Tamora Pierce - Circle of Magic 1 - Sandry's Book

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Circle of Magic Book One - Sandry's Book
By Tamora Pierce
In the Palace of Black Swans, Zakdin, capital of Hatar: Blue eyes wide, Lady Sandrilene fa Toren
watched her near-empty oil lamp. Her small mouth quivered as the flame at the end of the wick danced and
shrank, throwing grim shadows on the barrels of food and water that shared her prison. When that flame was
gone, she would be without light in this windowless storeroom.
"I'll go crazy," she said flatly. "When they come to rescue me, I'll be raving mad." She refused to
admit that, with this room locked from the outside and hidden by magic, a rescue was hopeless.
"I'll draw the mob away from here, far away," Pirisi had whispered through the keyhole, speaking in
her native Tradertalk. "You'll be safe until the smallpox has run its course. Then I'll return for you." But her
nurse had never returned. Right outside the door, the mob had caught and killed her because she was a
hated Trader. With Pirisi dead, no one would even know where Sandry had spent her last days.
Her light wobbled and shrank.
"If only I could catch it in something!" she cried. "Like Trader-wizards catch the winds in their nets"
"A net is string," she interrupted herself. "And string is thread."
She had thread in the workbasket she had grabbed when Pirisi dragged her from her room. The
basket's contents had kept her from giving up completely before this, as she embroidered until her eyes
refused to focus. She had thread aplenty, in coils and in her work.
"I'm no mage," she argued, resting her head on one hand. "I'm just a girl; a noble girl, worse yet. Like
that maid said, 'Good f'r naught but to be waited on and to marry.' Good-for-naught, that's me."
Tears filled her eyes, making the lamp flame quiver even more.
"Crying won't help!" she snapped. "I have to do something! Something besides weep and talk to
myself!" She dragged her workbasket over. Fumbling, she yanked out three coils of silk, one green, one pale
grey, one bright red. Swiftly, she arranged them: one in her lap, one to her left, one to her right.
The light was down to a blue core and its wavering orange skirt.
Gathering the ends of the threads in her left hand, she pulled them together in a knot, tying it as
snugly as she could. Finding long dressmaker's pins in her basket, she pinned the knot to a barrel to anchor
it. Her fingers shook; sweat crawled down her face. She didn't want to think of what would happen if this didn't
work. Worse, there was no reason for it to work. Pirisi, the Trader and servant, had magic. Lady Sandrilene
fa Toren was good only to be waited on and to marry.
"Nothing to lose," she said, and took a deep breath. "Nothing at all." Aboard the Trader ships their
mimanders mage called to the winds as if they were friends who could be invited to stay. "Come on," she told
the dying flame. "Come here, won't you? You'll last in these threads longer than you will in that lamp."
That lamp guttered. The flame was gobbling the few drops of oil that remained in its bowl.
The girl started her braid. The green thread wrapped around her fingers like a strangling vine. The grey
slithered to the floor like a snake. The red tangled with itself.
"Uvumi patience. It is everything," Pirisi had often told Sandry. "Without patience magic would be
undiscovered; in rushing everything, we would never hear its whisper inside."
"Uvumi," Sandry whispered in Tradertalk. She straightened the threads, one on each side, one in her
lap. Closing her eyes, she found that she was much calmer when she couldn't see her work or the lamp. She
didn't really need to see, to do something as easy as a braid. In her mind, her threads gleamed brightly. They
called specks of light from all around her and tangled them in their strands.
The flickering lamp went out; she opened her eyes. The wick was dead and black. Through and
around her braid, light shone steadily, filling the room with a soft, pearly glow.
"Did I know I could do that?" she whispered.
The braid-light wavered.
"All right," she said, gathering the threads once more. "But I have to sleep, you know." She wiped
her eyes on her sleeve. With a whispered "uvumi," Sandrilene fa Toren went back to work.
In the southeastern Pebbled Sea: When she sat up and looked at herself, Daja thought she was a
ghost. Her skin was all sparkly white. Had an enemy mimander turned her from a brown Trader into a white
one? Why on earth would anyone do such a thing?
She ran her swollen tongue over cracked lips, tasted salt, and grimaced at her own foolishness. This
was no mimander's doing. It was what happened when a sea-soaked girl went to sleep and didn't wake until
the sun was high overhead. She brushed herself off, salt flakes dropping onto her makeshift raft. White grains
got into her many cuts and scrapes, where they burned like fire.
Her family ship was gone, sunk in a storm that their mimander could not stop or get rid of. The Trader
god, Koma, known for peculiar acts, had chosen Daja to be the only one left alive, floating on a square
wooden hatch cover.
All around her lay a spreading pool of wreckage. She saw tangles of rope and lumber, shattered
crates, smears of color that were precious dyes from the cargo. Bodies also drifted there, the silent remains
of her family. Daja's lips trembled. How long would it be until she joined them? Should she jump into the
water now and end it? Drowning was quicker than starvation.
