But the sergeant was right. Both strands of the harbor chain shone as if made of lightning. From the concealed naval ships beside the harbor entrance, she heard cheering.
Staring through the blaze across the entrance, as she might stare into a forge-fire to see if her metal was hot enough, Daja gulped. The illusion-storm was gone. A hundred yards from the outer chain lay rank after rank of ships, large and small, flying a blood-red banner.
On the decks of two ships in the front line, Daja saw crews working to arm catapults. “But they can’t see us,” she whispered.
“They’re aiming at something,” a soldier pointed out.
“Row for your lives, damn you!” the coxswain snarled. No one was bothering to be quiet now.
The catapults loosed. From their cradles flew two round black balls, one at the Harbormaster’s tower, one at the Tombstone. Each struck with a flash and a roar, followed by smoke, pressure, and rock splinters. She couldn’t see what happened to the one that hit the Tombstone. The other ball had missed its target. Instead it struck the invisible ship on the Harbormaster’s far side. The ship was visible now, with a vast hole in its deck, dead sailors everywhere, and flames shooting out of the hold.
7
Sandry turned over in bed and peeked at her front window. The sky was pearl gray—dawn was not far off. With a sigh, she burrowed deep into her pillow. The bells of the clock tower would clamor soon, but there was no harm in trying to get a little more sleep….
The air around her roared. Yellow flashes and roiling gray smoke filled her eyes; a strange odor, bitter and clingy, invaded her nose. There was pressure on her face, as if someone leaned on a pillow fitted over her eyes and cheeks. Tiny, hard things sprayed her. A line of pain scored her right cheekbone.
Gasping, she sat up. There was a loud thud in the attic, as if Tris had fallen out of bed. Across the main room, through Briar’s open door, she heard a flurry of curses.
What—? Daja, where—? all three clamored, speaking together in their minds.
Not now! came a sharp reply. Daja, it seemed, had other things to do just then. As if she cut it with scissors, the line connecting them to her snapped.
Sandry’s nose prickled. She sneezed once, twice, and groped for her pocket handkerchief. Her eyes cleared. There was no smoke or fire in the room.
Scrambling out of bed, she ran to Briar’s room. “Did you feel that?” she demanded.
He crawled out of what she called his nest, a mattress on the floor covered with a tangle of sheets. When he looked up at her, Sandry touched her scratched cheek: Briar sported a red weal at the identical spot. He frowned. “You, too?”
“What is going on here?” demanded Rosethorn, marching in. “Can’t you three even get out of bed quietly?”
“Didn’t you hear it?” Briar cried. “That—that boom, with the smell and the smoke!” He rubbed his eyes. “It pressed my head!”
Rosethorn’s fine brows slanted down in a scowl. “I heard a boom, yes. I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Something happened to Daja,” Sandry told her. “Where is she?”
“She and Frostpine went out an hour ago,” snapped Rosethorn. “And I had just gone back to sleep.”
“What’s the ruckus?” Lark inquired from her room.
“They think something happened to Daja,” called Rosethorn.
“She’s all right,” Briar said. “But something big’s happening, and she cut us off.”
Sandry had an idea. Returning to her room, she went to the shelf on which she kept her green spindle. Next to it was a circle of thread with four equally spaced lumps in it. During the recent earthquake, she had fixed her power and that of her friends to this thread, spinning magics like wool or silk, making them stronger. When they were done, the thread had become a circle. Now she picked it up, closed her eyes, and ran her fingers over the lumps, stopping at the one that cast the image of a forge-fire in her mind. She strained to enter the lump, Daja’s knot, knowing it should help her to see what was happening to her friend. The power was there, but the images it made in her mind were ghosts that vanished before she knew what they were.
“Briar?” she called, without opening her eyes. “Tris?”
“How did she know I was out here?” grumbled Tris.
“I think they heard you crash down the steps at the Hub,” Rosethorn said drily.
A rough hand closed over the one in which Sandry cupped Daja’s thread-lump. Green light played over the inside of Sandry’s eyelids. “What are we doing?” asked Briar.
