“It’s odd,” Daja told Briar later, when he came downstairs. By then, the men were long gone. “They didn’t seem like they were going much of anywhere.” She stretched. “I’m going to practice my staff. Care to swap a few blows?”
Briar grimaced. “When there’s a river and greenery practically on our doorstep, and the little ones sound asleep, so they won’t trail me everywhere? Thanks, no. Go see if one of our guards wants to get his fingers cracked.”
Briar’s wish for solitude was meant to go unfulfilled. He was inspecting a small patch of ferns, wondering if he could get them home if he used one of the small pots in his packs, when Zhegorz found him. The older man knelt abruptly, missing the ferns by an inch.
“You almost killed a plant, Zhegorz. Lakik’s teeth, you got to use your eyes for something other than visions,” Briar said patiently, making sure the moss under Zhegorz’s bony knees was not damaged. “If you won’t watch where you’re stepping or kneeling or whatever, you can’t be following me around.”
“I promised Tris I would look after everyone, but no one will listen,” Zhegorz muttered. “How can I make you listen when the air is full of plots and the wind hung with sights of plotters?”
“Because you keep saying the same thing, and you say it about everyone, old man,” Briar told him. Dealing with Zhegorz required the same kind of patience that dealing with acorns on the ground demanded. All of them clamored to sprout and put down roots, and they didn’t understand that not all of them could. It always took time to get through to them. “You’ve got to concentrate harder and give us more details. And you’ve got to learn to tell what’s a real danger from what’s always there. Imperial soldiers are always there—the empire’s lousy with them, like the fellows Daja was talking to.”
“They don’t talk imperial,” Zhegorz mumbled.
“Belbun dung,” Briar said, half-listening. “Green Man bless us, you’re a long way from home.” The tree beside the one that sheltered the ferns was stocky for a tree, with leaves marked by distinctively silvery undersides. “Zhegorz, have a look. This is a Gyongxe sorbus. Someone had to plant this here. It’s not natural to Namorn, though I suppose it would do all right. Soil’s a little rich for you, though, girl.”
“They don’t talk imperial,” Zhegorz insisted.
“They’re trees, they don’t talk at all,” Briar replied. “Well, not so you’d hear…”
“Those men. They talked about ‘my lord,’ and rabbits in traps, and ‘beats catching a flogging for tarnished brass.’”
“They’re imperial soldiers on leave, and their troops are commanded by nobles,” Briar insisted, sending his power into the sorbus to fortify it against any hazards that might plague a foreigner in Namorn. “And they’re here to hunt. I wouldn’t talk imperial, either, if I was on leave after fighting Yanjing. Stop fussing.”
“They talked about weddings,” Zhegorz insisted.
“Men on leave get married. If you don’t have anything more serious, go soak your head in the river,” Briar snapped. “I mean it, Zhegorz. Tris just told you to come with us so you wouldn’t lurk about Landreg House giving her the fidgets. Once they’ve fixed you up at Winding Circle, you’ll be able to manage better. Now scat! And put your spectacles and both ear beads back on!”
Without a word, Zhegorz got to his feet and returned to the inn. Watching him go, Briar felt a rare twinge of conscience. He kicked that out, too. I’ll make it up to him later, he promised himself. But truthfully, sometimes a fellow needs time alone with green things. They won’t talk me half to death.
Tired of people, he returned to the inn for his shakkan. With it in his hands, he went out onto the riverbank and settled between the roots of an immense willow. There he spent the afternoon, the shakkan at his side, soaking in the feel of all that green life around him.
While Briar relaxed, Daja offered to take Gudruny’s children off her hands for a while. Gudruny accepted with gratitude. Once they were awake, Daja took them on a hike along the canyon that opened to the rear of the inn, where she could sense some metal veins in the rock walls. Sandry and Gudruny dozed and read. Zhegorz sulked in the stable, then paced outside the inn, restless under the threat of his calming drops from Sandry.