Something thumped nearby: an open leather chest slammed against a mast. Again it thumped
against the wood as water swelled, then flattened beneath it. She could just glimpse its contents, some
bundles and dark glass bottles. It was what Traders called a suraku - a survival box. They were kept
everywhere on the ships. She had to get it, and she prayed that its contents weren't soaked or ruined.
Daja reached out. The box was beyond her grasp. She looked around for a long piece of wood to grab
it - with no luck. Water surged in another slow roll, and her raft moved away from the wreckage. The box
stayed behind.
"No!" she cried. "No!" She strained to grab that precious thing, though yards now lay between her
and it. "Come here! Come on, I-I order you!" She half-laughed, half-cried to hear such foolishness. "Come on,"
she whispered, as she had when she coaxed the ship's dogs to come to their food bowls. She was not very
old, after all - she did not want to die. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she reached out and twitched her
fingers as if she were beckoning to her pets.
Later she would wonder if she had just imagined it, being crazy with the sun and terrified of death.
Now she stared, jaw dropping, as the box pulled away from the mast and floated toward her. It stopped twice
along the way. Both times she wiggled her fingers, afraid to move anything else. Both times the box came
forward, until it bumped her hand.
Very, very carefully, she drew her prize onto the hatch cover. It was indeed a suraku, lined with
copper to keep the damp out and life in. The bundles were oiled cloth, to keep their contents dry. The corks
in the bottles had wax seals. Gently she felt through everything and grabbed a bottle. It took nearly all her
strength to wriggle the cork out. When it popped free, liquid sprayed onto her face. Fresh water! Greedily, she
drank most of that bottle before she came to her senses. If she guzzled it all now, there would be less for
tomorrow. She had to save it. She fumbled to put the cork back in. Inspecting the other bottles, she saw they
also held water.
"Thank you, Trader Koma," she whispered to the god of deals and rewards.
In the bundles she found cheese, bread, apples. She ate carefully, in tiny bites, as her lips cracked
open and bled. All thought of the future had vanished: for right now, she was gloriously alive.
The suraku lasted for three days, and might have kept her for two more if she ate less than ever. In all
that time, she saw no sign of ships. It was still early in the trading season - captains more cautious than her
mother were still in port.
Knowing her food was nearly gone, she tried to strike a deal with Koma and his wife, Bookkeeper
Oti. "I don't look like much now," she told them, her voice only a thin croak, "but I'm a better deal than you
think! I'm strong, I know most seaman's knots - except maybe the pinned sheepshank, but I'll work on that."
She bit her lip. She didn't dare cry - it would mean losing water, with none to replace it.
Far away, so far that it didn't seem real, she heard the crack of canvas. Was it a dream? Slowly, she
turned her head. She was in the trench of a swell - all she could see were the peaks of water on either side.
Her nostrils flared. The wind blew as the trench she was in rose and flattened. New smells drifted into
her nose. Breathing deep, she recognised the dull odor of brass riding on the back of the deep, rusty tang of
iron. Metal meant people, didn't it? Metal - except for the bands on her raft, and in the box at her side -
went straight to the bottom without a ship to hold it up.
"Ahoy!" A man's voice sounded over the water. "Ahoy! Are you alive?"
"Yes!" Daja cried. She kept a hand on her beautiful suraku. The other she stretched as high as she
dared and waved carefully. If she fell in now, she was far too weak to swim.
She lost track of time. It seemed like forever until she heard the splash of oars and saw a longboat
come alongside. In its bow sat a lean white man. His large, dark eyes were set deep under thick brows and a
heavy fringe of black lashes. He wore long, silver-and-black hair tied back. A Trader to the bone, she noted
that his yellow shirt and grey breeches were linen and well made, not a sailor's usual cheap wool.
"Hello there," he said, as casually as if they'd met at the marketplace. "My name is Niko - Niklaren -
Goldeye. I've been looking for you. I'm sorry not to have found you sooner." As sailors guided the boat closer,
he reached for Daja and pulled her into the boat. Someone held a flask of water to her lips.
"Wait!" she cried, voice rasping, as she fought to sit up. "My - my box! There!" She pointed. "Please
- save it!"
The sailors looked at Niko, who nodded. Only when they had brought the chest into the boat and stowed it
next to her did she relax and drink their water.
In Hajra, port city of Sotat: The first time the Hajran Street Guard caught Roach with a hand on
someone else's purse, they tattooed an X on the web of skin between his right thumb and forefinger, then
tossed him into a big holding cell overnight. Nursing his sore hand, Roach went straight to the far edge of the
chamber, where a watery beam of sunshine reached down from an opening in the wall. Patches of cushiony
moss grew there. Sitting on the floor, Roach found that one of them made a fine pillow.
