TAMORA PIERCE
Circle of Magic
Daja’s Book
To the teachers who shaped my life: Rosemary Gomes, Mary Jacobsen, Margaret Emelson, and David Bradley, Jr.
A great teacher is above all other treasures.
Map of Gold Ridge Valley
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map of Gold Ridge Valley
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
TRADERTALK GLOSSARY
The Circle of Magic Books
Acknowledgments
Copyright
1
Sunset blazed above Gold Ridge Valley in north Emelan, throwing shadows over a company of mounted riders. At the head of their train a banner-man carried the personal flag of Duke Vedris IV, ruler of Emelan. The duke himself rode behind the flag, surrounded and followed by his staff, guards, and friends. Smoke drifted through the air in veils, stinging everyone’s eyes. They had been riding through it for two days, watching it stretch over pastures and fields. Now at last, as the company entered the forests that filled the northern half of the valley, they began to rise above the thick air.
At the very rear of their column rode three girls and a boy all mounted on sturdy ponies. When one of the adults, a woman in a dark green habit, stopped and dismounted from her horse, they also drew their ponies to a halt and watched her. She climbed out of the sunken road and walked several yards under the ancient trees. A big dog with curly white fur who trotted beside the four detached himself from their group and followed.
“Little Bear!” called Daja Kisubo, a tall, broad-shouldered black girl. “Let Rosethorn alone. Come back here.”
The dog Little Bear obeyed. When he reached the closest rider—Daja’s plump, redheaded friend Tris—he sat, stirring the road’s dust with his plumed tail.
“Rosethorn?” asked Briar, the boy. “Is everything all right?”
“Just stay put,” ordered Rosethorn. She picked up a sturdy branch and began to dig in the heavy litter of tree leaves and decaying wood underfoot. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Briar muttered to the girls out of the corner of his mouth. “I asked if everything was all right.”
Daja turned her mount. From this small rise she could look through a gap in the trees.
“Daja? Are you all right?” The voice belonged to the third girl in their party, Sandry. Everything about her, from her pony to her clothes, spoke of wealth that the other three young people did not have. When she turned her mount to see what had caught Daja’s eye, Briar and Tris did the same.
In the distance, where ridges of open pasture faded into the base of the southern and western mountains, long bands of sullen orange fire shone. Daja shook her head, making her eleven short braids flap. “It’s like something from a nightmare,” she replied. “It looks like what the Traders call pijule fakol.”
Sandry shivered and drew the gods-circle on her chest for protection. She knew Trader beliefs. “The afterlife for those who don’t pay their debts,” she muttered.
Little Bear rose to his hind legs, planting his forepaws against Tris’s saddle. She leaned over to scratch his ears, her brass-rimmed spectacles glinting in the late afternoon sun. “That’s the nice thing about believing in the Living Circle,” she remarked. “No bad afterlifes. We just get reborn.”
Briar squinted, his gray-green eyes wary. “Those fires reach for miles. And there’s nothing to stop them from burning. This whole country’s dry as tinder.”
Rosethorn thrust a clump of tree-litter into a pocket, then returned to her mount. Once she was in the saddle, she beckoned to a local man who rode with the duke’s party. “How long has it been since you people last had a forest fire?”
The man chuckled. “Bless you, Dedicate Rosethorn, there’s not been what I’d call a real forest fire in this valley since—oh, since my dad was a pup. Our mage, him they call Firetamer, he tends to all our fires.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” murmured Rosethorn, an earth dedicate of the Living Circle temples. “Come on, you four—we’re being left behind.”
Sandry urged her pony forward. Tris, Briar, and Little Bear fell in beside her.
Daja stayed where she was for a moment, her troubled dark eyes still on the blazes. How could anything as wonderful as fire look so menacing? she wondered. She worked with it every day; it was her friend. What if one day it turned against her as it had against Gold Ridge’s fields?
