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  It didn’t matter, decided Briar. She wouldn’t help Flick, if she even could. The healer’s shoulders drooped; she leaned on the table as she argued with Rosethorn—she was nearly played out. Finally Rosethorn left the room. Briar returned to his watch over Flick.

  Some time after the Guildhall clock struck one, Flick passed into unmoving sleep. The clock was ringing the half hour after three in the morning when the consumptive man began to cough himself to death, noisily and bloodily. Orji tried to stuff his blanket into his ears to escape the sound. Briar trembled, wishing he could do the same. Suddenly the noise ended. Those in the room who were able to understand made the gods-circle on their chests.

  Flick slept through it all, unmoving, her breath rattling in her throat. Briar tried to get her to drink tea or water, but it ran from her loose mouth. “You have to get well,” he told her fiercely. “C’mon, Flick. You’re a fighter. Remember that time we was on the wharf and them Trader boys tried to run us off?” Tris, Sandry, and Daja knew of this adventure, but their teachers did not. “We showed ’em, right? You even got a fine cloth cap out of it. Sky blue, with a peacock feather, and the pump we saw told you it was worth three silver crescents.”

  Flick’s breathing slowed, as if she did remember. As if she savored the memory of either the victory or the hat.

  Cheered by that, Briar talked on. “Once we’re sprung from here, I’ll ask Sandry to make a cape to go with the hat, same color and everything.” He was breathing along with Flick, though he didn’t realize it at first. Her body clawed for air like a weary fisherman hauling in nets a handful at a time. There was always a halt when Flick stopped inhaling. Each time Briar stopped when she did. Waiting longer and longer for her to start again, he silently begged her to let go of her lungfuls of air. He couldn’t talk as well as breathe with her, to help her, so he shut up and clutched her hand, watching her chest slowly rise—and fall. Rise—and fall.

  Rise … and fall.

  Rise … rise … fall. Fall.

  He emptied his chest and waited. She was about to breathe in, about to at any minute, except, except …

  Briar choked and gasped, inhaling frantically to fill starved lungs. He wheezed as spittle went into his airway, then coughed and coughed, until he yanked the mask from his mouth and drank water straight from the jar. When he lowered it, Flick still hadn’t moved, hadn’t filled her lungs.

  She had lost so much weight. A skeleton with skin, he thought, taking her hand again. When she got better, he would try to talk Winding Circle into taking her. Gorse, the chief cook, would love to bring her to a proper weight. Gorse lived to feed people.

  Someone fumbled with his hands, but he wouldn’t let go of her. After a time they went away. Briar sat, thinking of the mischief they would find once Flick was on her feet.

  Fingers of light thrust through a crack in the shutters, telling him it was dawn. Flick would ask for breakfast in a little while.

  A finger touched him lightly, between the eyes. In his mind he saw a silver ribbon of magic. His nostrils flared, tickled by a scent of patchouli, lotus, and other things.

  “Red as blood,” a man remarked. “You can take him home, Dedicate.”

  “Briar.” Hands cupped his cheeks and turned his head. His eyes met Rosethorn’s.

  “Why is there a red thumbprint on your face?” he asked.

  “It’s Crane’s detection oil. If you have the blue pox, it turns white on your skin. If not, it turns red. Yours is red, mine is red, and we’re going home.” She seemed to be pleading with him; her tone was gentle.

  “If I get up I’ll wake Flick,” he pointed out, not unreasonably, he thought.

  “My dear, you know better,” Rosethorn said. Her brown eyes were level, serious. There was no pity in them. He was glad. Pity would have hurt.

  Briar looked at his friend. Her fingers were limp in his, her mouth was slack. No pulse beat in the thin skin over her temple. She was just a shell, lying there.

  Silently Briar pulled his hand away. He picked up his shakkan, then followed Rosethorn out of the ward.