Months later, a shopkeeper grabbed Roach as the boy helped himself to a few scarves. The Hajran
Street Guard took him, tattooed an X on the web of his left hand, and tossed him into the same holding cell.
The moss had grown to cover most of a corner. It made a soft couch where he could sleep and wait to be
released in the morning.
Roach's current visit was his third: the guard had nabbed his entire gang of street rats in a jeweler's
shop. Most of them already had two X tattoos, which meant they got no third release from justice. All of them
were thrown into the great holding cell. His moss now covered the entire corner and a good amount of floor as
well. It was the most comfortable bed that he'd ever had, with room left over for the rest of his gang-mates to
use it for a pillow.
As others scrambled for a share of the slop the guard called supper, Roach whispered to his moss. "I
won't be back," he explained. "Third time's cursed. I'll get the mines, or galleys, or shipyards. 'Less I break
out, it's for life." He smiled faintly. Life was a short thing now. No one lived more than two years in those
places, and escapes were rare.
For all that, he slept well. When he woke, it was Judging Day in Hajra.
"Weevil," brayed a guard at the door. Roach's gang-mates sat up. "Dancer. Alleycat. Viper. Slug."
Roach hissed angrily. It was Slug that got them all in this fix, watching them steal instead of looking
out for street guards. "Cheater. Turtle. Roach."
Roach hesitated. Should he make them come get him?
A guard cracked a whip, looking at him. Roach decided to avoid the beating he'd get if the man had
to drag him. With two X's on his hands, he'd receive plenty of beatings in the future as it was. "Thank you," he
told the moss, and joined the rest of his gang.
They were quick-marched past other cells, then up a long flight of stairs. On the level floors, the
guard began to trot, urging the captives along with their whips. Roach was gasping when they were driven into
a huge, echoing chamber.
A woman in the grey robes of a magistrate sat behind a long table. People in street clothes stood in
back of her. Clerks sat on each end of the table, scribbling as guards and civilians testified against criminals.
Roach ignored the testimony that concerned his gang. These grand folk had already judged him, so why
listen to their cackle?
When the testimony was done, a clerk called out, "Weevil." The gang leader was shoved in front of
the judge.
"Hands," he ordered. The guards slammed Weevil's hands down on the table, holding them so the X
shaped tattoos were visible. Like Roach, Weevil had two of them.
Mines," the judge said. A guard shoved Weevil into a wooden holding pen at the rear of the chamber.
Roach shut out the rest as the law officers worked their way through the gang. Instead he thought of those
plants in the cell, how peacefully green the moss showed when even a tiny bit of sun touched it. Give him a
green like that from a living plant over the light that danced in emeralds. That was hard color; the moss-glow
was soft. The plant didn't seem to need much earth to grow in, though it liked water. He'd given it part of his
water ration when no one was looking. He didn't mind being good to growing things, but he did object when
others made fun of him for doing it.
Twin pairs of rough hands picked him up, then dropped him in front of the magistrate's table, jarring
his ankles. He growled and fought as the guards dragged his hands out in front of him. He knew it was
useless, but he didn't care - they'd remember him, at least!
The judge didn't look at his face, only his hands. "Docks," she said, and yawned.
They were dragging Roach to a separate pen from the one that held Weevil and Viper when a light
male voice said, "A moment."
It was not a request, but a command. The guards looked back. Roach did not.
"May I see the boy again?" the man inquired.
"Bring him." The judge sounded bored.
Roach was hauled back to stand in front of a civilian. This was no lawyer or soldier. His long, loose
over-robe was a deep blue, dyed cloth that cost a silver penny the yard on Draper's Lane. It was worn open
over loose grey breeches, a pale grey shirt, and good boots. He carried only a dagger; it hung next to the
purse on his belt.
This was a Money-Bag, then, or an officer. Somebody big, for certain. Somebody who wore power
like a cloak.
The Bag whispered to the judge, who made a face. He held something before her eyes, a letter with a
beribboned seal on it. The judge glared at Roach, but nodded, and the Bag stepped away from her. "Their
Majesties are inclined to mercy, as you are but a youth." The judge rattled it off fast, a speech learned by
heart. "You have a choice - the docks, or exile from Sotat and service at the-" She faltered.
The Bag bent down to whisper, long, grey-streaked black hair tumbling forward to hide his face.
Roach wondered if he was looking for a cute little servant boy, and grinned. Men who liked play-toys always
regretted meeting him.
The man straightened and looked around until his dark eyes caught and held Roach's grey-green
ones. There was something in that black gaze, something that had nothing to do with human play-toys.
Roach's sense of power held in check grew threefold when he met those eyes. They warned - and comforted -
at the same time.
Roach looked down.
"You have a choice of the docks, or apprenticeship to the Winding Circle Temple in Emelan," the
judge went on, "until you take formal vows at the temple, or until its governing council rules that you are fit to
enter society. Temple or docks, boy. Choose."
