Lark started to reply, and stopped. Then she grinned. "If things get desperate, that's exactly what I'll do."

"Can't the other weavers do this?"

Lark shook her head. "Not all of them are mages. Even for the ones who are, this takes a different way of thinking about magic from what they're used to. Your ideas about magic aren't set as yet. For you it expresses itself through weaving cloth as easily as through putting a spell on the cloth once it's made. This kind of thing also takes a very strong mage."

The novices returned with their tea and a tray of cakes, fruit and cheese - Dedicate Gorse, in charge of Winding Circle's kitchens, was sure that anyone who left his domain empty-handed would starve to death in short order. Lark sipped her tea, nodded, then told the novices to sit on their bench and be quiet.

Looking at what seemed like a half-ordered tangle of threads running north and east, Sandry winced. "I don't know if I can do it."

"Don't worry. I'll place the magical patterns within you. Clear your mind, and let the power follow the pattern steadily. Don't clutch at it, and don't let it run unchecked, or you'll have lumpy cloth. Watch the pattern as you work with it, so you can do it on your own later."

Sandry looked at her teacher and friend, her blue eyes deeply troubled. "Are you sure I can do it?"

Lark smiled. "It would surprise you, the things I know you can do. Now, clear your mind."

Sandry took a deep breath, fixing her mind on her lungs and nothing else, holding the breath as she counted to seven. Lark put the girl's hands where the spooled threads overlapped already-woven cloth, and covered Sandry's fingers with her own. When Sandry exhaled to a count of seven, Lark joined her, to breathe and hold and release as she did. The sounds of beating looms and weavers' chatter faded; the scents of lint, oregano and Ibrian broom flowers vanished; even their awareness of the intense heat faded. Sandry dropped into that calm with pleasure, knowing that she approached the source of her magic.

Lark was with her, holding what felt like a glowing net. If Sandry looked at it closely, it shifted under her gaze: first it seemed made of needles, then of cool liquid, then simple thread. Lark pressed it into her hands and her mind, where it sank deep into the girl. Gently Lark nudged her attention towards the materials under their hands. Unwoven threads began to wriggle and crawl, like tiny snakes. The long threads, that stretched over the seemingly endless wooden table, vanished into already-woven cloth. Peering more closely, Sandry could see new threads crawl along old ones like roses on a trellis. When they reached open, unwoven air, the other spools of thread waited to snag them. Together all of the threads began to dance, weaving in and out.

Now she saw where the feeling of needles, and healing liquid, came from. Visions of wounds - cuts, gashes, round holes - rose from the pattern to fill her mind and run through her fingers. The cloth she wove must weave flesh, too, closing painful openings with threads of new muscle and skin. Where something had been destroyed, her bandage would build new, healthy growth.

You're all set. Lark's voice rang in her mind. Make sure they keep to the pattern in the bandage we started with. One hundred threads to the square inch. A simple tabby weave: in-out, in-out, for just the width of the cloth, and back again. It's all right if you're slow at first. Just keep control of it like you would if you were riding a frisky horse.

I will, Sandry promised.

Lark drew away as Sandry continued to work. Her threads burrowed and twined together. Here, an inch from the original cloth, a double handful rushed into the same area like unruly children, working themselves into a gleeful knot. Sandry concentrated on them, nudging them apart, sending them in their proper direction, at the proper spacing for the weave. They fought at first, tightening their knot, but she refused to accept their rebellion. One at a time, she shooed them into their correct paths, until they were caught up in the overall rush of the weaving.

A distant part of her felt Lark start her own bandage. Later the novices replaced near-empty spools of thread with full ones, and rolled up the finished cloth. Sandry neglected even to thank them. Her attention was locked on the magic that flashed in and around her hands as the bandage grew, and grew, and grew.

Chapter Four

Tris's luck - and she wasn't sure that she wanted to call it that - was in. For the first time in days, Rosethorn was at Discipline, not somewhere else, when Tris brought her nestling home. She had to steel herself to enter Rosethorn's work room. She wanted to put it off, but her charge picked that moment to renew his frantic begging for food. Little Bear, lying gloomily beside the open door - Lark and Rosethorn had put charms in their shops to keep inquisitive puppies out raised his head and thumped his tail.

The quiet conversation in the workroom came to a halt. Then Rosethorn said, slowly and awfully, "I hear a baby bird."

Carefully Tris stepped around the dog and through the open door. "Niko said maybe you could help me?"

Briar was with his teacher; both of them stared at her. "Four-eyes, what happened on Bit?" asked the boy.

"Let me see," Rosethorn demanded, holding out a hand. Tris obediently passed over the nest. "I am not looking after birds," the dedicate continued. "Those twitterpated fidgets at Water tell me that unless I brew more decoctions and oil rubs there will be nothing short of disaster." Muttering, she shifted the handkerchief to look at the nestling as Briar and Tris rolled their eyes at each other. Rosethorn always talked scornfully of the Water temple dedicates, just as Lark did at times. Weeks ago the four had decided that Water and Earth in human beings simply didn't mix that well.