Sandry's Book

Rosethorn cackled. “He’s no dedicate—that would mean he’d have to stay in one place. He’s a mage—as rootless as a dandelion seed, drifting on the wind.”

Briar and Tris stared at the man who had brought them. Sandry and Daja kept their eyes on their food.

“How else can I see everything I wish to see?” he replied. To Briar and Tris he added, “Yes, I’m a mage. Beyond that, I’m a treasure hunter. I’m here for now, which is all that really matters.”

With that, they ate their meal in silence. Despite the fact that he devoured more than anyone else, Briar was the first to finish. He started to get up.

Rosethorn put a hand on his arm. “Down, boy,” she told him. “You ask to be excused from the table, remember? And wait until Lark gives permission.” That hand pressed down.

For a small woman, she’s strong, he thought with admiration. He sat again. “Can I be excused?”

“No. Listen, you four,” Rosethorn said. “While you’re here, address problems or questions or needs to Lark. She likes children, the Green Man alone knows why.

“I don’t like children in my garden—not without my say-so, anyway,” she added with a glance at Briar. “Play somewhere else. Tell Lark where you go, always. Me you leave alone. And that workshop on the side of the house, the one that’s mostly wood? That’s mine, too. Touch anything in there, and you will die the worst death I can invent.”

She looked at each child in turn, then smiled, showing teeth. “I’m glad we had this little talk.” Placing her napkin beside her plate, Rosethorn went outside.

For a moment there was silence. Then Lark said, “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“Bet her bite’s poisonous,” muttered Daja.

“Just with the bark, you die slow,” added Tris. They grinned, then remembered that merchants and Traders disliked each other, and turned away.

“Dedicate Lark?” a voice called through the front door. “I have boxes from the girls’ dormitories for your boarders.”

“One moment,” Lark called. “Briar and Daja, as senior guests, will you clean up, please? Once Sandry and Tris are settled, we’ll do a schedule of chores so no one gets stuck with the same tasks all the time.”

Niko hastily folded his napkin and got to his feet. “I’ll see everyone later,” he said, and followed Rosethorn out.

Lark chuckled. “He thinks he’d get snagged for moving duty. He only does what he wants to, our Niko.” Rising, she went to the front door.

As Daja started to gather the dishes, Sandry leaned over the table to grab Briar’s sleeve and Tris’s. Halted from leaving the table, they stared at her. “Niko brought you both here?” asked Sandry.

“So?” demanded Tris, peeling the girl’s fingers off her sleeve. “What if he did? It doesn’t mean he owns me or anything.” She stomped across the floor, on her way to claim her boxes from the cart.

Sandry turned her blue eyes on Briar. “He brought you?”

He shook her off. “I don’t like nosy Bags,” he snapped. Grabbing a bucket, he went out to the well.

“Well, if Niko’s a mage, at least I know how he managed to find me in the middle of the Pebbled Sea,” remarked Daja in Tradertalk.

“I was—hidden by magic,” Sandry replied in the same language. “So he found you, and he found me—and then he brought us here. Why?”

Daja shrugged. “Mimanders have their own reasons for everything they do,” she replied. “I’m guessing that mages who aren’t Traders are the same. Forget it. You’ll just give yourself a nosebleed if you think about it too hard.”

Sandry touched her small nose, then shook her head and went to get her belongings.

Her things set up in her new room, Tris hung partway out of her window, trying to see the clouds. The morning storms had passed, but the sky was far from clear. The wind shifted, bringing unfamiliar voices to her ears.

“—know how chancy divination is.” It sounded like Niko. “These images are too diffuse. There aren’t enough of them. From their scarcity, I’d hazard that they are about a possible future event, not one that is probable.”

“We should be able to tell!” This voice was not at all familiar. “If we keep trying—”

Tris wiped her forehead on her sleeve. If crazy people heard voices, why did hers make sense? She’d read about madness: voices told the insane that they were gods, or that the neighbors planned to murder them. Her voices always had real conversations. And wasn’t “divination” a word for telling the future?

“You must do your best.” Tris winced. How did Moonstream become one of her mad voices? “Tell me of any change. And let’s prepare for a quake. I’ll—”

“Um—Tris?”

She gasped, and nearly fell out of the window. Small hands gripped her skirt and hauled her back into the room. Her feet on the floor again, she whirled to glare at the invader: Sandry. “Don’t you knock?” she demanded, straightening her spectacles.

“I did knock,” replied the other girl. “And I called. You just didn’t hear me.”

Tris shook out her dress with trembling hands. “What do you want?”

Sandry hesitated, taking in the other girl’s scowl. In for a copper, in for a gold, she thought. “This winter, I—went a little crazy. With embroidery, and needlepoint. I have these hangings, more than I’ll ever need…. I thought you might like one.” She retrieved a plump, neat roll of cloth from the bed, where she had dropped it, and held it out.