Everyone ate a quiet supper. Briar’s impulse to apologize to Zhegorz died under the older man’s glare during supper. He was happy to watch Zhegorz climb the stairs to go to bed early. Briar wasn’t sure he could keep his temper if Zhegorz continued to stare at him as if Briar had just murdered his firstborn. Instead, Briar listened to Sandry tell Gudruny’s children a bedtime story. Once they had gone upstairs, he helped Sandry straighten her embroidery silks. Despite the naps nearly everyone had taken, all of them were yawning not long after twilight had faded. They soon went to bed. Even the staff vanished. When Briar got up to close the front door, he saw that the guards were asleep around their fire. He had planned to set his shakkan back with the packs before he turned in, but something made him change his mind. After trying to think, and nearly splitting his jaws as he yawned, Briar had simply carried the old pine upstairs.
Zhegorz was already sound asleep in the other bed, a mild buzz of a snore issuing from his lips. Grateful not to have to have to talk to him, Briar set the shakkan on the floor and took off his clothes. Clad only in his loincloth, he crawled under the covers.
Given all the yawning he had done, he had thought he would be asleep the moment he put his head down. Instead, he felt imprisoned by his clean cotton sheets. His brain felt as if it were weighed down by clouds; his nose was stuffy. The feeling was one he knew, one his tired brain associated with blood and weapons in the night. Briar half-heard the roar of Yanjingyi rockets overhead and the shriek of dying people all around. He fought the clouds, turning his fingers to brambles to claw his way out of them. The clouds thickened. Desperate, he made his fingers into hooked thorns and slashed through layers of heavy mist.
The clouds parted slightly. Briar thrust a vine of power out through the opening, groping blindly for help with the weight that made it hard for him to breathe or move. He fumbled and reached—and touched his shakkan. White fire blazed, burning the clouds away in a heartbeat. Briar took deep breaths of clean air and woke up.
For a moment he thought he lay in a Gyongxe temple. The scent of sandalwood and patchouli was heavy in his nose; the ghosts of warning gongs thudded in his ears. When he put his feet on the floor, however, they met thin carpet, not stone. The smells faded in his nose; straining, he heard no war gongs. He wasn’t in Gyongxe. He was in a Namornese room. The two had only one thing in common: Someone very powerful was trying to keep him asleep.
He used the water pitcher to fill his washbasin—tricky work when his hands shook so badly. Then he ducked his face in the basin and splashed water on the back of his head, cleaning off some of the nightmare sweat. They’re powerful, whoever they are, but they ain’t the Yanjingyi emperor’s mages, he thought grimly. He checked the bond that linked him with Sandry. She was missing.
Not again! he thought angrily. Don’t these clod-headed bleaters ever give up?
He looked over at Zhegorz. Normally their scarecrow, less of a scarecrow after some weeks of decent meals, would have been up after the noise Briar had made. He slept very lightly, but not tonight. Briar shook him with no result.
Sorry, old man, he silently told the sleeping mage. You were right all along.
Briar grabbed his mage kit, yanked open the door, and raced down the hall to Sandry’s room. Gudruny and the children were sound asleep on pallets on the floor. Sandry was not in the empty bed. Instead, he saw a complex sign, written in pure magic, on his friend’s mattress. Briar had never seen anything like it. He tried to inspect the curls and twists inside the thing, only to find he was swaying on his feet, sleep already blurring his mind.
This sign felt different, more powerful, from the fog of sleep that had wrapped him around beginning in the common room. Briar dug in his kit until he produced the slender vial whose contents h
e had labeled wake the dead. Once he removed the cork, he quickly stuck the vial under his nose and took a breath. For a moment his nose and brain felt as if they might well be on fire. He yanked the bottle away and recorked it, then wiped his streaming eyes and took a second look at the design. It tugged at him, urging sleep, so he hung on to the bottle of scent. Bending down to risk a closer look, he saw the design was done in oil. Moreover, it bled along the threads of the sheet, uncontained.
Done like that, it wouldn’t last very long, he realized. Which means I’m not looking at the original spell. He stripped away the sheets to reveal the mattress. There, too, the design had bled up and through. Briar shoved the mattress aside. On the slats that kept it up he found the original spell. It was done on parchment in oils, and kept within the bounds of the parchment by a circle drawn in ink. Briar turned the parchment over: The mage who had made it had glued spelled silk onto the back and had written signs to enclose on that, to keep the spell from leaking down.