  Quarantine had lifted, but no one was taking chances. Once they were out of Urda’s House, they entered the tent that Niko had mentioned, the one beside the road to Winding Circle. There the clothes they’d worn were taken away while they scrubbed with medicinal soap, rinsed in hot water, and rubbed themselves in disinfectant oil. When they emerged, they were handed fresh clothing. Briar examined the folded garments and realized these were his own, from Discipline. His eyes blurred; he opened them wide, so no one might see rinse water on his face and mistake it for tears. He dressed, pulling on his second favorite boots. His favorites, he remembered, were gone, destroyed on his first day at Urda’s House as part of the useless attempt to keep the disease from spreading.

  A squad of the Duke’s Guard mounted on horses awaited them in front of the tent.

  “We’re to give you a ride to Winding Circle,” their corporal told Rosethorn. “Honored Moonstream asked us, if you turned out to be well.”

  “I don’t have the blue pox,” Rosethorn said bleakly. “I don’t know if I’m well.”

  The mounts picked their way along Nosegay Strut, the street that ran past Urda’s House to Temple Road and the fishing village on the harbor. Briar looked around dully. The day he’d come here with nothing more on his mind than unloading medicines and running about with Flick, the street had been muddy but clear. Now it was strewn with the remains of bonfires, pieces of wood, liquor bottles, and trash. There were heaps of rags: the dead, left to be picked up by the big vehicles mockingly called lumber wagons. Three buildings showed signs of fire; another had burned to the ground. Drunkards and beggars leaned on buildings and watched as the guards passed. Doors and window shutters slammed all around.

  It began to rain as they turned onto Temple Road. On the north edge of the way, several houses had burned; on the south edge, the fishing village had built a wall of barrels and wagons to keep rioters from their boats. As the road climbed into rocky ground, he saw men and women in street clothes and habits already hard at work. They were putting down plank floors and raising large canvas tents. Three or four giant tents were already taking in the sick: the guards had to swing around a line of wagons carrying fresh victims to the makeshift hospitals.

  A heavy, cooked-meat smell drifted into his nose as the wind whipped around. From Bit Island a thick black trunk of smoke rose to mark where the dead were burned.

  The guards watched their surroundings, though nothing lay now to their right except the bluffs and, below them, the slate-gray waters of the harbor. To their left rose tumbled earth, giant slabs of rock, and whatever plants could get a foothold on such unpromising ground. The greenery drew Briar’s eyes; he touched the shakkan he carried in the crook of one arm.

  “I forgot the plants at Urda’s House!” he gasped suddenly. “Rosethorn—”

  “They need them more than we do,” she replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He dozed, tucked so firmly behind his guard that he couldn’t fall. He woke suddenly: an animal was screaming. Leaning to look around the guard, he saw that they had reached a Y in the road, where it split to either side of a well and a shrine. He knew both. Higher on the rising ground soared gray stone walls. Atop them, warriors in red habits and broad-brimmed hats against the rain leaned through notches to stare at them.

  Down the road that led to Winding Circle’s north gate raced the screeching animal: a big white dog nearly out of his mind with joy. Behind him came Daja, walking sensibly on the firm ground at the road’s edge, using her staff to keep herself out of the mud. Tris followed her, raising her skirts as she picked her way past the worst ruts and dips in the road itself. Last came Lark and Sandry under a big umbrella the same earth-green shade as Lark’s habit.

  Briar’s guard commented, amused, “I see there’s a welcoming committee.”

  Little Bear reached them first, sending up gouts of muddy water as he raced from Briar’s horse to Ros
ethorn’s. No one tried to speak; none of them could have heard anything but the dog.

  Daja stopped by Rosethorn, looking up at her. After a moment she smiled, carefully, as if she were unsure Rosethorn would like it. Briar saw his teacher reach down and wrap her fingers around the Trader’s dark hand where she clutched her staff. Daja’s smile broadened, and Rosethorn let go.

  Daja came over to Briar, staying clear of Little Bear. Briar looked at her, seeing that she was still tired after long hours in the forge. She gazed up at him for a long moment, then said, “You took your time coming home, thief-boy.”

  Briar felt his guard stiffen. He tried to smile. “I woulda been home sooner, if I’d had my druthers.”

  Tris only glanced up at Rosethorn and nodded, turning pink as she did. Rosethorn nodded back. When the redheaded girl reached Briar, she said frankly, “You look like you were eaten by wolves.”

