Far below, the fire in the dead tree went out.

“Aha!” he bellowed. “And again I have done it! While—”

Mutely the duke nodded to a spot west of the original blaze, on the edge of the thin groove of the road. Smoke rose there. Yarrun pointed to it and shrieked something; the smoke blew apart. Nearby an oak, its leaves turning color, showed darts of flame. Yarrun pointed and spoke again; the fire vanished.

New smoke rose in four places close to the original blaze at the dead tree. Yarrun dealt with two. When he addressed the third, his voice was nearly gone. He staggered, pointed, opened his mouth to speak—and collapsed. Frostpine caught him and lowered him gently, turning his body so his face was visible.

Blood ran from one nostril, slowed, and stopped. Yarrun’s eyes were open; the veins in his left eye had burst, turning the white a dull crimson. He was dead.

Rosethorn knelt beside him and closed his eyes with her fingers.

“We’re in trouble now,” whispered Briar.

Lady Inoulia leaned over the battlement to stare down at the forest. The dead tree was burning again; so were many green trees around it. Half a mile from the east side of the road smoke rolled through the leafy canopy. It formed a mile-long dark band from the spot where they’d first seen it to a point near the castle. “Can you put it out?” she demanded, without turning away from the view. “I know this isn’t your kind of work, Master Goldeye, but—so many mages—can’t one of you stop it?”

“One of us tried,” Rosethorn said flatly. She still knelt beside Yarrun. “You saw the result. I warned him what happens when these things get started. I’ll tell you now—it’s too late to put the fire out.”

Inoulia, confused, turned to look at Rosethorn. “What do you mean? It’s never too late to stop a fire—”

“This fire has burned for hours,” Frostpine said quietly. “The longer it goes, the more force it gathers. Nature is slow to begin, but once she does, her works have their own hard power. Any mage who tries to command that fire like Yarrun did will die.”

Inoulia clenched her hands. “The village,” she said abruptly. “They’ll be trapped.” Raising her skirts, she raced down the stairs, her servants following.

Niko and Lark traded quick looks. “Stay here,” Niko ordered the three young people. When they nodded, he and Lark followed Inoulia into the castle.

“Yarrun died for her,” Sandry remarked bitterly. “Doesn’t she care?”

“Grief must wait until her people are safe,” the duke told her. “That comes first.”

“Then grief may have a long wait,” Rosethorn said. She hugged herself, her face gray. “The fire’s going into the crowns of the trees.”

Frostpine, who still held Yarrun, glared at her. “What does that mean?”

“It’ll speed up,” Rosethorn wearily explained.

“I had best see what I may do for Inoulia,” said the duke. He kissed Sandry, and left them.

Briar, Tris, and Sandry rushed to the battlement. The treetops were ablaze. As they watched, the fire jumped the road in three places, catching hold on the other side.

“Daja’s there!” cried Sandry, horrified. “Daja, and the caravan!”

At first Daja had ignored the thickening smoke. She was too busy watching the wagons and listening to the rise and fall of Trader voices from the road ahead.

“I’ll be glad to see the last of this place,” remarked Polyam after a burst of coughing. “The grassfires weren’t so bad, the last time we came here. Old Yarrun is losing his touch.”

“Not to hear him tell it,” replied Daja.

Polyam snorted. “Four years ago, six, he wouldn’t have let even grasslands burn. He took it as a matter of pride that he could stop any blaze in the valley. Once he accused the cook of giving him the nobles’ leftovers for his midday? He stopped all the fires in the kitchen. Nowhere else—just the kitchen. That’s how much control he had.” She looked sidelong at Daja. “I hope you and your friends don’t go all prideful like that. So many do—mages, that is.”

“We make too many mistakes to get prideful,” Daja assured her. Something was bothering her. The exposed skin on her left felt tight and stretched, as if—

As if I was at the forge and working close to the fire, she realized. As if I was really, really hot.

Balancing herself one-handed on Polyam’s shoulder, ignoring the woman’s protest, she stood on the driver’s bench and turned her nose into the wind. It came out of the east, to her left, along with the worst of the smoke and that feeling of too much heat. She sent her magic out in a widening arc, like ripples on a pond.

The knowledge of fire roaring out of control smote her chest, making her stagger.

“This is no time for trick riding!” snapped Polyam. “What are you up to?”

Daja sat. “How much farther till we’re clear of the woods?” she demanded. “I don’t remember how long this part of the road is. Polyam, quick!”

“Another three miles, give or take. Why?” Polyam coughed as thick coils of smoke rolled across the sunken road.

We’ll never make it, Daja realized. “We have to go back. There’s still time.”

“Go back? Whatever for?” Polyam was barely able to speak for coughing.

Daja! cried Sandry’s voice in her mind. Make them turn around! The forest is burning!