“Because I like them,” Tris grumbled. “Because I have better things to do with my magic than fix my vision when ordinary glass will do.”

“Isha, what is this?” The empress, along with her court, Sandry, Daja, and Briar, had come to join them. “Your messenger said Viymese Trisana predicted a storm on the Syth.”

“And more, Imperial Majesty.” With a wave of the hand, Ishabal spread the zone of air along the walkway so the entire group could see the drama that unfolded miles away.

“Are you going to do something, Viymese Ladyhammer?” asked Tris, mindful of her manners now that they had company.

“This is not an area in which I have expertise, Viymese Chandler,” Ishabal replied. To Berenene, she said, “They won’t be able to escape in time, Imperial Majesty.”

“We’ll see about that,” Tris said. She hated making a scene. More than anything she wished the court would go back to its refreshments, but she was in no position to give orders. Those fishing crews were running out of time. She drew an east wind braid from the net at the back of her head and undid it, unraveling half. Berenene and Ishabal were forced to step back as wind roared around Tris, stirring dust and grit on the walkway. Tris turned up her smiling face into the air current as the wind tugged at her. Carefully, stretching out both arms, she pushed her wind out over the wall and through Ishabal’s spell.

Once it was in the open air in front of the cliff, Tris clung to lengths of the wind like reins, letting her magic stream through them into the billowing air. For a moment her grip on the wind shuddered as the air tossed, confused. Why was it starting in the south, it seemed to ask, if it was an east wind?

“Because I need you to go north first, then east,” Tris whispered to it. “Now, go. I’ll tug when you’re to take your rightful path. You have sails to fill and boats to send home.”

That satisfied her wind. It liked to fill sails. North it went, Tris keeping a light tension on her airy reins. She moved both into her right hand, then searched her head to find a braid with a hurricane’s force bound up in it. Unraveling only a third of it, she thrust its power north, straight at the onrushing storm. The lesser hurricane raced ahead of her east wind, spreading as it flowed high over the masts of the fishing fleet. Tris gave it a fresh shove north, then tugged on the east wind’s reins. The wind found its natural path at last, slowly, as Tris dragged on its reins, until it struck the limp boats’ sails with a strong punch. The sails filled to the cheers of the court, watching through Ishabal’s spell. The fishing boats scudded through the rough lake water, headed for the shore.

Tris ignored the fleet. She had released the east wind. All of her will was fixed on that quick-moving storm and its battle with her lesser hurricane, as the force she had turned loose fought to keep the storm from advancing. Sweat trickled down her round cheeks. Making even part of a hurricane obey was hard work, particularly when its biggest need was not to halt a storm, but to join in and help it along.

They don’t want me anymore, her east wind seemed to say. Now what?

Tris risked a glance at the fishing fleet. They had made harbor safely and were furling their sails as the ships drifted toward their docks.

“Thank you,” Tris murmured. She released her east wind, setting it free of any future claims. She could always braid up another. “Now for the interesting part.”

She let one end of her small hurricane feed into the storm. It plunged in gleefully. The storm, though, was another matter. If I let it loose, with my bit of hurricane in it, there’s no telling what other fleets or even villages it’ll destroy, she told herself. And I knew I couldn’t hook it with anything weaker than a piece of hurricane. Oh, curse it all. I’ll have to take the whole thing back in before it does any harm.

She took a deep breath, wishing she had a moment to pray. Quickly the hurricane struck sparks that turned to lightning as it wove itself among the thunderheads. Tris leaned on a stone merlon, letting it hold her on the wall, then reached with her magic to grip the hurricane’s tail. Sweating, she dragged on it with all of her strength, drawing it toward her as Sandry might draw a fine thread from a mass of wool.

Once Tris had brought that storm thread to her, she jammed the end into a coin from her pocket. Once it was secure, she twirled it until the thread of storm began to spin. All storms were drawn to spin, as Tris knew very well: The trick was in keeping them controlled, not allowing them to break free to become a cyclone or full-sized hurricane. Around the wind spun, dragging the storm into the funnel that ended in her thread. Out stretched the stormparts woven in with her bit of hurricane, twirling under Tris’s magical grip. She kept the air moving, shaping it as a fine web so that its natural strength could never overwhelm her once it reached her. If she had looked up, she would have seen the long funnel of cloud that stretched from the storm to her, narrowing until it became her thread.

On and on she spun, making the thread into a ball of yarn, a skill she drew from part of Sandry’s magic still mingled with hers. Finally she had turned the entire storm into a ball the size of her hand. She broke it free of the coin, then attached the ball to her partially unraveled hurricane braid. Eager to get out of her hold, the storm sprang into her braid, feeding itself into the many hairs as if it raced along a thousand streets. Once it was absorbed, Tris tied off the braid with a special ribbon that would hold no matter what, and tucked it back into the net with the other braids. Into her pocket went the coin.