Briar rode over and touched Daja on the arm. He jerked his head, a sign for her to come aside with him. When she did, he whispered, “Remember? She gets all worked up, and she snaps at the first nice voice she hears. She was probably scared witless. I’ll put on the heavy gloves and gentle her some.” He winked and rode back to Tris, getting her attention by poking her in the arm. “Hey, Coppercurls, nice fireworks,” he said, keeping his voice light. She looked like one of the warrior dedicates right after battle: exhausted, but still not quite sure it was safe to stop fighting. Briar had learned to handle them carefully when they were in that state. “Maybe you ought to do like Chime and eat something so the lighting will come out of you in colors.”
Tris replied with a suggestion that Briar knew would be physically impossible. He grinned. Offering Tris his canteen, he said, “Have some water, and don’t spit it back in my face.”
As Tris obeyed, Briar looked at Daja and shrugged.
Daja smiled reluctantly. That’s right, Daja thought. Tris gets really frightened, and then she bites the heads off of people. I had forgotten.
I wonder what else I’ve forgotten—about Tris. About Sandry, and Briar.
I hope I remember really, really fast.
Sandry was livid. Had she been less aware of what she owed to the people around her, she would have shaken Tris until her teeth rattled. Furious as she was, she still remembered one of her uncle’s most often-repeated lessons: “Never express anger with a friend or a subordinate in public,” Vedris always said. “They might forgive a private expression of anger or a deserved scolding, but they never forget a public humiliation. It is the surest way to destroy a friendship and to create enemies.”
The caravan found a wide cove off the road where they could halt to collect themselves and calm the children and the animals. Sandry then went to give Tris a piece of her mind. The mimander beat her there. He had backed Tris up against a tall stone by the road, his yellow-robed body shielding her from onlookers. Sandry moved to the side of the stone to eavesdrop.
“The world does not appreciate such stunts,” the man told Tris softly but fiercely. “Do you know the harm you could do with such dangerous magic? What if a wagon had rolled, or if animals had fallen? When you scry a thing, you announce it immediately—you do not stage a panic in mid-river! I mean to file a complaint with Winding Circle—”
“They will tell you your complaint has no merit.” Tris’s voice was low and cold. “I did not scry this. As soon as I knew it was coming, I told everyone with the ears to hear. Forgive me if I did not consult you. There was no time.”
“What am I supposed to believe, kaq?” demanded the mimander. He’d used the most insulting term for a non-Trader there was. “Did you see it on the wind, like some fabled mage of old? I suppose you—a child!—expect me to believe that!”
“Go away. Tell your bookkeeper goddess you’d rather question the debt you owe me for your life than consider ways to repay me!” snapped Tris. “On second thought, don’t bother! There’s no coin small enough I’d consider worthwhile exchange for your life!”
Sandry smothered a gasp and pressed herself into a crevice behind the rock that hid her. Is she mad? Sandry wondered, horrified. If she were a Trader he’d have to kill her for so many insults! She said he was questioning his gods for letting him live. Then she told him not to bother repaying her—a Trader, not to repay!—and then she told him his life isn’t worth anything!
Finally the mimander replied, his voice shaking. “I expect no better of a kaq.”
He walked away.
Sandry’s temper blazed again. Tris not only orders us around like the Queen of Everything, but she insults our hosts! I have to remind her she used to have manners!
She yanked herself out of her crevice, shook her riding breeches clean of the leaf-litter that had collected there, took a deep breath, and walked around the rock. Tris had left it, to sit on a fallen tree next to the spring nearby. She patiently held one side of her snood, Chime the other, as her braids twined around each other, forming a snug ball. There was no way to tell now which had carried lightning and which had been lightning. Even the two thin braids that framed her face were neatly done up and tied again.
Sandry halted in front of her. “Never have I given you the right to order me around. Neither have Briar or Daja. And we have certainly not given you the right to throw lightning at us.” Despite her resolve to be firm, her voice quivered.