Choose? There were guards on the docks, nasty, wary fellows. What temple could hang onto a
smart rat like him? Better yet, Emelan was far to the north of Sotat, fresh territory where no one knew who he
was. "Temple," he replied.
"Make out transfer papers," the judge told a clerk. "Master Niklaren" - this was to the blue-robed man
- "will you take charge of him?"
"Of course."
For a moment Roach's heart raced: he might be able to run before he ever saw Emelan! Then he met
the Bag's eyes and gave up that idea. The man - Master Niklaren? - looked too wise to fall for any dodge he
might pull.
"I can't make out papers for a 'Roach,'" whined the clerk. "Not to a temple."
"This is a chance, lad." Niklaren's voice was light in tone for a man's. "You can pick a name, one
that's yours alone. You can choose how you will be seen from now on."
Only as long as I stay, Roach thought. Still, the Bag was right. Roach had never liked his name, but
no one argued with the title the Thief-Lord gave.
"Choose, boy, and hurry up," snapped the judge. "I've other cases besides yours."
I/ The docks were too close to risk annoying these people. What name would temple folk like? Plant
and animal names, that was it. He imagined robed men and women smiling at him and giving up the key to
the temple gate.
Plant and animal names. A picture flashed into his mind: a green, velvet corner - but that wouldn't do.
He needed a tough name, one that would tell folk he was not to be trifled with. He studied his hands, trying to
think - and noticed scarred welts across his right palm, a souvenir of a vine that grew on a merchant's garden
wall. "What's them vines with needles on them? Big, sharp ones, that rip chunks out when you grab 'em?"
The Bag smiled. "Roses. Briars."
He liked the sound of that second one. "Briar, then."
"You need a last name," the clerk said, rolling his eyes.
A last name? wondered Roach. Whatever for?
The judge tapped the desk impatiently.
"Moss," he said. No one would think he was moss-soft if he just didn't use it.
"Briar Moss," said the clerk, and filled in the blank space on his paper. "Master Niko, I'll need your
signature."
Briar frowned. "Master" was a word for professors, judges, and wizards. The temples called women
and men "dedicate." Who was this man, anyway?
"Cut him loose," the Bag - Master Niklaren - ordered the guards.
"Your pardon, sir, but you don't know what he's like!" growled one of them. "He's born and bred to
vice-" Niklaren straightened and caught the man with those black, powerful eyes. "Are these remarks
addressed to me?"
Roach shivered - was the room suddenly colder? The judge drew a circle of protection on the front of
her robe. The guard's face went as white as milk. His partner cut Roach free.
"Briar won't run - will you, lad?" Niklaren bent to sign the clerk's paper.
Briar/Roach sensed that the Bag was right. Something about this man made escape seem like a bad
idea. I'll stick till we get to this temple place, he told himself. I can get lost there, easy.
In the city of Ninver, in Capchen:
In the darkness of the temple dormitory, when she was trying to cry herself to sleep with the least amount of
noise, Trisana Chandler heard voices. It wasn't the first time that she'd done so, but these voices were
different. This time she could identify the speakers. They sounded exactly like the girls who shared the
dormitory with her.
"/ heard her very own parents brought her here, and dropped her off, and said they never wanted to
see her again."
Tris was sure about that one: it was the girl in the bed on her right, the one who had tried to shove
ahead of her in the line for the dining hall. Tris had raised a fuss, and a dedicate had sent the girl to the back
of the line.
"I heard they passed her from relative to relative, until there weren't any who wanted her anymore."
Tris yanked at one of the coppery curls that had jumped out of her nighttime braid. She was fairly
certain about this speaker, too: the girl whose bed was across the room and two more beds to her left. She
had tried to copy Tris's answers to a mathematics question just that morning. The moment Tris had realised
what was going on, she had covered her slate. She despised people who copied.
"Have you seen her clothes? Those ugly dresses! That black wool's so old it's turning brown!"
"And they strain at the seams. Fat as she is, you'd think she'd eat more at table!"
She wasn't completely sure about the last speakers, but did it matter? The voices seemed to come
from every bed in the dormitory, to cut at her like razors. Why did they do this, the ones she'd never even
spoken to? Because it felt good to be mean with no one to see and blame them? Because it felt good to
sneer as the group did, go after the targets that their leaders pointed out? Her cousins were the same; they
followed those who loved to make fun of the outcast among them like ducklings chasing their mother.
When her parents had given her to the Dedicate Superior of Stone Circle, she had thought she'd run
out of hurt feelings. It seemed that she hadn't, after all.
Tris clenched her hands in her sheets. Leave me alone, she thought, speechless with fury and
shame. I never did anything to most of you, don't even know most of you...
No one noticed that the wind had picked up, jerking at the shutters on the windows, making them
clack against their fittings.
"I bet her parents tried to sell her to Traders."
