Tris wasn’t as frightened by this greeting as she would have been a week before. “I’d like to ask a favor, if I may.”
Rosethorn tilted up her wide-brimmed hat in order to see Tris’s face better. “The answer is no.”
Tris half smiled. “Niko says he’ll be in meetings here or in Summersea for a week. I want to help at the infirmaries in the afternoons, until my lessons start again. They need people to fetch water and food and so on. The only way I can do it is if someone looks after Shriek.”
“Shriek?”
“That’s what I’m calling him—because he does.”
“I see.” Rosethorn dusted a speck from a tomato. “Why the infirmaries?” she asked.
About to refuse to answer, Tris thought the better of it. “Lark said they took the pirate wounded. It’s because of me some of them are here, so—I should help out.”
“You’ll hate it,” commented Rosethorn. “There’s smells—vomit, rotting flesh—a lot of them are burned. They won’t thank you.”
Lark had said the same. It wasn’t that Tris didn’t believe them: she did. It just didn’t change the fact that she had to do something to lay the ghosts of the floating dead who came in her dreams. “The first time in my life anybody thanked me for anything was after I came here. I’m not so used to it that I expect it from people.”
Rosethorn adjusted a tie on a plant. “Just afternoons?”
Tris nodded.
“All right. Tonight you and I will talk about what happens to Shriek—Mila, what a name!—to Shriek next. He’ll be ready to fly soon.”
Tris nodded.
“Well, go on. Leave him in my workshop. I’ll hear him just fine when he wants to be fed.”
Rosethorn and Lark were right. It was not pretty in the infirmaries. The smell on the hot afternoons sent Tris out to be sick over and over. Burns had to be cleaned, the dirty bandages laundered in boiling water and hung out to dry. She carried buckets of water until her back, legs, and arms ached. The harsh soap they used reddened and cracked her hands. Every night Daja had to wake her when she fell asleep in her tub at the Earth Temple baths. No one thanked her except the healer-dedicates, and that only rarely. The pirate captives, who had the duke’s justice to look forward to once they were better, snapped and taunted and yanked her curls or knocked things from her hands. The few slaves they had rescued only stared at the ceiling, wordless.
Three boom-stones had made it past the shields while Tris and her friends attacked the fleet. One had landed on a wing of the girls’ main dormitory. The Water Temple dedicates finally barred Tris from working in that infirmary ward. She sparked lightning every time she set foot inside it.
On her eighth day of service, the dedicates sent their healed criminals to the duke’s court in Summersea. Once they were gone, less than half of all the patients remained. With plenty of healers now to care for them, Tris was put to scrubbing the floor of a newly emptied room. She was half done when she heard a step. Looking up, she saw Niko.
“Are you ready to begin lessons again?” he asked.
She pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose. “After I finish this floor.”
“Have you any ideas about what area of your talents we should concentrate on?” It seemed like an idle question.
Her answer was not at all idle. “I need to learn control, Niko—for real. With everything. I think the rest has to wait.” Swirling water fiercely in the bucket, she stared at soap bubbles to keep him from seeing her mouth tremble. She was beginning to fear she would dream about the drowned slaves for the rest of her life. “I don’t want this to happen again. Not ever.”
“At least you know it,” he said quietly, rolling up his sleeves. “You could have been another Enahar, living off human pain.”
She looked up at him, her gray eyes sharp. “The other mages—were they all slaves? Aymery said as long as Enahar bound him with blood, he had to do what he was told. But … he liked the money, too, Niko. The money and the power. I could tell.”
“Most of the mages served him willingly” was the quiet reply. “And had Aymery tried to disobey Enahar, he would have paid for it with even more of his blood.”
“Dirty jishen,” whispered the girl, scrubbing hard.
Niko tracked down a second brush and helped her finish the room.
Late that afternoon Tris was about to give Shriek a feeding at the big table when Briar carried a small, covered dish to her. Sandry and Daja followed—he’d hinted that a treat was in store.
“Rosethorn says to start giving him some of these,” he informed Tris, offering her the container.
“Rosethorn?” Tris called.
“That’s his natural food” was the reply from the workshop. “He won’t survive when you set him free if you don’t start him on this now.”
Briar removed the lid on the dish with a flourish. Tris looked and shrank back. Inside squirmed one or two earthworms, a handful of grubs, and a small white caterpillar. Little Bear stood on his hind legs to peer into the dish. Grabbing his collar, Daja hung on, in case the pup decided it was time to try bird food.
Shriek, still under the handkerchief on his nest, squalled.
“Drop them in his nest,” Tris suggested to Briar.
“Can’t. Rosethorn says they gotta go in his beak, same as the rest.” Briar offered a small pair of metal tongs in the size that ladies used to pluck their eyebrows. “These’ll help. Come on, bird-dam—he wants his supper.”
