“Spirits would be fatal. They destroy concentration and reflexes.”

At least that made sense. She leaned on the railing and stared at the valley in silence. Yarrun, too, was quiet, letting his eyes roam from east to west. She peeked at him once and noticed that he trembled slightly. His stimulants? she wondered, then shrugged the question off and turned her face into the wind.

The sun inched its way down the sky, bound for the mountains. Already in the west a rim of shadow draped itself over the toy figures of the twin watchtowers and the cut that led to the glacier valley. She could see the specks that were Rosethorn and other workers on their way out of the saffron terraces. On the forest’s edges the boys and men who bared strips of earth to serve as firebreaks chopped and dug, trying to expand the gap between the oncoming grassfires and the trees.

Yarrun was restless. He walked to the far side of the platform, but stayed only a few minutes before he returned.

“Can I ask something?” Daja inquired. The worst he could do would be to order her off the platform.

“Ask what you please,” he replied absently, staring at the firebreaks. “I can’t promise to answer, of course.”

Adults! Why were they always so complicated? Daja made a face. Since his back was to her, Yarrun didn’t see it. “Why did you say that to Niko, the first night we were here?” she inquired. “That he could do nothing to stop the fires? What did he do to you?”

The man took another turn around the platform, strolling all the way around its rim. He was quiet for so long that she believed he wouldn’t answer. She was thinking perhaps she ought to go inside when Yarrun said, “You are young. Young, and gifted with unusual magics. You are to be congratulated.”

Congratulated? Daja thought of Briar, grieving over burned crocus bulbs in private. What about Tris, who woke screaming three nights in four with dreams of slaves drowned when she had turned lightning on the ships they rowed? Or Sandry who carried a rock spelled to hold light with her all the time, because she was terrified of the dark? What about Daja herself, trangshi forever?

With no idea of the thoughts that raced through her mind, Yarrun continued, “People like you and Niklaren Goldeye will never be just another mage. You will never work day in and day out at ordinary spells—never mind that our world cannot do without spells to keep food from spoilage, or spells to hunt down criminals. Ordinary mages live in shabby rooms. They scramble for money to pay for rent and supplies. And the moment someone like Goldeye comes to town, no one has time for you anymore. You aren’t as interesting as he is—you aren’t as famous. You just do the spells to ward off pickpockets, and keep plumbing and chimneys from clogging.”

She was sorry she had asked.

Yarrun wasn’t done. “I worked for twenty years after I left the university, traveling constantly, trying to become one of the great ones. Why not? I was good. It was simply a matter of finding the right spells, and the right patron. Every time my father wrote, it was ‘When you stop deluding yourself and want a real job, come home.’ Finally, I did. I came home, to put out fires in north Emelan. And here I am, working magic few others have the talent for, while my lady seats Niklaren Goldeye at the uppermost table, and me with him. My usual place, when no great mages visit, is just above the salt, with the chamberlain and the steward.” He drank from his flask and smiled bitterly. “Now you regret that you asked.”

“Not at all,” Daja lied firmly.

Yarrun upended the bottle—only a few drops fell to the platform. “I must refill this. Were I you, I would pray that no one comes to think smith-magic is ordinary, or you will learn to your sorrow I am right.” He left her there and went inside.

Daja nibbled a thumbnail. Wasn’t it foolish, to worry over fame? Was it useful, to fret about someone else’s magic? It was a thing you had or you didn’t, whatever Yarrun believed about learning just the right spells. And she would give it all up in a breath, to be Tsaw’ha again.

Turning her face into the smoky breeze, she let it blow Yarrun’s bile from her mind.

Sandry wove.

At first she knew what happened around her: Briar and Tris made ointment, Daja left and Lark returned. Someone fed Little Bear; she smelled the food. Shriek sat on the pole at the far end of the loom and chattered; when she didn’t feed him, the starling left. At last everything faded as she continued to work. She felt like a glass filled with light. Under her fingers the pattern wriggled, as if made of worms. Those were the magics, spilling out of control. They fought her grasp as she wove, but she refused to release them. They had run wild since the month of Mead: playtime was over.

What had happened? In one terrified moment, positive the stones around them would grind her, her friends, and their dog into paste, she had remembered her spinning lessons. It had made sense right then to gather the threads of their power and spin them together to make them stronger, to give them a way to fight the quake. And just look how things had turned out!

She had done this. It was only right that she set the magics right.

Here was Briar’s new thread, wound onto its own shuttle, not twined with the others as the first threads had been. He was anchored in the satiny mess on the left side of the cloth, in the area that had started out as his. Taking up the shuttle, Sandry concentrated on him. These days he smelled wonderfully of damp earth and herbs, of aloe, pine trees, and a tumble of flowers. Here a loop of silk caught his quick hands as he slipped a roll into his shirt-front, or balanced a knife on a fingertip. A shift of the light and she had his pale gray-green eyes under thin black brows. A ghostly hand tugged one of her braids, his favorite trick when she wasn’t looking. She reached the end of his stripe.