Daja’s heart thumped at the sight of those walls of flame. She leaned against the last cart—the one that held her iron vine—shuddering. I can’t, she thought. I can’t! This will kill me, and for who? Them?

She looked at the caravan, her eyes watering. I’m trangshi. They keep telling me so. They’d be happier if I was dead. If they survive this, the first thing they’ll do is put the whole caravan through qunsuanen.

Polyam had caught up to her. She slumped against the wood beside Daja, panting. “I wouldn’t blame you if you left us to burn,” she croaked, her voice thick with smoke. “We only did what our people have always done, but Tsaw’ha custom is cruel when you’re on the wrong end of it.”

Daja wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Inside, where her power was, Frostpine, Niko, and her friends were silent. They weren’t the ones who would be the path for all the magic that was needed here. It was her body at risk, not theirs. If she backed off now, they would never hold it against her. Any one of them, in her place, might die of this working, and they all knew it. It was Daja’s choice.

She looked again at the caravan. This time she saw the faces of her own family, drowned long months ago. Chandrisa could have been her mother, the ride leader her father. For each adult and child she could name one of the dead: her brother Uneny always trying to get out of work; mean Aunt Hulweme; Cousin Ziba, who loved to sing. Her little sister, only nine, in her first month aboard ship; her grandmother, seventy-three and toothless, still cooking for their crew.

All that thinking she did in a breath’s time. All that memory: it raced through her like a speeding bird.

“Water,” she croaked.

Polyam gave her a skin bottle. Daja gulped a few mouthfuls down, then poured the rest over her face and head. She’d never had a chance to save Third Ship Kisubo. Maybe she couldn’t save Tenth Caravan Idaram—but at least she could try.

She had left her staff in the cart when she’d gone to the head of the caravan. Now she picked it up, running a hand over its smooth brass cap. Leaning on it, she walked into the center of the road and faced the blaze. Its advance on her—on the caravan—had slowed. Some huge trees in its path were refusing to burn, as did the bushes and saplings around them. Magic filled the plants, turning the flames back from bark and leaves.

Rosethorn, she realized. Rosethorn was saving the plants and giving her a chance to think.

The weavings seem to work the best, Niko told her in mind-talk. This is no time to experiment.

Despite her fear, Daja had to grin. “When you’re right, you’re right,” she muttered.

No one in the road asked who she was talking to. She looked around: all of them, even Polyam, had retreated. They had left her to face the blaze alone.

What did you expect? she asked herself ironically. Gratitude?

Closing her eyes, she fell into her power’s core, plummeting like a dropped hammer. She reached out to gather all she had, pulling it close, shaping it as the right tools for her needs. The others’ magic combined with hers as copper and zinc melted to create brass. She swirled Tris and Niko and Briar together, shaping them. To stop this fire, Daja would have to pull it into one great column—there was no time to break it into smaller ones.

I told Rosethorn to ditch the little plants, Briar said matter-of-factly. She won’t give up the trees, though.

Daja opened her eyes. Here came the fire, roaring between the giant trees like some monster, like an earthquake heard deep underground.

Help me, she thought, not sure if she spoke inside her magic or not.

We are here, replied Niko, Briar, and Tris.

Turning left, Daja reached out one-handed and shoved the onrushing fire toward the strip of road before her. Turning right, she stretched out magic and hand and pushed that side of the wall of flame in. Left again, and push. Right again, and push. Narrower and narrower grew the blaze, leaning toward the middle, thrust by four mages’ combined power. At last she could move it no further.

Taking a deep breath, inhaling as much smoke as air and pulling strength from it, Daja flung her arms apart as far as they could go, then swung them back together. The closer her palms got, the more resistance she felt as she squeezed the edges of the blaze together.

Sweat rolled into her eyes, stinging unmercifully. She shook it from her skin and checked both sides one last time, to make sure she had gathered every bit of fire she could. Except for the magic glow in the largest trees, all she saw on either side was charred wood and smoke. Right in front of her roared a tower of fire.

Now she made her power into a gigantic hammer and struck the blaze hard. It flattened. She glimpsed openings between strands of flame.

“Not good enough!” she cried. She struck it again.

Something groaned. She didn’t dare look away from that huge column of fire to see what was wrong, no matter what. The blaze was too furious; it would break from her grip the moment she got distracted. Again and again she struck, hammering the fire, trying to break it into the many strands she needed to weave it.

I don’t feel right, a weak voice said—it belonged to Tris. I feel … hose. Floaty.

With a bellowed crack, the flame-column broke free of the ground and swayed. It began to rise in the air.

Daja gulped. If it escaped, there was no telling where it would go and what damage it would do.

She raced after it. Seizing its base, she wrapped both arms around it and dragged herself into the column’s heart.

Fire was in her ears, her nostrils, her eyes. Her clothes turned to ashes. Her wooden staff vanished; the hot brass cap dropped onto her palm and melted, puddling there. If she screamed then, she never heard it over the monstrous roar. Her grip on Frostpine and Sandry frayed.