Here she felt wonderful. Nature roared and thrashed around her, making her rages and tears alike seem meaningless. It was grand to let them go, if only for the time spent out in the weather.

Looking at the choppy seas before her, she noticed dim shadows cast on the white-capped water. Where did the light come from? Even the torches wouldn’t burn in this. Turning, she saw nothing at eye level, but something bright drew her attention up the length of the main mast. There, at the top, dim light balanced on the wood. It had to be Runog’s Fire, the ghostly flame that seamen believed was the lamp of the water-god, leading Runog to bless good ships or to sink bad ones.

Shimmering, the light reached an arm along the topmost yard, until she could see a glowing cross high overhead. A globe of fire leaped to another mast, clinging to its top. Tris laughed gleefully at the wonder before her.

As if it were a living thing drawn to the sound, the light trickled down both masts in glowing streaks, abandoning the upper reaches of the masts. Once it was close to the deck, it turned into balls the size of her head and jumped free. Unthinkingly Tris held out both hands, palms up, and caught the globes.

Her skin prickled. Each hair on her head rose. Her wool shawl gave off sparks. Then Runog’s Fire went out, leaving her to be just plain Tris again, with hair that frizzed even worse now, standing on end. She pawed at it in vain, trying to brush it flat before anyone came and saw.

A hand thrust a comb in front of her nose. Turning, she glared at Niko. “I suppose you were watching.”

“You told me yourself that’s what I always do,” he reminded her. “And in a sense you are right—I am always watching—though not for the reasons that you appear to expect.”

“Do you see a monster, like everyone else does?” she demanded, struggling to yank the comb through her bristling hair. “Am I someone who ought to be locked away?”

Coming over, he put a hand on her shoulder. “I see a young girl who has been very badly treated.” Try as she might, Tris could hear no pity in his voice. If she had, she might have struck him. “Anything that Winding Circle has to offer will be an improvement on what you’ve had so far.”

She thrust the comb into his hands and broke out of his light hold. “I need my brush,” she informed him, and went below. Inside her cabin, she sank down on the pile of her luggage, trembling. She knew it was stupid to hope that he was right—her hopes always got destroyed—but she couldn’t help it. Maybe Runog’s Fire was a sign that she was right to hope.

3

At Winding Circle Temple, in Emelan:

Sandry toyed with her fork, bored almost to tears. She wished that the servers would serve. If they did, the other well-born maidens at her table would refuse to chatter with full mouths, and her aching ears would get a rest. It wasn’t as if they ever said much that was of interest; all they spoke of were fashions and marriages. By now, after nearly eight weeks of their companionship, Sandry was sure that she was interested in neither.

All around her, the dining hall thundered; meals here were booming chaos punctuated by food. When quiet fell, starting near the door and spreading out, it came slowly.

“Oh, no—they let just anyone in here, don’t they?” Liesa fa Nadlen whispered to a friend. Sandry looked in the direction of Liesa’s well-bred glare.

A girl stood near the door, cup, platter, and eating utensils clutched to her chest. In her thigh-length tunic and leggings, both an eye-smarting shade of red, she could only be a Trader. She was big for a young girl, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted. Her skin was the color of the new, fashionable drink called chocolate; she wore her black hair in a number of short braids. Her lips were locked tight, as if to keep them from trembling.

“Hey, Trader,” a boy demanded, “who’d you rob today?”

“Whose baby did you kill to magic a wind for your sails?” called someone else.

“Find a seat,” ordered the dedicate who ran the dining hall, her voice sharp. “No one can serve until you have a place.”

Everywhere people spread their legs, or moved apart on benches, or placed books and packs beside them. They didn’t want a despised Trader at their table.

Sandry got to her feet. Liesa’s voice cut through her burning anger: “Lady Sandrilene! What are you doing?”

Sandry ignored the other girl and walked briskly across the room. The Trader was glaring at everyone, her chin up, the dark skin of her cheeks burning red. Only when the smaller girl halted before her did she look down.

“My name’s Sandry. Please join me at my table.” Seeing the other girl blink, guessing that she hadn’t understood, Sandry tucked a hand under the newcomer’s elbow and tugged her in the right direction.

For a moment, she thought that the Trader might refuse—she didn’t budge. Then she relaxed. “All right, kaq,” she muttered in Tradertalk. “But nobody will thank you for this.” She let Sandry pull her between rows of tables.

“If thanks was what I wanted,” Sandry replied in the same language, “I would be sad indeed. Since I don’t want it, I won’t miss it.”

The black girl stiffened. Finally she said, “Your accent is terrible.”

Sandry beamed up at her. “Yes—I know.”

“We don’t want her with us,” protested Liesa when they reached the nobles’ table.

Sandry looked down her button nose at the other girl. “She is my guest,” she said flatly. “She—what’s your name?” she asked in Tradertalk.