"Maybe, but even Traders wouldn't take her. They wouldn't think she has value!"
Everyone found this hilarious.
One of the shutters hadn't been securely locked. It burst open, letting in a swirl of cold wind. The girls
nearest to it screamed and jumped to close it. A gust of wind bowled them onto their rumps before it whipped
around the room, pulling covers off beds, scouring belongings off the small shelves. By the time it roared out
of the room, all of the girls but Tris were screaming.
Two dedicates, their habits thrown on over their nightgowns, rushed into the room carrying lamps.
Everywhere they looked, there was a chaos of girls, bedding, and knickknacks - except at Tris's bed. It was
untouched. The girl in it stared at them with tear-reddened, defiant eyes behind the brass-rimmed spectacles
that she had just finished jamming onto her long nose.
The next morning, after breakfast, they brought her down to the office of Stone Circle's Dedicate
Superior and left her in the waiting room. Beside her they placed her few bags, completely packed. She had
not said a word. There was no point in it, and by now she knew how stupid it was to try to talk to someone
who was determined to get rid of her.
As she waited, staring fixedly at those battered leather satchels, she realised that the Honored
Dedicate's door was not quite closed.
" - I know that you're already on your way to Winding Circle, and I need you to take this girl with you.
Is that such a hard request to grant, Master Niko?"
"Send her later in the spring, when the trade caravans leave for Emelan." The light, crisp, male voice
sounded annoyed. "I'm on a very special task these days. If I have to change my plans suddenly, this child
will only get in my way."
"We can't keep her. Her parents swore that she was tested for magic and found to have none, but..."
The Dedicate Superior's voice trailed off. Briskly she continued, "I don't know if she's possessed by a spirit, or
part elemental, or carrying a ghost, to be at the center of such uproar, and I don't care. Winding Circle is far
better equipped to handle a case like hers. They have the learning, and dedicates who are more open-minded
with regard to unique cases. They have the best mages south of your own university. They will know what to
do with her."
Hearing all this, Tris felt sick. Spirit, elemental, or ghost-burdened, was she? And what kind of fate
awaited her? Some people learned to manage such creatures within themselves; others got rid of them. Far
too many ended up homeless and crazy, wandering the streets, or locked up in an attic or cellar, or even
dead. She swayed, feeling ill - and then clenched her fists. She was sick of it! Sick of being gotten rid of, sick
of being discussed, sick of not being helped!
With a thundering roar, hailstones battered the roof and walls around her, hitting wood and stone like
a multitude of hammers. They shattered the glass panes of the window in the outer office to spray across the
floor like icy diamonds. Clumsily she knelt to pick up a handful.
The door of the Dedicate Superior's office swung open, revealing a slender man in his middle fifties.
He stood there, hands on hips, black eyes under thick black brows fixed on Tris.
From the floor she glared at him, hailstones trickling from her fingers. "It's rude to stare," she
snapped, not over her fury.
"You were tested for magic?" he asked, his clipped voice abrupt.
Why did this stranger taunt her? Her family would have put up with her oddities, if only she'd been
proved to have magic, which might be turned to the profit of House Chandler. "By the most expensive mage in
Ninver, if you must know. And he said I haven't a speck of it."
The stranger turned and looked at the woman in the yellow habit behind him. "Honored Wrenswing,
I've changed my mind. I will be very happy to escort Trisana to Winding Circle Temple in Emelan." He smiled
thinly and reached a hand to Tris. "I am pleased to meet you, young lady."
She ignored the outstretched hand. Getting up, she shook out her skirts. "You'll change your mind
before long," she retorted. "Everyone does."
In the storeroom: Carefully Sandry eyed her right-most thread. There was the knot that she'd tied
close to the end. "Time to put in something new," she told the waiting darkness with a sigh. She was all out
of green now. It had given her good service, glowing with a clearer light than either the grey or the red. She
would miss it.
Yards of braid lay in a coil from which she continued to work. She fixed her mind on it and on light
completely, except for the times that she ate, or slept, or used the stinking barrel that was her chamber pot.
Keeping light in her threads took all of her attention, leaving her without time or energy for panic.
She groped behind her for her workbasket and froze. Muffled voices cried out on the other side of the
wall. The girl swallowed hard. Had things gotten this bad? Was she going to start imagining people when they
were not there?
"This way, dolts1." a voice cried.
" - don't see anything]" someone, a man, growled in the distance.
The light in her braid paled. "Don't you dare," she ordered in a whisper. She couldn't keep her mind
on it. The glow died.
Breathless, she waited in the dark. If this was a dream, she wished it would stop!
"You won't see anything," a crisp, educated voice snapped. Its owner might have been in the same
room with her - or on the other side of the door. "It was spelled for concealment."
She clapped her hands over her mouth and started to rock. This is it, she thought. I've gone mad at
last. Something entered the room, a wash of cool air that wasn't really air, more a feeling of water than a
breeze. Most of it circled over the empty sacks she used for a bed. A lone thread spun out of that cool mass.