“I think we can talk to Daja, or at least know what’s going on. We just need to reach—”
He fed his magic into hers without a thought. It was far easier than something normal like going to sleep, which for Briar always meant triple-checks of hidden weapons, one more pat for the miniature tree on his windowsill, a check of the food stashed under his pillow and in his clothes chest. His magic wanted to combine with Sandry’s. Intertwined, they strained, reaching along a thread of light that led toward a distant copper sun—and fell short.
A third, small, nail-bitten hand was laid over his and Sandry’s. With Tris they weren’t reaching. They were there, inside the copper blaze that was Daja in this use of their power. Now they saw as vividly through her eyes as they saw through their own.
Ranks of ships—war-galleys and smaller fighting craft—under a blood-red banner, were ranged behind a double chain that shone like white fire. Two round black balls arced up and away from catapults, one targeted on the Harbormaster’s tower, the other against the Tombstone. Each struck: flashes, roars, smoke. There was no way to see where the one aimed at the Tombstone’s watchtower hit. The other ball missed the Harbormaster’s tower, dropping behind to hit something. The roar, the flash: a wargalley that flew the banner of the Emelan dukes appeared, its invisibility gone. Its crew was screaming: a vast, fiery hole bloomed in its deck, and there were bodies everywhere.
Horrified, the three at Winding Circle yanked out of their joined hold. Sandry and Briar stared at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Tris swallowed hard, her face gray-green. Shouldering past Lark and Rosethorn in the doorway, she ran out the back.
Lark helped the pale, trembling Sandry to a seat. Briar sagged against the wall, rubbing his face. Rosethorn went out and returned with two cups of water. She handed one to Lark for Sandry, the other to Briar. He accepted it with a shaky smile and drank it dry. Smiling crookedly, she ruffled his hair.
“What happened to Tris?” asked Lark.
“We had a vision—a bad one. I don’t think she’s ever seen anyone killed before,” Sandry explained after a few mouthfuls of liquid.
“At least, not all ripped to pieces.” Briar shook his head.
“And you have?” Rosethorn asked, half smiling.
The smile vanished when his gray-green eyes met hers. “The Thief-Lord caught some kids that broke into his treasury once.” Briar cleared his throat, feeling as if he’d inhaled strange, unpleasant smoke. “But this was a weapon, I think. What kind of weapon does that?”
“Could you tell us what you saw?” Lark suggested. “Rosie and I are a bit in the dark, still.”
By the time they had finished describing what Daja had seen, Tris had returned. Everyone moved into the main room, taking seats around the table.
“Did you make it to the privy?” Rosethorn asked, getting some water for Tris.
The girl wiped her sweaty face on her nightgown sleeve. “Just,” she admitted, drinking half of the water. Taking off her glasses, she poured the rest over her head. “Was that battlefire?” she asked, running her fingers through her tangled curls. “I thought battlefire was like jelly and just burned.”
“It doesn’t sound like battlefire,” admitted Lark. “Had Daja ever seen this before?”
Looking at each other, the three children shook their heads.
“So it’s pirates after all,” Rosethorn said with a sigh. “And some new weapon. Time to start putting up burn ointments and wound cures.”
>
“If they’re at the harbor, they won’t come here,” protested Sandry. “Will they?”
“Even if they don’t come here—and they haven’t in recent memory,” explained Rosethorn, “medicines are needed for those who have to fight. If they break through the harbor defense …”
The females drew the gods-circle on their chests. Briar hesitated, then did the same. He didn’t think Lakik the Trickster and Urda would mind if he called on bigger gods for protection at a time like this.
When the dawn bell began to ring, they all jumped. Just as they were relaxing, they realized the bell was ringing triple strikes for each normal, single chime.
Lark and Rosethorn glanced at each other. “They’re calling in the outlying farms and villages,” Rosethorn said.
“Is that bad?” Tris wanted to know.
Rosethorn shook her head. “Not if there are pirates off Summersea.” Seeing the question in the children’s faces, she sighed. “The harbor has resisted a great many attacks. I suppose pirates always think they’ll be the ones to break into it, but often they just bottle up the entrances, so no one can go for help and so the fleet can’t get out. What they usually do is land farther out, to go for the farms and villages outside the city walls and Winding Circle. We can’t save the buildings, but we take in a great many people and animals.”
