One eye on his teacher, Briar eased over to the table. Under the disapproving gaze of the servants he picked through a dish of berries. Sandry joined him, though she left the fruit alone.

“I can’t wait till we leave,” she murmured to him. “I’ve had enough of these people.”

Briar grinned and rested a berry on her lower lip. “Open wide,” he ordered.

Uh-oh, said a magical voice.

They turned to stare at Tris.

Uh-oh, she repeated. She didn’t seem to know that Briar and Sandry could hear. Uh-oh, uh-oh…

Stop it, Briar ordered in mind-talk as he and Sandry went to her. It’s idiotic and you’ll make us—crazy, he was about to add, but the sight below chased all thought from his mind. Billows of smoke rose in the eastern forest. They took shape not on the far rim or the southern edge, near charred grasslands and the firebreak, but at a spot a mile inside the woods.

“Someone’s burning leaves,” Sandry remarked flatly.

Flame raced up a lone, dead tree. Smoke eddied through the forest around it.

“Rosethorn,” squeaked Briar. He cleared his throat. “Rosethorn,” he repeated, louder this time. “Niko.”

Something in his voice brought Rosethorn at a run. “Sweet Mila of the grain. Yarrun!” she cried.

Everyone came over. Lady Inoulia gasped as the patch of smoke thickened, rising in a circle around the flaming tree. “Do something!” she ordered Yarrun.

He gave her a scornful look and fumbled in his belt-pouch. Producing a small, round bottle, he placed it on the stone rail. “Where did it come from?” he muttered to himself.

Niko stepped up beside him and briefly shut his eyes. The three young people shielded their own eyes as his power blazed out. Squinting, they saw that Niko had opened his eyes and was holding out his hands, palm up. A window opened in the air. Through it they saw, not pines and leafy trees, but limbs and trunks without greenery, and ground covered with masses of sticks and a glassy blanket. When they looked to the spot where the smoke had appeared, they could see that a dull orange glow lay under the glass blanket, spreading there like a stain in water.

The window vanished; Niko ceased to glow. “Rosethorn was right,” he said flatly. “Somehow fire got into the piled-up mast on the forest floor. I’m no specialist, but I would say this blaze has been growing for most of the day.”

“Impossible!” Yarrun brushed his hair back with a quivering hand. “I would have sensed it!”

Niko met his eyes. “Would you?” he asked evenly. “Even my students can tell you are exhausted.”

Yarrun bit his lip. “You want to see me fail.”

Niko continued to gaze at him, black eyes level, even kind. It was Yarrun who looked away.

Sandry grabbed Tris’s shoulder. Flames now appeared in the crowns of those trees circling the dead one. The smoke that rose from the ground there spread as the undergrowth caught fire. Impatiently Tris shook off Sandry’s grip and stretched a hand out to Yarrun. “Can you use my strength?” she asked. “I don’t know the spells, but—”

“I know them,” said Niko. “Good idea, Tris. Yarrun, you may have mine as well—”

“Gods rot you both!” shrieked Yarrun, his face dripping sweat. “I don’t need help!”

Hurt, Tris backed away.

Yarrun dumped a pile of glittering dust from his vial onto the stone rail. With a hand that shook he drew a circle in it, his lips moving. The dust began to rise, not as the breeze tugged it, but against the air’s motion. It hovered, then settled back onto the rail.

“I can do this,” Yarrun growled. It wasn’t clear whom he spoke to, and none of them replied. He scraped the dust into a small pile with the edges of his hands.

Stepping back, Niko used Briar for concealment as he reached behind the boy to pluck Tris’s sleeve. She looked at him with a puzzled frown while Briar, deadpan, gazed straight ahead. Niko pursed his lips and blew. Tris guessed that he wanted her to help Yarrun’s dust to reach the fire and nodded.

Yarrun nicked a vein in his left wrist with his belt-knife and let a few drops of blood fall onto the dust. Frostpine started to protest and stopped at Niko’s sharp gesture. The only sounds were the hiss of the wind and Yarrun’s hoarse, open-mouthed breathing. He swayed; when Duke Vedris moved to brace him, he shook the duke off.

Tris stepped back into the shadows beside the kiosk. Reaching into the breeze, she grabbed a fistful of moving air.

Again Yarrun drew a circle in the dust. This time the wet powder followed his finger in a trickle, as if he’d added more than a few drops of blood. He raised his hands, lips moving. The dust flowed into the open air, spreading until it formed a thin scarf.

Tris flung out her handful of trapped wind. It rushed from her grip, strengthened by its captivity, and pulled the scarf of dust away from the tower in its wake. Lady Inoulia and the duke felt the air’s passage and turned to stare at Tris. The redhead was leaning against the kiosk, her face to its stone wall, as if she were too afraid to watch Yarrun—as if she were too upset to have done anything. The lady turned her attention back to her mage. When Tris straightened and looked up, the duke still had his eye on her. Slowly he winked. Then he moved to the rail to watch the sparkling powder as it raced toward the smoke.

Now Yarrun was chanting, hoarse-voiced. His bony fingers cut the air, leaving trails of light for the mages to see. His voice climbed in volume; everyone stepped back from him as the power in his signs flew after the dust. Louder and louder he spoke, until the last three words were a scream. He dropped his hands, swaying.