay separate—not without the border you suggested. And why didn’t I think of a border for each stripe?” she asked her student, her eyes dancing. “Some master I am!”

  “You would have thought of it,” Sandry protested. “Maybe I’m interwoven with you.” She grinned impishly at Lark.

  “I’ll discuss this with your teachers,” Lark told the other three. “If they agree, Sandry could disentangle you tonight, before we go to bed. In fact, I think I’ll go down to the village and talk to Frostpine right now.”

  “I’ll find Niko,” volunteered Tris.

  “Do all of you still have those bobbins of thread I gave you?” Lark wanted to know. All four young people dug into various pockets and produced them. “Very good. Keep them with you.” The woman looked at the loom. “Let’s put this away for now. The emanations are making my teeth hurt.”

  “E-ma-na-tions.” Briar sounded the word out. “That’s feelings, right? It’s giving off magical feelings.”

  “Right,” said Lark, tweaking his nose. “We’ll make a scholar of you yet.”

  Sandry knelt beside her work and cautiously began to roll it up.

  Daja was restless. Part of the afternoon was left, but there was no time to start the forge and get any real work done. After prowling the castle for an hour, she returned to their rooms to get a file and the nails she’d completed the day before; at least she could sharpen the points. She actually managed to do a dozen or so before the chore became unbearable. She threw the file across her bedchamber and stomped out again, ignoring Briar and Tris as they looked up from making more burn ointment.

  The sight of them carefully straining oil from aloe lent more fuel to Daja’s temper. Didn’t they realize it was make-work? Yarrun wasn’t about to let any fires break out of control!

  What she wanted—what she couldn’t have—was the sea. She ought to be there now, at a ship’s rail with the wind in her face, breathing in clean salt air as her vessel leaped forward. How had she gotten trapped in this stupid mountain valley? If she couldn’t be Tsaw’ha, at least she could be home in Winding Circle, where she could stand on the wall and breathe in that wonderful ocean scent.

  The wall here would probably smell of fire. Well, that would have to do. Fire at least was her friend, and helped her to do the only important thing the Tsaw’ha hadn’t taken from her. Her mind made up, Daja went looking for the way onto the castle’s outer wall.

  “If it’s seeing you want, why not try the lookout tower?” offered a manservant when she asked for directions. “There’s someone up there now, watching the fires, but they don’t mind visitors.”

  Hoping the lookout wouldn’t be in a mood for conversation, Daja followed the man’s instructions. There were guards by the door at the base of the tower, but they let her pass without asking her business. She climbed, and climbed, and climbed. Just when she thought that if she climbed any more she would get a nosebleed, she reached the end of the stairs. The door at the top stood open—when she walked through, she stood by a tiny kiosk at the center of a broad platform. Its edges were guarded by a battlement as high as her chest. Made of stone, the battlement was pierced with holes to let the wind pass through. At this height, the wind blew hard.

  It vexed her to realize she was nervous about approaching the edge. Hadn’t she done crow’s-nest duty a hundred times on Third Ship Kisubo? She ventured a step from the door, and another. The deck—the floor—was reassuringly firm under her feet.

  “It’s not so bad.” Yarrun walked over from the far side of the platform. The wind clawed at his tunic and shirt; his hair was tumbled. “And it’s stood for a century.” He drank deeply from a flask in his hand.

  Daja frowned—was he drinking liquor? The last thing anyone needed was a tipsy fire-mage. It was not her place to correct an elder, but with so much in the valley dependent on this one man, the thought of him as a drunkard was not a comforting one.

  Her fear of the height evaporated. She walked to the battlement and took in the view. They were above the entire valley, except for the surrounding mountains. The ground was a quilt, its patches sewn from orchards, fields, villages, and pastures. The much-shrunken lake was a puddle in the quilt’s center. Black stripes were laid across the neat squares, showing where grassfires had burned without regard for order. More such stripes blazed orange or glowed orange-black. The threat was still very much present, particularly in the grasslands nearest the castle. Just below, in the northern third of the valley and on each side, moss-green belts
of forest grew on land too steep to be farmed. Over everything drifted a pale gray haze of smoke.

  “All the locals talk of is the wealth in copper and saffron.” Yarrun had come to stand next to her. “Those trees—they’re wealth, too, in wood and resin and nuts. They could live on such wealth, if they had to. And that woman tells me to let it burn!”

  “Rosethorn does know plants,” Daja said cautiously. “That’s her magic.”

  “Magic!” he scoffed. “Magic cannot take the place of learning, girl. This mumbling of earth rhythms and of nature is folly. True learning is gained when other people can work their spells as you do and get the same results. And you need learning to properly understand how the world functions. If you rely only on intuition or magic to interpret what you observe, you will think that animals truly are wise, not that they’ve learned if they do a thing it will please you. You will believe that only the proper ceremonies will ensure that the sun rises every day, as the people of the Kurchal Empire once did.” Lifting his bottle, he drank deep.

  Daja glanced at it sidelong.

  He saw and raised the flask. “I would offer you some, but it wouldn’t be good for you. This is a strong-brewed Yanjing tea, black as coal and treated with stimulants like foxglove. Called as I am this year to work day and night, I find that my tea helps me to keep going.”

  “It’s not liquor?” she asked, suspicious.

  “Spirits would be fatal. They destroy concentration and reflexes.”

  At least that made sense. She leaned on the railing and stared at the valley in silence. Yarrun, too, was quiet, letting his eyes roam from east to west. She peeked at him once and noticed that he trembled slightly. His stimulants? she wondered, then shrugged the question off and turned her face into the wind.

  The sun inched its way down the sky, bound for the mountains. Already in the west a rim of shadow draped itself over the toy figures of the twin watchtowers and the cut that led to the glacier valley. She could see the specks that were Rosethorn and other workers on their way out of the saffron terraces. On the forest’s edges the boys and men who bared strips of earth to serve as firebreaks chopped and dug, trying to expand the gap between the oncoming grassfires and the trees.