“Here?” Tris wanted to know, dismayed. “At Discipline?”
“Relax,” Lark told her. “The only time locals will stay here is if no young mages are living with us. They know youngsters aren’t always in control of their power.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway,” muttered Briar.
“My bird,” said Tris, and ran upstairs.
“How do you feel?” Lark asked Sandry, examining her eyes and pressing her wrist to the girl’s forehead. “I can’t believe you were able to work magic this soon.”
“I didn’t work it very well,” Sandry pointed out. “I needed Briar and Tris.”
Rosethorn got to her feet. Gripping Briar’s ear, she drew him along with her. “Come on, you,” she ordered. “We’ll set out breakfast.”
“Rest your palms on mine,” Lark told her student.
Sandry obeyed and closed her eyes. She felt something draw along her inner self, as if Lark teased a thread from a clump of wool. That bit of her tried to follow Lark’s call, stretching.
“You’re much stronger today than I expected,” Lark said at last.
“I felt awful, before we tried to see what was wrong with Daja,” admitted Sandry. “All wobble-kneed. My bones felt like overcooked noodles.”
“We did a powerful lot of work yesterday—nearly three hundred yards of linen between us. You should be limp today.” Lark tugged one of her own short curls, thinking for a long moment. In the kitchen half of the main room, Briar dropped a bucket on his foot and cursed loudly. “You may have drawn strength from your spell-thread when you contacted Daja,” Lark finally said. “It could be that, since the thread contains magic from all four of you, made stronger by the spin. I wish we had time to work with it and see what it really is. I wish we had time to examine where you children are now. I have a feeling you’ve all grown in power—which is interesting.”
Sandry gazed out the window, fiddling with the end of one honey-brown braid. “Does this mean I can work the same magic with you today? We could turn out more bandages.”
“Just fruit, I think, and bread, and honey,” they heard Rosethorn say. “It’s too hot for porridge.”
“I’ll say!” Briar agreed.
“Come into the workroom,” Lark said, getting to her feet. “We’ll set you up on a bandage-width loom for this morning. This afternoon, well, we’ll see.”
“I’m to learn real weaving?” Sandry asked, skipping as she followed Lark out.
Glancing back at her, Lark smiled. “At long last,” she replied.
Rosethorn put out tableware as Briar carried the fresh jars of milk, cream, and goat’s milk in from the front step, where they had been placed by the Hub’s kitchen staff. “I want you drinking milk today,” she ordered.
“I only like it on porridge,” he replied. “Elsewise, it’s catlap.”
“Then pretend you’re a cat,” she retorted. “It’s good for you.”
Briar stowed the jars in the cold box. “You ever been hit by pirates?” he asked. “Not here, I guess, since they never get in, but before?”
Rosethorn began to cut up bread. “My people are what Daja calls mud-rollers, over in north Anderran,” she said, naming the country just west of Emelan. “Too far inland for pirates. Our village was attacked by raiders, once.” She looked away, full lips tight. “Curse them. They raped my best friend, and left her like trash, because her face was scarred. They came for me, but my papa and brothers fought them off.”
Briar growled. “To do you like they did your friend?”
Rosethorn smiled bitterly. “No. I was too valuable. They wanted me to do green magic for them, instead of Papa. They lost five of their own before they understood how determined he was to hang onto me.”
“He musta loved you,” suggested Briar, handing the butter to her. The word “love”—it felt strange on his tongue.
“He did. He also loved the profit I made for the farm,” Rosethorn said, placing the bread on the table. “He was the richest farmer in our district, because of me. I didn’t see milk go into your cup.”
She never misses anything, no matter how I distract her, Briar thought gloomily, fetching the milk.
Tris came downstairs carefully, the covered nest in her hands. Its occupant was shrieking hungrily. “Is he sick?” she asked Rosethorn, holding out the nest with hands that shook. “Did I hurt him, is that why he’s crying?”
