“Lakik’s teeth, I’m burning!” growled Briar. He meant the pot of oil he’d left on the fire. He dashed to rescue it.

Daja built a new fire in her forge. Once it was burning nicely, she picked up five thin iron rods and set them to heat.

Tris returned to her pile of aloe leaves. When she lifted her knife, she saw her fingers were trembling. She didn’t like the sensation of her magic being pulled from her one little bit. It startled her to realize how much she’d come to take that blaze of power inside her for granted. Not even half a year had gone by since she’d first grasped it; now she wanted it more than anything else in the world.

Gritting her teeth, she picked up a leaf and began to cut.

7

That evening, Lady Inoulia’s big dining hall filled with talk of spreading grassfires, talk punctuated by coughs as occasional drifts of smoke came through the windows. All day long people had trickled into the castle, carrying their movable property in wagons or packs. While many were fed by an open air kitchen in the main courtyard, the important people, village headmen and artisans, dined with the castle residents. Sandry felt sorry for them and resentful, and was ashamed of her resentment. This summer she had seen too many refugees fleeing earthquake damage and pirate raids. She had hoped that, so far north, there would be no families driven from their homes.

She wished there was someone to talk with. On her left Lady Inoulia conversed with the duke. Niko, on her right, was speaking to Yarrun. Perhaps her friends …

Briar, Daja? she called silently. Nothing happened; they didn’t even look up. Tris?

The redhead was chatting with the kitchen boy next to her. If she’d heard Sandry’s mind-call, she gave no sign of it.

Frowning, Sandry touched the front of her dress, where the small pouch she wore on a chain around her neck lay hidden. The pouch held magical things, including a circle of thread with four lumps in it. It had been the first she’d ever spun, with a lump for each of them, a symbol of the way she had brought their magics together. With it under her fingers, she ought to have been able to speak to her friends.

Briar? Tris? Daja?

She felt no trace of magic, not in her call and not in the pouch. She was about to ask Niko what had gone wrong when she remembered the loom and her afternoon’s work. If ever she needed proof that she had bound their power into her weaving, here it was. She didn’t even have the thread circle’s magic to use. With a sigh, she returned to her dinner.

“Is Tris well?” Niko asked Sandry a short time later. “She’s coughing a great deal.”

“It’s the smoke,” replied Sandry. “I wish there was a way to screen it out. Has Uncle mentioned when we’ll be moving on?”

“No, but I would guess not for another few days at least.” Niko rubbed his eyes tiredly. “People from the smaller valleys along the Gansar border are expected to meet him here. We simply have to cope.”

Once the meal was finished, the duke and Lady Inoulia stood. The lady held up her hands, motioning for quiet. “Men and you boys of the household who are older than twelve, report to Emmit Steward. It is necessary to dig a firebreak along the edges of the forest. He will give you proper instructions and tools.”

People murmured anxiously. It was rare to create firebreaks—broad strips of bare ground that fire could not cross. Doing so now made everyone nervous.

“My friends, my friends!” Now it was Yarrun who motioned for quiet, one of his false-looking smiles plastered to his face. “You know me, as you knew my father before me. Have we ever failed you? This is a precaution, nothing more.”

Sandry shook her head as she and Niko walked down to join Briar, Tris, and Daja. She would feel ever so much better if the person making such assurances were Niko, or Tris. It was hard to have faith in Yarrun. There was a lack of strength in his eyes, and his collection of humorless smiles made her skin crawl.

I hope Uncle isn’t just getting advice from him about these fires, she thought, offering Tris her pocket handkerchief. The redhead took it with a relieved smile and used it to cover a burst of coughs.

Frostpine had not come to supper. It was only after Sandry had returned to work—hooking the free end of her backstrap loom to a cedar chest—that he arrived in their rooms freshly bathed. A servant came in his wake with a tray of food.

“I don’t know what Tenth Caravan Idaram is doing,” he told the children, Lark, Niko, and Rosethorn in between bites of chicken. “At first all they wanted us to do was touch up some metal work—replace a wheel, mend some harness. Then, this afternoon—late this afternoon—they say they want everything gone over. Everything. Every buckle, every brass stud, every ring or bit or clasp in the caravan. It’s at least two more days work for Kahlib and me—his apprentice isn’t good for much. I was so late because we had to make sure he has the raw metal for the work. He sent his apprentice to Owzun Manor for more brass. Of course Kahlib’s happy as a”—he looked at Lark and grinned—”a lark. It’s a fortune to him. I just thought the Traders wanted to clear out soon, for—for silly reasons of their own.”

“Because there’s a trangshi here,” Daja remarked gloomily.

“But they changed their minds,” Frostpine pointed out. “I think they want something so much it’s worth being around a trang—”

He stopped. Briar had carried the iron vine over for him to see; Tris bore the attached copper plate. It was nearly half gone now, and the remainder was as buckled and rippled as if half melted. Now all the branches on the side of the vine closest to the plate sported copper buds.