Drifting across the room, it twined around her shoulders.
"Now do you see it?" the educated voice demanded. "I want the locksmith."
"You've got 'im, Master Niko." That deep voice also sounded very close.
Metal scraped on metal. Air moved. She didn't know that the door was opening until it bumped her.
"Urda bless me, what a stink!" the deep voice said.
"Move aside, man," the crisp voice ordered. Its owner, a light-colored shadow, stepped into the room.
"My child? My name is Niklaren Goldeye. I've been looking for you." He raised a lamp that someone had
passed to him.
The light struck her eyes, which had been in the dark so long. Pain made her scream and cover
them. She would see almost nothing for quite some time.
At Summersea, in Emelan: Sandry's great-uncle, Duke Vedris IV, the ruler of Emelan, watched the
rain fall outside the library window as first Niko, then Sandry, told the tale of the last four months, of Sandry's
rescue, healing, and the long trip north. If he had opinions about their tale, they were locked behind his
deep-set brown eyes and heavy features. Stocky, broad-shouldered, and commanding, the duke preferred
simple clothes like those he had on: a white lawn shirt, brown wool breeches, a brown wool tunic, and
calf-high boots. Only the flash of the gold braid at his tunic collar and hems and the Slgnet ring on his left
forefinger hinted that he might be wealthy. With his shaved head, hooked nose, and fleshy visage, the duke
looked like one of his own pirate-chasing captains rather than a nobleman whose line had ruled from this
castle for eight hundred years.
When they finished, he turned to look at them. "Master Niko, it was good of you to bring Sandrilene
to me, particularly at this time of year."
"The land roads weren't so bad, your Grace," replied Niko, stirring his tea. "And certainly I couldn't
abandon Sandry at that point."
"I know I should have waited till spring, Uncle," the girl added, "but I just couldn't. Hatar - it's a giant
graveyard now. I couldn't stay an hour more." She was still pale and thin after her ordeal in the storeroom and
weeks of recovery. Dressed in black from head to toe, she had become a small ghost. Niko's suggestion, to
bring her north to her father's favorite relative, had been welcome.
Vedris smiled. "I understand, my dear. You don't have to apologise."
Sandry returned the smile with a small, trembling one of her own.
The duke sighed and rubbed his shaved scalp. "You have presented me with a dilemma, however, if
you want to stay," he said regretfully. His voice was the most elegant thing about him, smooth and
velvet-soft, the kind of voice that others fell silent to hear. "Do you wish to remain? Or do you want to head
north in the spring?"
Sandry shook her head, making her twin braids fly. "I don't want to go to my Namornese relatives, if
you please, Uncle."
The duke sat in the window seat. "After my lady wife died, I let court functions go. My nobles
socialise with one another at their homes. With no hostess, and my children all grown and married, there is
no lady here I would ask to take you under her wing. You are welcome to stay as long as you desire, but this
castle is a grim place for a young girl."
Sandry looked down at her lap. The picture he painted was not appealing. The thought of days in
these plain stone halls was a lonely one. The idea of packing and travelling to distant Namorn, at any season
of the year, sounded far worse. She hadn't liked her Namornese kinfolk.
"Then I have the solution," Niko said cheerfully. "I'm surprised you didn't see it yourself, your grace.
Lady Sandrilene can live at Winding Circle Temple. Your nobles send their own children there. She can learn
the things that she will need to move in society, and she will get an education worth having." Looking at
Sandry, he explained, "Winding Circle is known throughout the Pebbled Sea as a center of learning and
magic." Magic? Sandry thought wistfully. She had thought the magic in the world died with Pirisi. "I'd like to
see magic again," she whispered.
"It is the obvious solution," Niko told the duke, who looked at him sharply. "She will be close by, as
safe behind those walls as she might be here. The two of you can visit whenever you like."
"Sandrilene?" asked the duke.
She smiled tiredly. "I don't know, Uncle, but - surely it's worth a try?"
Nidra Island, off the shore of Sotat: It had taken so little time for her to tell the Trader Council of the
fate of Third Ship Kisubo. Out early to get in a fast cargo, it sank in a late winter storm. The five judges - two
land-Traders, two sea-Traders, and a mimander, a mage - retired when she finished, to discuss her fate. In
the judging-room, Daja and her rescuer waited for their verdict.
Daja was sick with hope. They might let her live among those of her relatives who were too old or too
young for the hard life at sea, at one of the Traders' handful of hidden cities. They might give her a new name,
send her to a new family. People had gotten second chances like that - rarely, but it happened.
"Prepare yourself for the worst," advised Niko, his eyes kind. "You know they regard lone survivors as
the worst kind of luck."
Daja shook her head. It wasn't that she didn't believe him. She simply didn't want to admit that he
might be right.