“Stay in pijule fakol, where you belong,” Daja Kisubo muttered to the distant flames. Clucking to her pony, she rode to catch up with her friends.
The next day Daja entered a small local smithy, loaded down with tools. She dropped everything beside the rough anvil, then realized that the staff she always carried had fallen to the ground as well. Swiftly she grabbed it from the pile, dusting its polished wood. She rested the staff against the wall near the hearth, stopping for a moment to run her fingers over its mirror-bright, unmarked brass cap. That bit of metalwork told those who knew how to read Trader staffs that she was trangshi, an outcast, with the worst luck in the world.
She turned her back on it and surveyed the cramped and dirty smithy. I wish I were home, she thought, eyeing the forge.
Home was the temple city of Winding Circle, where her master had a proper clean, well-lit forge. This dismal place was the twelfth smithy that she’d had to work in since the duke’s train began its journey. She was alone; the smith—who was also the village headman—was talking with the duke about what was needed to help this tiny valley survive the winter.
The smith’s absence, at least, was a good thing. Even his apprentice was gone, visiting a sick mother. She hated working in front of strangers. She was also tired of back country craftsmen who told her and her teacher Frostpine that they had things soft in Winding Circle. As if we did no real work of our own, she thought, inspecting the stone forge. Here was a pleasant surprise: the smith’s apprentice must have cleaned out the nest-shaped firepit and laid kindling for a new fire. He’d left her that much less work.
Looking at the kindling, she reached deep inside her to find her magic. Drawing out just a touch, she blew it into the firepit. Flames sprang up instantly.
Next she sent her power outside through the wall, to the other end of the tube through which the outdoor bellows pumped air under the fire inside. Since that summer, when Sandry had made the four friends’ magics into one, they had been able to talk in thought-form and to enter each other’s minds if they needed to. The ability was quite useful, particularly when one of them needed something from the others. Tri-is… Daja mind-called.
I know, I know. The magic under Trisana Chandler’s reply felt like cool winds and heavy mist. I had to pull the bellows out of the opening. You might want to stand away from the fire.
Not too much at first, Daja told her, then backed up. The burning heap of kindling fluttered, then blazed as air from the outside was thrust in under its flames. Daja heaped fresh charcoal around the sides of the kindling. Once it had caught, she added still more. Now give me some real air, she told her friend.
The answer came in the shape of a heavier stream of wind rushing through the opening under the forge. More charcoal caught. Daja stacked fuel until she had the right kind of fire to work her iron rods with.
Just keep it steady for now, she mind-called to her friend. I hope you brought something to read.
She felt Tris settle on a bench near the opening in the wall. Using one hand the other girl picked up a book.
With the other she drew a skein of breeze from the sky into the bellows-hole.
It’s A History of Volcanoes, Hot Springs, and Mud Pots in the Mountains of Emelan. There’s a lot of information in it, Tris explained.
Sounds ravishing, Daja commented. Letting the magical conversation go, she grabbed a handful of long, thin iron rods, carried them over to the forge-fire, and put them in to heat.
She felt bad for Tris, stuck behind the forge. Her redheaded friend would have liked nothing better than to ride with the duke and their teachers, exploring the valley. Unfortunately, when Tris got cross, small winds turned to big ones. No one wanted her anywhere near the grassfires they had gone to inspect today.
Unlike Tris, Daja had no interest in grassfires and had said as much to her teacher Frostpine. She had wanted him to give her something new to work, like the ruddy copper that was mined in these parts. Instead he’d assigned her the most humdrum task an apprentice could get.
Nails, Daja thought tiredly. Barehanded, she drew a thin, cherry-red iron rod out of the fire. I dream of forging swords and crowns and armor, but what does he give me? Nails. She carried her rod over to the anvil and examined its gloryless surface.
The light in the small building was poor, the outer air smoky. The forge-fire itself was sinking to become a steady wash of heat over red coals, without giving much light. She would have to do something about that.