“I hate bugs,” insisted the girl. “They’re—Shurri defend me, they wiggle.”
“Come on, merchant girl,” said Daja with a grin. “You faced pirates, an earthquake, Rosethorn—what’s wrong with a bug or two? Did she get any locusts?” the Trader asked Briar. “They’re better fried, but still good when they’re fresh.”
Tris gagged.
“Nothing that flies is in there, or it’d be gone by now,” Briar said. “Get to work, four-eyes. We haven’t got till the end of time.”
“Will you do it?” Tris begged Sandry. “You’re not afraid of anything.”
Sandry tucked her hands behind her back. “I’m not his mama,” she replied with an evil grin.
“Neither am I!” cried Tris.
Briar put the tongs in her hand and wrapped her fingers around them.
“The caterpillar is crawling out,” remarked Daja. She flicked it back into the dish.
“You do it!” Eagerly Tris thrust the tongs at her. “You like bugs!”
Daja grinned and stepped back. “Sandry’s right. I’m not his mother, either.”
None of them but Little Bear had paid attention to the nest-box as the handkerchief cover bumped, thrashed, and finally slid off. Its inhabitant climbed out. Almost a fledgling, Shriek was now three inches long from head to rump, with another two inches of tail. He was still in dull gray pinfeathers, but his black eyes were alert and wide open. He waddled across the table, yelling.
The dog fled. The four children watched Shriek.
“Maybe he’ll eat from the dish,” suggested Daja. She thrust it into his way.
Shriek walked around it without once shutting up, heading for Tris. When she stretched out her hand to him, he pecked one finger hard.
“Ow! Shriek—”
He screamed and pecked, again. Tris backed up.
Shriek came on and dropped off the edge of the table. Sandry and Tris banged into each other in their rush to catch him, while the bird—cradled in Sandry’s skirt—continued to scream. When Tris gathered him up, he continued to peck her. She kept her hands cupped around him, wincing at the pain. “That beak is sharp,” she complained.
“Anything for peace and quiet.” Picking up the tongs, Briar selected a worm and held it over Shriek. The nestling gave Tris a last jab and sat up in her hands, opening his beak wide. Briar dropped the worm in. Shriek swallowed. He appeared to think about what he’d just eaten.
“Well, that’s better, anyway,” Sandry remarked with a sigh.
Shrie
k screamed.
“My turn.” Daja took the tongs and offered the caterpillar to the bird. This Shriek bit in two, allowing her to keep half while he gulped down the rest. Once that tidbit was in his belly, he snatched the rest out of the tongs.
Sandry picked up an earthworm with her fingers. Shriek accepted this offering as he had the caterpillar, eating it in neat bites.
“Your turn, Mama.” Briar drew the nest-box over so Tris could put her charge back in his bed. Shriek squalled.
Slowly, gingerly, Tris picked up a grub with the tongs, wincing as her firm hold crushed the sacrifice. She positioned the tongs over the nestling’s gaping beak and dropped the grub in.
Everyone applauded. Shriek blinked, sighed, and settled down for a nap.
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to my father, Wayne Pierce, for his help and advice in my research on black powder; to my mother, Mary Lou Pierce, for her gardening advice (used more in the last book, but still appreciated); to Rick Robinson, not only for sea matters but for fast-turnaround proofreading and reader reaction; and to Tyndulf the Peacemaker for the harbor chain. As always in this series, thanks go to Thomas Gansevoort, particularly in matters of weaving and smithcraft. Thanks also to Victorian Video and the Cumberland General Store as suppliers of invaluable source materials in such arcane areas as smithcraft, companion plants, and weaving and spinning.
About the Author
Temora Pierce says she first got the idea for the Circle of Magic books by watching her mother and sister do needlework. “Seeing them knit, quilt, and crochet in the evenings, I often thought—as I eyed my two left hands—that what I witnessed was magic in our real world, the magic of turning thread and cloth into beautiful, useful things with little fuss or ceremony. That notion lodged in my brain. For years I fiddled with the concept of crafts magic, including a play, a short story, and mentions in a book that all dealt with thread magic.
“At the same time I was conducting those experiments, I became friends with an artist jeweler who, over the course of his long career, had turned his hand not only to weaving, sewing, and embroidery, but also to architecture, woodworking, pottery, glassblowing, and the smithing of all kinds of metals. Our friendship broadened my conception of magic expressed in crafts, while my initial fascination with magic worked in thread gave me a place to start. Offered the chance by Scholastic to create a new magical universe, I decided to get serious about crafts and their power, both real and imagined.”