The door opened; the members of the Council filed in. One, a woman, carried the bulky logbook in
which the names of all Trader families, vessels, and companies were recorded. Placing it on the judges'
table, she opened it, leafing through the pages until she reached the one she sought.
Over his - or her - arms (Daja couldn't tell the sex of the person in those bulky robes and veils), the
mimander carried a staff. Like any Trader's staff, it was five feet long and made of ebony, a symbol of pride
and of a Trader's right to protect himself. Brass caps on both ends guarded them from wear and tear. The cap
on every other staff in the room bore designs of engravings, bumps, and inlaid wire. On this staff, the cap was
unmarked.
Seeing it, Daja began to shiver. An unmarked staff meant only one thing.
"As in the days when our people first carried fire, weaving, and metal-work to the non-Traders, the
kaqs," said the chief judge, a man, "so it is now. Daja Kisubo, lone survivor of disaster, we declare you to be
outcast, the worst kind of bad luck, trangshi. As trangshi you must bear this staff always-"
The mimander held the staff out to Daja. The girl stared at it. What was the design on her staff that
had sunk with her ship? Dancing monkeys, each grasping the tail of the one before it, with a wire spiral on
her cap, to mark her as a brand-new member of the crew. This cap had no mark; it was polished mirror-bright.
As trangshi, she would never be permitted to add the signs of her own deeds to it.
Numb, she gripped the wood and took it from the mimander.
"Your name is marked in the books of our people," the chief judge continued. "You are forbidden to
speak, touch, or write to Traders. This is to protect them from you. If you do not wish others to catch your
bad luck, do the right thing. Stay away from them."
The woman with the logbook inked the tip of her brush and began to write, putting down Daja's new
status for all Traders to know.
"You don't have to do this," Niko protested to the judges. "You have rites to cleanse her luck, rites to
make an orphan new-born to a new family, blameless of everything that has gone before."
The mimander tucked yellow-gloved hands into wide yellow sleeves. Daja could just barely see eyes
behind the thin saffron veil. "We made this choice after taking the omens. I placed sacred oil and my own
blood on a hot brass dish and read the signs for her future. Her fate is to be trangshi. There is nothing you
can say to change that, Niklaren Goldeye."
"It's all right," Daja whispered to Niko. "They just want to keep my bad luck from ruining anyone else.
I understand."
Her rescuer glared at the judges and tucked Daja's arm in his. "I'm taking her to Winding Circle
Temple," he told the Council, his dark eyes sparkling with anger. "They'll appreciate her, with or without
Trader luck!"
In Sotat: On their first night outside the walls of Hajra, Niko and Briar slept on the ground at a Trader
camp, the welcome guests of a southbound caravan. On the second night, they stopped at a wayside inn.
Briar was inspecting the room that Niko had taken for him - and considering a raid on the kitchen - when Niko
called, "Would you come here? I have some shirts I think will fit you."
Unsuspecting, the boy went into Niko's room, to be brought up short by the sight of a large metal tub
filled with hot water. Next to it was a stool with fresh clothes, a scrub-sponge, towels, and soap on top. "Hop
in," Niko said pleasantly. "The landlady says you don't sleep in one of her beds until you've bathed. I have to
admit, I would welcome the change myself."
Briar started to back up. "That stuff's unhealthy," he informed Niko. "Maybe you wouldn't be so bony
if you stopped doing this all the time."
Strong arms grabbed him; a hostler had been standing behind the half-open door.
"My thinness has nothing to do with bathing," Niko retorted. "Do you undress yourself, or must we do
it for you?"
In the end, it took him and three hostlers to give Briar a thorough scrubbing with hot water and soap.
The boy's curses, in five different languages, left Niko unmoved, though the hostlers were impressed.
"I never thought a person could do all them things," one of them said to another.
"They can't - leastways, not all at once," replied his friend.
Briar was silent all the way downstairs. Only the sight of the loaded supper table thawed him, and
that just a bit. "Soon as we're out of Sotat, me'n you part ways," he told Niko. "Even the Street Guard only
tortures folk when they'd done something."
"You'll do as you wish, of course," Niko replied, sitting. "Beef or chicken?"
"Both. And some of that yellow cheese."
"It just seems a pity," the man said, handing over the cheese plate. From a pocket in his over-robe,
he drew out a handful of wilting plants and put them on the table. "These fell out of your clothes. This" - he
tapped a leafy stem topped with a small lilac flower - "I believe is thyme. I don't recognize the others."
Though he pretended not to see the plants he'd stolen over the past two days, Briar reddened.
"What's a pity?"
"Magic Circle Temple has the finest gardens - and gardeners - north of the Pebbled Sea. People who
know more than I about plants from all over the world." Niko cut some fish for himself, put it in his mouth, and
chewed it carefully, without looking at his companion. When he'd swallowed, he added, "It's also one of the
two great schools of magic north of the Pebbled Sea. I studied at Lightsbridge, the university for mages, but
in some ways I find the mages at Winding Circle more... open-minded."