Rosethorn took the nest. “He’s hungry. Put some fresh goat’s milk on to heat.” Placing the straw-lined cup on the table, she lifted the handkerchief.
Briar, his fingers in his ears, stared at the bird. The young starling sat up very straight, beak wide open, shrilling at the top of his lungs. “Who’d’ve thought such a little animal would make so much noise?”
Little Bear, in what sounded like agreement, threw back his head and began to howl.
Sandry was just finishing breakfast, having eaten late after her first real weaving lesson, and Briar and Tris were cleaning the kitchen area, when horses clattered to a stop before the cottage gate. Ragged voices called for Lark and Rosethorn. The children ran after them, to see what was going on.
The squad of the Duke’s Guard that had gone to the harbor looked much the worse for wear. All of them were scratched, sweaty, and dirt-streaked, with tiny holes and tears in the maroon shirts and breeches that had been spotless that morning. Two dismounted to struggle with a limp body tied over a horse. A guard held the reins of that mount as well as another with a much bigger form draped over its saddle.
“Mila save us, what happened?” Lark demanded, rushing forward to look at Daja.
Rosethorn glared at the sergeant. “I want an explanation and I want it now.”
Briar shifted on his bare feet. The ground quivered. He felt roots—tree roots, crop roots, bush roots—straining in the ground. Rosethorn was upset. The plants wanted to go to her. Their eagerness to do it made the dirt tremble.
“They’re all right,” the sergeant told her tiredly. “But they did a big magic out in the harbor, the two of them, and now they can’t even sit a horse. Had to bring them like killed deer. The girl was asleep when we landed—I don’t think she even knows how we brought her home.”
A guard draped one of Daja’s limp arms around Lark’s neck. Sandry went forward and took Daja’s other side.
“She’s a trooper, this un,” the guard told them. “Acted her part good as a grown woman. Take care of her.”
Sandry beamed at him. “We will.”
As they bore Daja inside, Lark called over her shoulder, “Briar, get these soldiers a bucket of water.”
He raced to obey, now that Rosethorn was calmer
and the ground still.
Rosethorn went to the other lump. “Frostpine, too?”
The sergeant nodded, wiping her forehead with a weary arm. “We would’ve taken him home first. He insisted we come here and leave the girl with you, even if it was the longer ride from the harbor.”
“You may as well leave him, too. He doesn’t sleep in the Fire dormitory—he just has a dismal loft over his forge,” Rosethorn informed them. “We can look after him as well as Daja. Bring him inside.” Looking back, she saw that Tris was still there. “Tell Lark. We’ll put Frostpine in my bed for now.”
Tris obeyed. Lark had just finished putting Daja in her own room, on the ground floor, instead of trying to take her upstairs. She nodded when Tris said what Rosethorn had planned and opened the door to the other woman’s room. Tris peered inside, curious. There were plants by the rear window—the only other window looked into Rosethorn’s own shop and was shrouded by open shelves laden with clay dishes. There was a small altar in the corner, a clothes chest, a desk, and a bed. It was all plainer even than Tris’s room. Does Rosethorn care about anything but plants? she wondered.
But she knew that was wrong. Rosethorn cared about Briar, and Lark, and birds. Maybe she was even beginning to care about Sandry, Daja, and Tris herself. If she thought about it, Rosethorn hadn’t really barked at any of them—not painfully, as she had when the children had first come to Discipline—since the earthquake.
“You see?” Lark murmured. “No bloody hooks in the ceiling—not even a skull anywhere.”
Tris blushed. She had been wondering something like that.
“In here,” Lark called, waving to the guards who half dragged the unconscious Frostpine between them. Tris stepped out of the way.
As the guards passed her with their burden, the girl’s sensitive nose picked up a funny odor: smoky and bitter at once. It was a familiar scent, but where did she smell it before? It was a heavy reek that clung to Frostpine’s and the soldiers’ clothes alike.
Curious, Tris went to Lark’s room to see Daja. Sandry wrestled with one of the Trader’s shoes. Tris helped with the other, sniffing the air as she did. Daja, too, was covered with that smoky odor.