  “Nothing so nice,” he replied, and carefully handed the shakkan down to her.

  Half turning in the saddle, his guard asked, “You’re leaving me already?”

  Briar nodded. “I must. These girls will just get weepy and embarrass me if you stay.” He slid into the road, landing to one side of a puddle. Daja steadied him.

  Sandry closed the distance between them at a run. Colliding with him, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. “You dreadful boy!” she cried. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

  He patted her awkwardly and growled, “You’re making my shirt wet, crying on it.”

  Sandry laughed and stood back, wiping her eyes. “It’s already soaked through. Tris, can’t you deal with all this rain?” She fumbled in her pockets until she found her handkerchief.

  “Why is it always me?” asked the redhead without expecting a reply. A circle of dry air opened around the entire group, rain streaming to all sides as if she’d covered them with a glass bowl. The guards glanced at each other sidelong, unnerved by the display of magic. Tris didn’t even notice.

  Sandry blew her small nose briskly and inspected Briar once she’d put the linen handerchief away. “You need rest, and you need decent food,” she announced. “Rosethorn probably hasn’t done much better than you.”

  “Look for yourself,” Daja remarked softly. Sandry turned.

  Rosethorn had dismounted. Now she stood ankle deep in mud, arms wrapped tight around Lark, her face buried in Lark’s shoulder as the other woman held her. She didn’t seem to be crying; she just hung onto her friend for all she was worth.

  Sandry gathered her skirts and went over to the women, sliding her own arms around Rosethorn’s waist. Daja followed her more slowly, to pat Rosethorn’s back. Briar went to stand nearby. Tris, crimson with emotion, glared at the guards as if daring them to comment.

  Their corporal twitched his head. Quietly they turned their mounts and rode back to Summersea.

  When Rosethorn drew out of Lark’s and Sandry’s holds, she said crossly, “I’m not crying, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just … tired. I needed to rest for a moment.”

  Lark wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “No wonder. You two look worn to the bone, my dearest. And why not? Locked up for days, like jail, without your garden and only nursing to occupy you—I think Little Bear likes nursing more than you.” She drew Rosethorn uphill, toward Winding Circle. The four and Little Bear walked along. Lark continued, “And I bet Jokubas and his people were talking at you too.”

  “As if this were my fault,” Rosethorn said blackly, and sniffed.

  “But you’re all right now,” Sandry announced. “You’re both home safe, and we’re going to be fine.”

  “The epidemic is far from over,” cautioned Lark. “We still have work.”

  “But we’re where we should be. That’s the important thing,” Sandry replied cheerfully. “We’re all home.”

  8

  Soon after Rosethorn’s and Briar’s return, everyone but Tris went back to bed: Daja was exhausted from her work in the forge, Lark and Sandry from spelling cloth to keep disease at bay. Not long after they went to their rooms, novices came with fresh supplies of oils, powders, and clothing. Tris directed them to Lark’s workshop and watched as they placed their supplies along the wall. She noticed that the big makeshift table in the workshop had to be scrubbed, the wood cleaned of anything from the day before. Tris did that first; it was the only thing she could help them with. The dull work of blending fresh ingredients into a paste that blazed with magical strength, then rubbing it into cloth, was Lark’s and Sandry’s craft.

  Once the table was clean, scrubbed with sand, and wiped down with an infusion of thyme leaves, Tris checked the cold-box. Rosethorn’s and Briar’s arrival had caught her by surprise. Until now Lark and Sandry had been too weary to eat anything but soup at the end of the day, and Daja had taken her meals with Frostpine and Kirel. Tris didn’t have the supplies she needed to feed the entire cottage again. Picking up two baskets, she walked out onto the spiral road that wound through the temple community. It would take her to the central kitchens at the Hub.

  On her way back to Discipline, Tris didn’t realize she had company until long hands wrapped around one of her baskets and tugged. Looking up with a sharp comment ready for the interloper, she saw Dedicate Crane.