Daja reached a hand toward the forge and twitched her fingers. A rope of fire rose from the coals. A second finger-twitch brought the rope toward the anvil. She stopped it a foot away, then thought for a moment. Her plan was to shape it like a branch of candles, but something else nudged her, wanting to press its own image into the flame. She let it roll away from her and into the rope. It split, then split again, turning itself into a multitude of fibers. These began to weave themselves in and out of each other. When they halted, a grid of flame hung in the air, like a broadly woven square of cloth. Daja could have stuck a thumb into the gaps between the fire-threads, but she wasn’t sure what the result might be. The fiery cloth did cast a strong light on her work area, and wasn’t that the important thing? She left it alone.
Using her hammer, she resentfully tapped a groove into her iron rod. Where would she be right now, if her family hadn’t drowned? Probably south in the Pebbled Sea, underway for their winter berth. The wind, just starting to turn chilly, would be tumbling through her braids, filling her nose with clean salt air—not this dusty, smoky stuff.
Jamming the rod’s pointed end into a hole in the metal lump called a nail header, she gave the iron a hard twist. The rod broke neatly where she had cut the groove into it. And our ship wouldn’t have a cargo of these, she thought, putting the longer piece of rod aside. We’d have, oh, spices from Bihan, and gold from Sotat. Maybe some flower-perfumes from Janaal.
With a hard, quick hammer-blow, she put a flat head on her nail. Lifting the nail header tool at the back of the anvil, she upended it: her finished nail dropped into a water bucket near one of her feet. Steam hissed out in a tiny plume. Sighing, Daja fished for the cool nail and tossed it into a second, empty bucket. With the ease of practice she put the nail header on the anvil, right over the hole made for it. The remainder of the first rod went back into the fire to heat. She grabbed the next iron rod to begin the whole chore over again.
Daja worked steadily, ignoring the sweat that trickled down her cheeks, back, and sides, dreaming of ships under full sail in the Pebbled Sea. She was big for her years, deep-chested and thick-waisted, dressed in a boy’s thigh-length black tunic and black leggings. The leather apron that protected her clothes was grimy and spotted with burns. The steady glow of light from her fire-weaving played over skin as brown as mahogany; a wide, full-lipped mouth now tight with unhappiness; and large, deep-set brown eyes. The only touches of color about her were a scarlet armband and red ties at the ends of her braids.
“You are the smith?” a female voice inquired behind her. “I have work to be done.”
Daja turned, squinting. At first it was hard to make out the woman who stood in the wide doorway—the sun was at her back, leaving her face in shadow. The only thing clear at first glance was that she had but one leg. The other, cut off at mid-thigh, had been replaced by a sturdy length of fitted wood.
“I’m not the smith,” Daja replied.
The whites of the visitor’s eyes glittered; she was staring at Daja’s fire-square. The girl sighed. People were always so nervous about the ways she and her friends shaped magic! “Sorry,” Daja murmured, and flapped a hand at the square. It twisted, becoming a single rope, then snaked back into the forge.
The visitor took two hopping steps into the building. Now Daja saw her clearly, and wished she could not. One side of the newcomer’s face was the color of bronze, lit with a single heavy-lidded dark eye. The other side was a ruin of shiny brown scars, the eye only a lumpy pit. Scars dragged at one side of the woman’s broad-curved mouth, so that she seemed to be forever sneering. Her nose was unscarred, but something had broken it enough to make it nearly flat. Both of her eyebrows were thick, making Daja wonder if she had been any kind of beauty even before the loss of half of her face. The scarring aside, she didn’t look very old—no more than twenty-five at the most.
The newcomer wore an earth-brown tunic that reached halfway down her thighs. Like Daja, she wore leggings. They were the same dark color as her tunic, with one leg shortened to cover the joining of the wooden leg to her flesh. Daja noticed all of this in an eye-blink. The thing that brought her mind to a halt was the brass-capped staff the woman leaned on.
She was a Trader.