Musta been under the mattress for hours, to bleed up through everything, Briar decided. The energy in the oils had to move somewhere. The only way the mage that made the spell left it to go was up.
He couldn’t say how he knew the mage was a man, but he did. Moreover, the fiery brightness of the original spell and its complexity, even if he didn’t know how it was made, told him that they faced a very powerful mage, even a great mage. It was as bright as any work done by the four’s teachers.
To keep her asleep longer and deeper than the spell on us, I bet, thought Briar, recognizing some of the signs written into the original spell. To keep her out for days, not a day. And it woulda seeped into her power slow, so she’d never feel it coming over her. She’d be halfway across Namorn before she’d wake.
As soon as we get the rest of the household up and on her trail, we’ll destroy this and wake her up. Won’t that be a fine surprise for whoever’s got her? He smiled thinly and placed the parchment on the frame of the bed. Mage kit in hand, he went to Daja’s room. She slept as soundly as the others. Once more, Briar uncorked his wake-up potion and put the vial under her nose. She gasped, choked, and opened her eyes. Coughing, she swung a fist out to clip Briar’s head. Expecting it—the potion had that effect on many people—he dodged the blow.
“Kill me later,” Briar told her as she scrambled to get at him. “Some belbun nicked Sandry, and he’s got a serious mage in his pocket. If he isn’t the mage himself.”
Daja rubbed her eyes. “What’s in that poison?”
“Just the biggest wake-up weeds I know, spelled to crunch through any sleep spell. That’s how they got us in Gyongxe, sleep spells.”
Daja pulled a sack out of her mage kit and began to put items in it. She wore only her medallion, a breast band secured with a tie looped around her neck, and a loincloth. Her lack of clothing didn’t seem to concern her. “One of these days you’re going to have to tell me about what happened in Gyongxe,” she said, turning a spool of fine wire over in her hand before she stuffed it into the bag. “And not that ‘It was just a war’ pavao.” She straightened. “Let’s go smelt this down and see what floats.”
19
Briar suddenly realized he was very glad it was Daja with him. She was solid in spirit and heart—he’d forgotten that. She didn’t have Tris’s temper, vexing even with its most dangerous aspects held under rigid control, and she wasn’t inclined to the kind of noble arrogance that Sandry kept displaying. Of course he wouldn’t tell Daja that, but it was good to be reminded.
They trotted downstairs. The inn’s staff was asleep in a private parlor. It looked as if they’d told themselves they’d just put their heads down for a moment, then fallen asleep at one table. The four other guests had not returned from the horse fair.
I bet Zhegorz was right. Maybe they were soldiers, but now they’re in the pay of whichever imperial favorite tricked us this time, thought Briar. Maybe they had charms to hold off the sleep spell, but old Zhegorz scared them into the woods to wait till we were snoring, instead of being all nice and snug in here. Briar spat on the tiles in disgust. Tris was right to send him, and I was a bleater.
Daja went outside and quickly came back. “Asleep, all of them.”
“Stables are through the kitchen,” Briar said, pointing. “They’ll have needed horses to take Sandry.”
Daja nodded grimly. They walked through the kitchen door together into a force that felt like hard jelly. It wrapped around them in an eyeblink, then pulled them apart, leaving a yard of space between them.
One man was still awake. Quen lounged at the cook’s big table, fiddling with pieces of chopped turnips and carrots obviously meant for soup tomorrow. “I’ll wager you’ve never walked into anything like that before, have you?” he asked casually, his brown eyes gleaming in triumph. “Don’t worry, you can breathe. In fact, inside that working, you can stay alive for weeks. I tested it on a criminal scheduled for execution. After three months, Her Imperial Majesty lost patience and had him executed anyway.” He yawned. “I can’t leave this inn and still hold you two like this, but I’ve had worse situations. I wish you could tell me how you broke my sleep spell. No one was supposed to wake from that for three days. And I shaped it so that it couldn’t be broken once you were asleep.” He scratched the side of his mouth. “You’ll tell me when I free you, perhaps. Or I could let the glove of air down enough to free your mouths, if you swear to behave. Or not. I suppose you’re a little more powerful than I expected.” He smirked. “So, what shall I talk about?”