"Oh, magic, who cares?" Briar dug into his food, refusing to talk more until it was in his belly, where
no one could take it from him. Plants from all over the world? What must that be like?
"I believe there is a dedicate at Winding Circle who has been able to grow vegetables and fruit - even
trees - inside a building," Niko remarked. He wasn't even looking at Briar, but at the view of the seashore from
the inn's window.
Briar just couldn't imagine it.
"One thing that I really feel I must say." Niko put greens on the boy's plate. "If I'm forced to bribe
hostlers at night to help you bathe, that means less money for food like this as we travel."
Briar glared at him. If Niko saw the dirty look, he chose to ignore it. Instead he returned to eating his
dinner. I'll stick as far as the border, thought the boy. Get a few more meals like this under my belt - so I'd
better try this washing. After that, we'll see. Maybe I'll have a look at this Winding Circle place; maybe I won't.
The Pebbled Sea, off Capchen: Their first night out, the captain invited Tris and Niko to share the
evening meal with the officers. The captain himself was delayed, which gave Tris a chance to examine an odd
display on the wall near his map-table. It looked to be a collection of knots tied in thick cords, each hanging
from a single nail. She counted two in green, one in yellow, one in blue, a fifth that was green with a thin
yellow strand in it, and a sixth, green with a blue thread. About to touch them, she changed her mind. They
seemed to shimmer, promising a scare to anyone rash enough to handle them.
"There's my treasure, little girl." The captain had come in. "A fortune in winds, that is."
Tris pushed her glasses higher on her nose. "I don't understand."
"It's the work of mimanders - Trader mages," he explained. "For a small fortune they'll take a cord and tie a
bit of wind up into it for you. See, it's green for north, yella for east, red for south, blue for west, just like they
do it in the Living Circle temples. Them's for blowin' us all the way out of any tight spots. And I got one for
northwest, and one for northeast. Those'll blow me to safe harbor in Emelan, if ever we need it." He ushered
Tris to her chair.
"People can tie up a wind with a knot?" she asked, eyeing him sharply. "You're telling me a tale."
"It's a tale I paid for in gold," the man replied, forking slices of ham onto his plate. "Pass Master Niko
the bread, there's a good girl."
She ate quietly, paying little attention to the men's talk. The knots occupied her mind. How could
anyone tie up wind in a knotted cord? Was it an easy thing to learn, or hard? She'd never heard of it before -
was it a thing only Traders knew?
As the first mate filled their cups, she saw that Niko was watching her. Again, those large, black
eyes gave no clue as to what he thought. Why did the man have to stare so? she wondered. Didn't his
mother teach him it was rude?
"Why don't you ask me anything?" she demanded abruptly. "If you've something on your mind, tell
me!" Niko's eyelids fluttered - was he laughing at her? "I can't," he told her, tearing a piece from a sheet of
flat-bread. "Any questions I have might limit how you think, and the way you act on your thoughts. You see,
Tris, just now your mind is unformed, without prejudices. If I present you with the wrong ideas, they might
restrict what's inside you."
She thought about that for a few moments, ignoring the smiles of the ship's officers. "That makes no
sense whatever/' she replied at last. "I'd like an answer that makes sense, if you please."
"Not yet. We have to get to know each other better."
"That's just his way, youngster," the captain explained, passing a dish of olives to Tris. She muttered
her thanks and took some. "Master Niko, he's as hard to understand sometimes as any oracle. When the
fit's on him, he can talk you so confused you'll forget which bearing is north."
"It's the university education," Niko told them. "It teaches us to chase our tails for an hour before
breakfast, just to get the exercise."
"University?" Tris inquired, interested in spite of herself. "Some of my cousins are at universities.
Which one did you go to?"
After a moment's hesitation, Niko answered, "Lightsbridge, in Karang."
Tris shoved an olive around her plate. "My cousin Aymery studies there. He's to be a mage. Maybe
you know him? Aymery Chandler?"
"I haven't been there in five years," was the answer. "Chances are that I don't." He poured fresh
pomegranate juice for her, then said, "Would you like to be a mage yourself?"
How could he keep taunting her this way, suggesting she could have the one thing she knew that
she didn't? "No! I hate mages! They confuse people!" Jumping up, Tris ran out of the cabin.
Alone on deck, she heard thunder growl in the distance. The storm that had threatened all day was
breaking. Darting over to the rail, she turned up her face just as a tall wave slapped the ship. She was
immediately soaked, and her anger washed away. Shaking water from her spectacles, she wondered how it
was that she felt queasy in her cabin, but perfectly fine now, with the deck jumping under her feet. It must be
the smell, she decided. The cabin smells like all the cargoes these people have ever carried, and maybe
some extra.
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.
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.
Ha!
"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
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