“Shut up,” Tris ordered softly as her fistful of wind dropped a coil of rope in her outstretched hand. “You annoy me.”

Briar opened the other closed door in the room. The scent of salt and drops of spray struck his face. He looked back at Tris. “It’s a cove tucked under the cliff.”

Tris set about binding one guard’s hands. “So that was the plan? Escape with her by boat?” When he said nothing, she gave the rope a hard yank. “We don’t need both of you,” she pointed out.

Would you really? Sandry asked. She could see all this through her friends’ eyes. Would you really kill one, when it’s Fin who’s to blame?

They don’t know that, snapped Tris. She took away his lightning collar and shoved the man onto a chair. As she tied his legs, Chime flew to his shoulder. To make sure he didn’t kick, the dragon gripped his shirt collar with her hind paws and his nose with her forepaws. She leaned into his face and silently hissed, her curved glass fangs within an inch of his eye.

“Yes—by boat,” said the talkative man. He stood perfectly still, sweat dotting his forehead in large beads. “Up the coast to a place where my lord has a cart and household troops waiting.”

“They’ve got a long wait, then,” Briar said, shutting the door to the cove. “Now, let’s see about this box.” He went over to it, running his hands over the iron straps that held the top in place.

“You can’t open it,” said the talkative guard as Tris tied his arms, then removed the lightning collar. “Bidis Finlach has the key!”

“Locks are for the unimaginative,” said Briar, placing his hands on the wood of the box. “Unless they’re artists, of course. Normally I’m all for art…” He fed himself into the wooden boards. They were new, as they had to be to take the magic that had been placed inside them, all relatively young and plump boards, not long off the tree. Briar called that green life to him, yanking it from the wood, leaving them dry, wizened, and shrunken. The box fell to pieces. Briar caught the iron straps to keep them from hitting Sandry. Once they were safely put aside, Briar helped her to her feet.

She stood, her eyes watering in the sudden light. Once her vision cleared, she lunged for the open stairway door and nearly toppled. Briar held her as her legs cramped and her wounded feet refused to take her weight. He looked around for more linen to use as bandages. Not finding any, he took off his belt knife and swiftly cut off the surly guard’s coat. Raising his knife, he was about to remove the man’s shirt when it simply dropped off his body in pieces, the seams unraveling in the blink of an eye. Briar looked at Sandry, whose eyes blazed with fury.

“Thanks,” he said casually. He smiled pleasantly at the guard, who was now shirtless in the chilly room. “Hope you don’t catch cold.” He gathered up the pieces of shirt and began to tend to Sandry’s feet.

Tris was calmly undoing two thick braids. “I am not climbing those stairs back up. None of us are.”

Briar looked at her, astounded. “What did you think we’d do, Coppercurls, fly?”

She smiled evilly at him as the sea door blew open. “It’s a trick I learned in Tharios. And it’s much quicker than climbing.”

Sandry hugged herself. She was a tangled, rumpled mess, but now that she was in the light, she was ready to do battle. “What if I don’t want to go back to my room like a good little clehame?” she demanded, her voice shaking with her rage. “What if I would rather talk to my dear cousin Berenene about the behavior of one of her male subjects?”

Tris nodded. “I can take us to the imperial wing easily enough. It’s like standing on a moving platform, the way I shape the winds, only you can’t see the platform.”

“Do it.” Sandry stumbled out through the sea door.

Tris looked at Briar as Chime flew over to her shoulder. “You two have to hold on to me, and promise not to squeak.”

Briar shook his head. “The things I do for my sisters,” he said with a sigh. He waved at the two captives. “We’ll try and remember to send someone for you boys, don’t you worry!”

Berenene looked out at her court, deeply dissatisfied with this night. True, her lumpish cousin from Lairan had been suitably awed by her splendor, and would report to his king that Namorn was, as ever, glorious and overpowering in its generosity. He was disappointed not to meet Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren, but understood that even the best healers in the empire could not erase the damage of a fever in an afternoon. Berenene had assured him that she would invite him to a private dinner: “just our family,” she had told him, “when Clehame Sandry is herself again.” It was beautifully done, with Isha to confirm the lie. No one but Ishabal, Fin, and the servants who had gone to find the girl knew the truth, that she had vanished. Fin had said, with a casualness that made Berenene want to slap his handsome face, that he assumed Sandry had gone to the ball with other friends.

“You are very casual about the fate of a woman who could make you rich and powerful,” she had accused. He had begged her pardon, with such polished innocence that she had half-wondered if he had not arranged to kidnap Sandry tonight. She immediately dismissed the idea. Fin was not fool enough to stage such a thing within the walls of the palace, which was sacrosanct. No one would risk that.

At least Sandry was not with Shan. Berenene had seen to that, and had kept him at her right hand all night. He’s spent too much time out of my view lately, and too much of it has been in Sandry’s company, she told herself now, eying his muscled body sidelong as he watched the dancers. I like a man with spirit, as long as it isn’t too much spirit. Quen never gave me so much trouble when he was my official lover.