Tris’s eyes flicked to Sandry dangerously, though Tris’s hold on the snood remained steady as her braids moved and wriggled to fit themselves inside. “Pardon me for not kissing your hand and saying pretty please, since that’s what you’re used to these days,” she replied, acid dripping in her voice. “Had I known I would offend, Clehame”—she turned Sandry’s Namornese title into an insult—“I would have let everyone die so I wouldn’t inconvenience you.”
“I know you are ever so much more clever and educated than the rest of us, but it’s not as if we are dolts. We did get our medallions at the same time as you. We have something between our ears besides hummus! And if the bond between us were open, there would have been no need for such antics!” replied Sandry, losing her temper in spite of herself.
Tris let go of the snood. With a flap of her wings, Chime leaped on top of her head to keep it in place. If either girl had not been in a rage, they might have thought it funny.
“Did it occur to you that you might not like what is in my head now?” demanded Tris. She hurriedly grabbed a fistful of hairpins and began to pin her net in place. “Or do you think I’ll be easier to control once you’re behind my eyes, Your Ladyship?”
Sandry’s eyes filled with unexpected tears. She felt as if Tris had slapped her. “Do you really think that of me?”
“I don’t know what I think,” growled Tris, taking off her spectacles. “Go away, will you? I have the most vile headache. I just want to be alone.” Chime took flight off of Tris’s head.
“With pleasure,” Sandry replied with all the dignity she had left. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll be a caravan of one, just as alone as you please.”
“I cannot believe you, my lady.” Unknown to the two girls, the caravan’s leader had come over. “She has saved all of our lives with fearsome magic, she is pale and sweating—and you choose to quarrel with her?” To Tris, the woman said, “My wagon is cushioned, with heavy drapes to close out the light, and there is cool mint tea. Will you rest your head there? Briar says he has a headache medicine that may help you.”
Sandry turned and fled. If anything, she felt even smaller than she had when Tris had accused her of wanting to control her. Why didn’t I notice she was ill? she wondered. And why is she being so mean to the three of us? She was that way to strangers when we lived together, but not us. Unless…of course. We’re strangers.
She stopped, her back to the caravan. Reaching into the small pouch that always hung around her neck, she brought out the thread with its four equally spaced lumps. Sandry turned it around in her fingers, handling each lump, feeling each familiar bit of magic. Maybe we were this cord once, but for now it’s only a symbol, she thought wearily. A symbol of four children. Now we’re four adults who have become strangers. I have to get used to that. I have to get used to it, and think of ways to make us stop being strangers once and for all.
She sighed, and returned the thread circle to its pouch. And how will I do that? I have no notion in the least.
3
The 27th day of Goose Moon, 1043 K. F.
Twelve miles outside Dancruan,
Capital of the Namorn Empire
If Chime had not seen a magpie in the meadow and given chase—she had developed a furious dislike of the vivid black-and-white birds on their way north—the four would have quietly entered Dancruan as part of Third Caravan Saralan. Their arrival would have followed the structure of diplomatic propriety. They would have been introduced to the court as so many others were introduced, as part of the summe
r flow of guests from abroad. Instead, not long after the caravan emerged from the shelter of Mollyno Forest, the magpie flew at Chime and smacked the glass dragon with its wings, plainly outraged by Chime’s very existence. Chime voiced a scraped-glass shriek of rage and gave chase over a nearby meadow.
“Tris!” yelled Briar. “Do something!”
“She’ll be back,” replied Tris calmly. She turned a page in the book she was reading as she rode.
The sun inched higher in the sky, with no sign of Chime. Sandry finally sighed and found Saralan’s ride leader. “You’d best go on ahead,” she told him. “I know you have ships to meet at the docks today. Business is business.”
“I don’t like it,” said Daja behind her. “It’s not what’s due to your consequence, entering Dancruan with just us for company.”
Sandry giggled. “As if I cared about such things!”
“You should,” the ride leader told her soberly. “You will find they care about it very much at the imperial court.” He raised his staff and galloped to the front of the caravan, voicing the long, trilling cry that was the signal to move out. Everyone who had gotten down from horses or wagons to stretch their legs took their places once more. The caravan rolled on without their four guests: Traders kept their good-byes short, to avoid the appearance of owing anything to those they left behind. Sandry had always liked that philosophy, but then, the nursemaid who had practically raised her had also been a Trader. Now she and her friends waved their farewells to their companions.