Daja and Briar reached out at the same moment along their magical connection, withered as it was. It sprang to life as Daja said, He’ll bore us to death if he keeps talking.
It seems like that, Briar answered. While he natters, we still don’t know about Sandry.
Sandry! cried Daja, grabbing for their bond. Sandry!
I couldn’t reach her before, Briar said. At the same time, he added his call to hers. They still found no trace of their friend.
“I suppose you’re running through all the spell-breaking charms you know,” Quen observed. “But that’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? They’re layered shield spells, but some of them are reversed. My own design. No single charm possessed by any mage will work on this glove spell. Well, Isha broke out, but she’s even more powerful than I am. She just blasted it. She said I need to stay humble. She even thought she might not be the only one who could do it, but really, outside noble courts, or the universities and the Living Circle schools, you’re not likely to find that many great mages. People tend to dislike us. They think we’re conceited and high-handed. They never think that perhaps we just spend so much time trying to wrestle our magic into behaving that it makes us short-tempered with the everyday world. So we hide.”
Quen ate a chunk of carrot, his eyes alert as he watched them. “Frustrating, isn’t it? I had to spend plenty of time at Lightsbridge breaking out of trap spells as part of my specialization. Maybe you could do a double working that would get you out eventually, but that’s why I pulled you apart.” He studied his nails. “You really should consider employment with Berenene. She takes good care of her people. I’ll even teach you some tricks once Shan and Sandry are wed. Not this one, of course. But you’ll see I’m a decent enough fellow after that.”
He is starting to annoy me, complained Daja.
Let’s shut him up, then. Briar and Daja thrust at the spells with their own spells for destruction, Briar’s for decay and the destruction of parasites, Daja’s for rust. Nothing worked. Each suggested charms and tricks they had learned in the last three years, creating variations within their own specialties. These, too, failed. The glove spells slid around them, jelly-like, making Daja’s knees weak with distaste. Quen took a fiddle from the bench and played it, which made Briar crazy. He hated being laughed at.
Should we yell for Tris? Briar finally asked.
There’s a way we can do this, Daja said stubbornly. On our own, without Tris and her book learning. Be
sides, she’s probably still weak as a kitten.
Something caught Briar’s attention then. Tris. Book learning.
Daja waited to hear his thought.
When Briar worked it out, he was both jubilant and ashamed for not seeing it sooner. The solution lay in his own experience and his own teacher. Rosethorn had engaged in a constant battle with university-trained mages, over the difference between academic magic and ambient magic.
Stop playing his game and start playing ours! he said. He tapped into his shakkan and the plants around him, drawing their power through himself and turning it into vines. These he sent through the spells of the glove. Like all vines, they found each and every chink and opening, spaces no human being used, weaving their tendrils through to break into open air. Reaching Daja’s prison, they did the same thing all over again, finding the openings between the spells. At last they broke through to twine themselves around her, growing until they cupped her entire body.
Daja called to the metal on her hand and in her mage kit, the strange living metal that was always growing and absorbing new metal. She drew on the strength of the kitchen’s metal and fires as well, adding it to the liquid metal until she could spin wires of power out of herself. They twined with Briar’s vines, following the paths the magical plants had taken through the openings in Quen’s spells. Busily they worked themselves into Briar’s prison, encasing him as his vines had encased Daja.
Slowly, the spells that enclosed Daja and Briar began to melt, like thick ice under boiling water.
Quen dropped fiddle and bow and stretched a hand out to them, his lips moving as he tried to renew the spells. The mess around Briar and Daja struggled to rebuild, and collapsed completely.
Quen gestured. A fresh shield billowed toward them like a giant, thick bubble. Daja leaned forward and blew like a bellows, hard and long, forcing the heavy thing back toward Quen. He fought to hold it off. While he was occupied, Briar reached into an outer pocket of his mage kit and pulled out a small cloth ball. Deftly, he tossed it on the floor. It rolled to Quen’s feet.