  She surrendered the basket without an argument. Work was good for Crane. “You look terrible,” she informed him. “And doesn’t that wash off?” She pointed to the red thumbprint between his eyes. “Rosethorn and Briar still have theirs from this morning.”

  “I spelled it to last for weeks,” Crane drawled. “It is better so, particularly when one is known to be exposed to the disease regularly. And I am sorry I do not meet your qualifications for male beauty. I have been working.”

  “You look like you need a rest,” she replied. “It won’t do anyone good to have you fall ill from overwork.”

  “You are too young to sound like my former governess,” Crane informed her as they walked across the road to Discipline. Little Bear came bounding out, set to give Tris his usual hysterical greeting. When he saw her companion, the dog raced back inside. On his frequent visits to the cottage after he had asked for Lark’s help, Crane had made his opinion of enthusiastic dogs very clear.

  “They must be up,” said Tris, allowing the man to open the gate for her. “Little Bear is sticking close to Briar.”

  “Fortunate Briar,” murmured Crane as they went inside.

  The cottage’s inhabitants were seated at the table, clutching steaming cups of tea. Rosethorn’s head came up when she saw Crane.

  “Turn right back around,” she said tartly. “I didn’t escape quarantine to get buckled into your harness.”

  Tris took her basket from Crane and carried everything into the kitchen area. Sandry brought the man a chair from Lark’s workroom.

  “Charming as ever,” Crane remarked as he arranged himself on the chair. “However did they manage to entertain you at Urda’s House?”

  “Only you could make ‘Urda’s House’ sound like an ill wish,” Rosethorn growled.

  Crane raised a single eyebrow. “I would have to care about the place to ill wish it,” he informed her. “I assume their own poor management is curse enough for them.”

  “How would you know about their management or anything else?” demanded Rosethorn. “You wouldn’t sully the purity of your habit by going anywhere near the Mire.”

  “Shall I point out that your mission of mercy to the impoverished resulted in your enforced stay?” drawled Crane. “On second thought, I shall not. You so frequently assure me you are attentive to all things that I must believe you spent your last week in quarantine by design.”

  “Will you both just stop?” Lark asked wearily. “There’s nothing to be gained by bickering.” She smiled a thank you at Tris, who was setting bowls and plates on the table.

  Sandry got up to help, but Tris waved her back into her seat. Within a few moments everyone was able to help themselves to the food sent by the temple’s finest
cooks.

  When Rosethorn put down her fork, Crane said, “With regard to your time—”

  “No!” Briar said hotly, glaring at Crane. “Let her be! Find somebody more important. She did her bit, and she needs rest!” When Rosethorn put a hand on his arm, he shook her off. “I know you swore to serve folk when you got dedicated,” he told her, “but you got to be sensible, and if you won’t speak up, I will.” He glared at Crane, who regarded him as if he were a bug. “Find one of them great mages that’s up to your weight,” insisted the boy.

  “‘One of them great mages,’” Crane repeated tonelessly. “Are you serious?” He looked at each of the four, brows arched, mouth pursed. “None of you has the least notion, I take it?”

  The young people stared at Lark, then Rosethorn, confused. Both women looked down, not meeting their charges’ eyes.

  Tris scowled at Crane. “The least notion of what?”

  Crane sighed and fanned himself with a linen handkerchief. “Rosethorn is a great mage. She is one of the most powerful with regard to medicines and plants in all the Pebbled Sea and its environs.”

  “He says ‘one of’ because he means he’s another,” muttered Rosethorn. She poured herself a fresh cup of tea.

  Crane sniffed. “Surely that is obvious.” To the four he said, “Winding Circle is the rival of the university at Lightsbridge in the renown and quality of its mage-teachers. It is famed from Yanjing to Blaze-Ice Bay.” He sighed. “You didn’t know about Winding Circle either. How charming.”

  “We knew that Niko’s a great mage,” said Tris. “Someone we met last fall told us.”

  Crane inclined his head in agreement as regally as any king. “Lark too is a great mage, for all she came to it later in life,” he went on. “Frostpine is the greatest of the smith-mages of our time. None other can work all kinds of metal, except for young Daja, here.”