As the last wagons and herds left them behind, Sandry felt a weight fall from her slender shoulders. While she had enjoyed riding with the caravan, she was glad to be rid of the witnesses to the squabbles that had continued all the way here. Now, with the Traders out of earshot and the other three silent, she heard actual quiet. Only birdsong and the whiffle of the wind passing over acres of meadow grass met her ears. Mages were accustomed to time alone. That had been scarce on the long trip north.
Enjoy it while it lasts, she told herself, filling her mind with the jingle of bridles and the shush of moving air. Once we get to Dancruan, things are bound to be noisy. Music, politics, gossip. It’s bad enough when Uncle receives his nobles. I hear my cousin’s court is much larger and, unlike Uncle, she holds her court all year round.
She turned her horse in order to look at her brother and sisters, wondering yet again how they would fare—how she would fare—in a sophisticated place like the imperial palace. Briar had unsaddled his horse and flopped onto the meadow grass, his bronze face turned up to the sun. He had even taken his shakkan from its traveling basket and set it on the ground, more like a pet than a plant. All the grass around him was in motion, straining to touch him or the shakkan without blocking the sun that fell on their two new friends.
He isn’t frowning, thought Sandry, amazed. I don’t think I’ve seen him without a hint of a scowl since he came home. When he’s like this, if he weren’t my brother, I’d even find him handsome. Certainly the Trader girls seemed to think so!
When someone blew a horn in the distance, Briar stirred to glare at Tris. “You know where your monster is. Will you kindly get her back here?”
Sandry looked at Tris, who had remained in her saddle to read. The redhead turned a fresh page of her book and did not reply.
Briar sighed his exasperation. “We could be eating midday by now.”
“I was enjoying the quiet,” Sandry remarked mournfully. She looked at Daja. “Weren’t you enjoying the quiet?”
Daja, who had dismounted to practice combat moves with her Trader’s staff, brought the long ebony weapon up to the rest position, exhaled, then looked up at Sandry. “I’m staying out of this one. So should you,” she advised Sandry. “Otherwise, they’ll start a quarrel with us when they get bored of fighting with each other.”
“I’m not quarreling,” Tris said mildly. “I’m reading.”
“Girls,” Briar said with disgust. “Aggrimentatious, argufying—”
“Is it that you learned too many languages, and so you must mangle the ones you have?” Sandry asked, curious.
Tris closed her book with a snap and freed a braid from the coil at the back of her head. “Chime’s coming. She’s being chased by riders,” she said, thrusting her book into her tunic pocket. “Nobles. There are falconers far behind them. I suppose they were hunting.” She scowled. “Right now they’re hunting Chime.”
Daja walked over to stand next to Sandry, leaning on her staff. “The wind’s blowing toward us. Tris could just be hearing them,” she remarked. “Except how would she know about the falconers? I think she’s seeing things on the wind, these days.”
Sandry looked at Tris. The breeze came out of the north, making Tris’s braids stream back from her face. “Don’t be silly,” replied Sandry. “Even her teacher can’t do that, and Niko’s one of the greatest sight mages in the world. Most of the mages who try to see things on the wind go mad.”
“But now and then, one has to succeed,” Daja murmured. “Otherwise there wouldn’t be stories of those who can do it.”
“Stop gabbing and move,” ordered Briar. He saddled his horse and Daja’s with a speed none of the girls could match. “You want whoever is coming to catch you on the ground?” He swung himself into his saddle and took a cloth-wrapped ball from the pocket of his open jacket. Just to vex him, Daja spun her staff lazily around in her hand until it rested on one of her shoulders. Only after she had carefully holstered the length of wood did she gracefully mount her horse.
Over the nearest rise in the ground came Chime, the sun glinting in darts of light from her wings. Seeing them, she voiced her grating alarm screech and sped up. Shooting past Tris, she stopped herself by tangling her claws in the back of the redhead’s tunic. Tris made not a sound, her eyes on the hill as Chime hid behind her.