Daja’s belly clenched. She tried not to stare hungrily at the etchings and metal inlays that decorated the cap on the visitor’s staff, the marks that told those who knew how to read them of the woman’s family and deeds. Now that she was trangshi, Daja wasn’t supposed to care about things like that, but she couldn’t help herself.
The woman scowled and thumped the ground with her staff as she took a more comfortable position. “What’s the matter, lugsha?” she demanded in a deep, pleasant voice, using the word—only slightly complimentary—for “craftsman.” “Haven’t you seen a cripple before? Or just not one so pretty as me?”
Daja lowered her head and waited. As soon as the Trader’s eye adjusted to the gloom, this conversation would end.
“No, you’re not big enough to be a whole smith. Apprentice, I desire to speak with your master,” the woman said flatly. “There is work to be done, and—”
Since Daja wasn’t looking, she couldn’t watch the Trader examine their surroundings as she tried to spot an adult smith. When the woman fell silent, though, Daja knew what she had seen: her staff, with its unmarked cap.
Daja looked up in time to catch the glare the Trader directed her way. Then the woman turned her face toward the forge.
“Where is the smith?!” she called, her voice ringing from the metal all around them. “I desire to speak with the smith, immediately! There is work to be done, work for which Tenth Caravan Idaram will pay!”
Tris, Daja called with her magic. Tris, I need you.
Behind the smithy, Tris sighed. The worst part about helping Daja, as far as she was concerned, was the interruptions. Rather than answer, she reached out and gripped a fistful of air. Giving it a twist, she threw it like a spear through the opening in the wall. That done, she ran nail-bitten fingers through her very short red hair, thrust her brass-rimmed spectacles higher on her long nose, and went back to reading.
Inside the smithy, flames roared like dragonfire out of the bed of hot coals. The Trader flinched.
I don’t need more air! Daja informed her friend. I need help, right now!
I’m busy, came Tris’s reply. Get someone else.
There isn’t anyone else.
“I have no choice but to stand here and hope that someone will tell me where I can find the smith,” the Trader announced, turning her back to Daja. If Daja spoke, she knew tha
t the Trader would pretend not to hear: that was how Traders handled trangshi. “It is most urgent that I speak to a smith—to a real smith.”
Trisana Chandler, I need you right now! thought Daja fiercely.
Furious, Tris rose, shook out her skirts and petticoats, and closed her book and stuck it into the pocket of her gown. Sparks glimmered at the ends of her hair as she stomped around the side of the building. Coming to a halt beside the Trader, she scowled up at the woman with storm-gray eyes. Her pale, lightly freckled skin was blotched red and white with anger; the two-inch strands of her coppery hair were rising to stand at angles to her head.
“What do you want?” she demanded. “I was reading.”
“I want the smith,” the Trader snapped back. “I am Polyam, wirok of Tenth Caravan Idaram. I have business for him.”
“The smith is out riding with the duke of Emelan,” Tris replied. “There’s my friend Daja Kisubo. She’s all the smith you’ll get till they come back!”
“I’m trangshi, remember?” Daja asked patiently. “By Trader law I don’t exist. If I don’t exist, then she can’t talk to me or hear me. Get hold of yourself, will you? You’re sparking all over the place.”
Tris raked her fingers through her hair and examined the fistful of light she had gathered. “Shurri defend us,” she muttered. Closing her fingers, she killed the sparks.
Polyam backed away from her. “If I had a choice, I would go somewhere else,” she informed Tris. “But I don’t. It’s two days’ journey to the next blacksmith on this road. I will wait until this smith comes.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll tell Daja,” Tris said, a shade too patiently. “Then she can do what you need and you can go away with your whole caravan.”
“If a trangshi were here, I could not accept work from that trangshi’s hand,” replied Polyam. “Even if you handled it before me. I must have a smith. One that is not unclean.”
Now tiny lightning bolts rippled over Tris’s hair and around the frames of her spectacles. The Trader clung to her staff with both hands, her dark face ashy with fear.