Tamora Pierce was born in western Pennsylvania, has lived in various states across the country, and currently resides in New York City with her husband. A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, she has studied social work, film, and psychology. She has worked as head writer for a radio production company, martial arts movie reviewer, housemother in a group home, literary agent’s assistant, and investment banking secretary. Today she is a full-time writer.
Ms. Pierce began to write at the age of eleven. Her first two fantasy cycles, The Song of the Lioness and The Immortals, are very popular with young readers and have won many honors. The Circle of Magic quartet—including Sandry’s Book, Tris’s Book, Daja’s Book, and Briar’s Book—has been hailed by reviewers as “gripping adventure” (School Library Journal) and “a rich and satisfying read” (Kirkus Reviews). Upcoming are four more books, called The Circle Opens, which will feature some characters familiar from the Circle of Magic as well as many new ones.
The Circle of Magic Books
Circle of Magic quartet:
Book One: Sandry’s Book
Book Two: Tris’s Book
Book Three: Daja’s Book
Book Four: Briar’s Book
The Circle Opens quartet:
Book One: Magic Steps
Book Two: Street Magic
Book Three: Cold Fire
Book Four: Shatterglass
The Will of the Empress
Melting Stones
Preview
LOOK FOR BOOK THREE IN THE CIRCLE OF MAGIC QUARTET
Daja’s Book
Inside the smithy, Daja could hear Polyam clearly. Eavesdropping, not thinking of what she was up to, Daja had gone to draw a fresh nail-rod out of the fire. Instead of one length of iron, she had grasped the entire fistful of rods she’d set to heat.
Once in her grip, unnoticed by Daja, the rods had twined around each other, then split apart, forming three branches. One branch reached toward the fire, splitting again to form three twigs. Another branch wound itself around Daja’s arm.
Startled by the feel of iron on her skin—though she could handle red-hot metal without getting burned, the sensation was an odd one—Daja looked down. A third iron branch reached between the fingers on her free hand, then wrapped around her palm and over her wrist.
Daja tried to pull free and failed. She bent her power on the iron, silently ordering it back to its original shape. Instead the pieces that gripped her arms continued to grow. They each seized a shoulder, holding it fast. One spread down her back; another sprouted a tendril that gently twined around her neck. That was when she panicked and screamed.
When Tris reached her, she found Daja trapped by what looked like an ancient grapevine—trunk, limbs, and all—made of iron that still glowed orange with heat. It was sprouting metal leaves.
“It’s growing,” Polyam gasped. She had followed Tris back to the forge.
“I can see that!” growled Tris. “Now hush—I have to do some magic.” Frostpine! she cried silently, calling through her magical connection to her friends. They needed Daja’s teacher, and they needed him now.
LOOK FOR BOOK FOUR IN THE CIRCLE OF MAGIC QUARTET
Briar’s Book
“Briar, I need my glass,” Rosethorn ordered. “And I want quiet, understood?”
“Yes, Lady,” replied Alleypup.
Briar grinned—Rosethorn was always convincing—and took a velvet pouch from the workbag. Carefully he slid out its contents: a round lens four inches across, its edges bound in a metal band, fixed to a metal handle. He passed it to his teacher.
Rosethorn examined Flick, talking softly to her the entire time. At last the dedicate sat back, frowning. “When did you get sick, and how did this illness develop?”
Flick answered weakly. At last Rosethorn stood, holding the lens out for Briar to take. As he did, he saw that drops of sweat had formed like pearls on Rosethorn’s pale skin. For all that she acted calm, she was upset, as upset as she’d ever been when facing pirates or forest fires.
For a moment she was silent. Finally she straightened her shoulders and back. “This will take arranging, I think. Briar, I need you to link me to Niko—I assume he’s at the duke’s with the girls. Getting Flick to Urda’s House will be tricky.”
When Flick opened her mouth to protest, Rosethorn glared at her, fisted hands on hips. “Something for you?” she asked ominously.
Flick shook her head and sank back on her rags. Briar grinned: He’d known Flick was smart.
“Has anyone else been here since you first got sick?” asked Rosethorn.
“Just me, and I been out and about,” said Alleypup. “Nickin’ food and the like.”
“We’ll need to make a list of everyone you saw, then,” Rosethorn murmured, thinking aloud. “Briar? Have the girls link us with Niko, please.”
Briar closed his eyes as Rosethorn wrapped her hands around his. Unlike talking to Rosethorn at Urda’s house, speaking to any of the girls was easy. He only had to look for them in his own mind.
Copyright
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Copyright © 1998 by Tamora Pierce.
Cover art by Jonathan Barkat
Cover design by Steve Sc
ott
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First Scholastic trade paperback printing, September 1999
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e-ISBN 978-0-545-40591-1
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