Like Tris, Sandry focused on the crest in the ground and the party of riders who surged over it. She was quick to note that their hunting clothes and horses’ tack alike were edged in gold and silver embroidery, the work of countless hands. They were accompanied by guardsmen, business-like warriors in leather jerkins sewn with metal plates, worn over full-sleeved red shirts and baggy pants. The guards wore round armor caps and held crossbows on their laps.
“Is this your witch-thing, peasants?” demanded a big, handsome young man as the hunting party came within shouting distance. “It ruined our sport! Drove off every grouse and wood pigeon for miles!”
Daja asked her friends, “Did he say ‘peasants’?”
Briar looked over his shoulder at her. “He definitely said ‘peasants.’”
“Someone needs spectacles.” Tris pushed her own spectacles higher on her nose.
Sandry crossed mental fingers. For the first time since they had reunited, they sounded as they once had at Discipline cottage.
A woman rode forward, past the man who had shouted at them. Four of the guards and another richly dressed man who glinted a magical silver trotted their horses to catch up with her. Briar whistled in soft admiration for the woman. Sandry couldn’t blame him. The lady was a splendid creature who wore her russet hair curled, coiled, and pinned under a bronze velvet cap in an artless tumble. It framed an ivory-skinned face, large brown eyes, an intriguing mouth over a square and stubborn chin, and a small, slight slip of a nose. Her clothing hugged a very shapely figure.
Eyeing the lady’s bronze velvet high-necked coat and wide breeches, Sandry felt a pinch in the place where she kept her pride in the clothes she made and wore. Lark warned me I’d get a dreadful case of style envy at the Namornese court, she told herself with the tiniest of sighs. There’s just something to this lady’s garments that gives them the, the sauciest look. And what I wouldn’t give for a nice, close look at those lapel and seam embroideries! I can see a few magical signs to ward off injury and enemies, but I think there are others, ones I don’t recognize.
Remembering her manners, Sandry met the lady’s amused eyes once more. This time she reali
zed there was something familiar about that beautiful face. Among her family heirlooms Sandry had portraits, including those of her mother’s parents. This woman looked very much like Sandry’s grandmother. Belatedly the young woman realized who she must be. Blushing deeply, Sandry dismounted to curtsy deeply to her cousin Berenene dor Ocmore, empress of Namorn. Briar was next to dismount, followed by Tris and Daja. As Tris curtsied, Briar and Daja bowed, as befitted a young man in breeches and a Trader in leggings.
Berenene rode forward until her mount stood a yard from Sandry. “Look at me, child,” she said in a voice like warm music.
Sandry obeyed. From the way the empress’s horse shifted, the woman was startled, though that beautiful face showed not one drop of surprise. “Qunoc bless us,” Berenene whispered, naming the west Namornese goddess of crops. “Lady Sandrilene fa Toren? You are the image of your mother.”
Sandry would have argued—her mother had not possessed a button of a nose—but arguing and empresses did not mix. “I’m honored, Your Imperial Majesty.”
The empress looked their company over. A slight crease appeared between her perfectly arched brows; the tucked corners of her mouth deepened. “But where is your entourage? Your guardsmen, your ladies-in-waiting? Do not tell me you came all the way from Emelan with just these few persons.” She looked at Tris and Daja. “Unless these young women are your ladies?” Her tone made it clear she believed they were nothing of the sort.
“These are my foster-sisters, Your Imperial Majesty,” Sandry replied, still deep in her curtsy. Tris’s was beginning to wobble. “And Briar is my foster-brother. We traveled with Third Caravan Saralan—”
The empress cut her off. “Traders? Where are they now?”
“We sent them ahead,” Sandry replied. “We needed to rest, and they had a ship to catch.”
The empress leaned forward, resting her arm on her saddle horn. “All of you, please rise, before the redheaded foster-sister falls over,” she commanded. Tris blushed a deep plum color as she rose. Daja and Briar straightened.