Daja's Book (14 page)

Mind the glacier
, remarked Tris.

Had she eyes, and a face, she would have glared at her friend.
Will this work?
she asked Niko instead.
Can I send it all here?

Send it
, he told her wearily.
It mil melt ice for water for Gold Ridge, and there's no risk of creating a volcano with only fire
.

Only
fire, he calls it, Daja thought wearily to herself. She turned and swam up her stream—her root?—of flame. Handful by handful, she grabbed at it, sending more through the ground. Finally it screamed past her with all its force, moving on its own. She could let it go, sure now that it would keep going until it smacked the glacier.

With a yell of triumph she exploded from the earth of the road. Back inside her own flesh, she slammed what remained of the flame-pillar into the
ground. As soon as most of it was gone, she grabbed the ties that bound Sandry and Frostpine to her and began to reel them in. With them came the fire-scarves they'd been holding at the other end of the caravan. When Daja gripped the weavings, they let go. Into the ground the fire went, crackling ferociously. Daja continued to stuff it down, then all the nearby fires she could get within her power, until she realized that her hands were empty, that they had been empty for some time. She was in the middle of the road on all fours, without a stitch on.

She blinked, and dragged her left hand free of the dirt. Brass coated her palm. It lay in runnels around her fingers and on the back of her hand.

That is going to hurt like
anything
in a bit, she thought, and sat down hard.

For a moment all she could do was cough, and cough, and cough. Finally it occurred to her to look around. The fires were out. All she saw in the forest was burned greenery and thick smoke.

What of the caravan?

She squinted down the road, and choked with dismay. Every human being within her view was on his or her knees in the road, forehead and palms flat on the ground. It was the bow called the Grand Submission, taught to her people centuries ago by some distant emperor. Traders used it only when lives had been saved.

“Get up,” she croaked. “I mean it, get up!” I didn't
do it for you, she meant to add, but she was coughing again.

When she got herself under control, one of them crawled forward. To Daja's horror, it was
gilav
Chandrisa, covered in soot, burns all over her clothes and skin. “We know what is owed,” the
gilav
said without looking up. “We know what must be paid. What you have done wipes your name from the record of the
trangshi
. We will attest to that and speak for you to the council of our people. You will be
Tsaw'ha
again, and your home will be Tenth Caravan Idaram.”

S
he had not stopped all of the fire. Five people died. Others had lungs damaged by smoke. Rosethorn's burn ointment saw far too much use, among the villagers and among those of the caravan struck by flaming debris. Until their wounded healed, the Traders remained in Gold Ridge.

At least the valley had fresh water. The glacier had produced plenty of it once it was heated by the column of fire, and meltwater still poured into the lake and the wells. In the glacier valley Lady Inoulia ordered work to start on the copper mine, naming it “the Firetamer.” Already those who could be spared from repairs were bringing copper and copper ore out
of the ground. How much they could get before the snows fell was anyone's guess, but at least Gold Ridge had hope for the spring.

After the first day, Daja knew that her left hand was not hurt as badly as she had feared—it was sore, but only that. It
did
itch, as if the brass were a scab over a healing wound. As the nights got chilly, she found that it ached in the cold. She began to long for the warmth of southern Emelan.

At the very first opportunity, their teachers sat her down to examine her hand. Niko and Frostpine poured spells on the brass, to discover its nature. Nothing seemed to affect it, or to change its mild clasp on her flesh. She
was
able to peel some off, like old skin. More remained, on her palm and the back of her hand, with three strips passing between her fingers to connect them. The metal that she didn't peel away grew back loosely, so she kept pulling off what she could. When she left the peeled-off bits in a metal bowl, they merged like molten brass. If she put a strip of that on her wrist, it lengthened until its ends touched, forming a wristband that she could peel off like wax.

“It
might
go away eventually,” Niko said when they could think of nothing else to try on her hand. “I can't say for sure, much as I hate to admit it.”

Daja shrugged and tucked the brass-covered hand into her tunic pocket. “At least it doesn't hurt.”

On the third day after the fire, Yarrun was buried
in the small castle cemetery. Rosethorn and Briar planted one of the trees that Yarrun had loved so well at the head of his grave.

By the fourth day after the fire, Daja knew that she could use her hand just as she always had. No matter whether she cut up her food, wielded tools, or buttoned her tunics, the brass remained as flexible, and as sensitive, as her own skin. That night she lay awake for a long time, rubbing her metal-covered palm and thinking as hard as she had ever thought in her life.

In the morning, she took all of the brass she had put in the bowl and went to Frostpine with it. They talked long and hard, then called in Niko and talked some more. It was Niko who asked
gilav
Chandrisa to let them borrow the iron vine for a day. Once they had it, they summoned Rosethorn and Briar, and examined the vine inch by inch.

“You'll need a lot of iron for your project,” Frostpine told Daja when they took the vine back to the Trader camp. They settled it in Polyam's cart, strapping it in and covering it with blankets.

“I figure twenty rods for the longer parts in the frame—” She stopped, hearing footsteps behind them. They turned to see a group of Traders, each with staff in hand.
Gilav
Chandrisa held two staves: her own, and another. She gave the newer staff to Daja, who ran her fingers over the cap. It was crowned with a many-pointed star of inlaid brass wire—the insignia of
Tenth Caravan Idaram. Two flames, and a sailing ship half-sunk in waves, had been etched into the sides.

“If you are one of us, you require a staff,” said the
gilav
. “See that you carry it from now on.” She would not look Daja in the face. “When you
do
come to us, we shall see about proper
mimander
training for you.”

“It is a good thing you are young,” added the
mimander
. “There is time for you to unlearn bad habits, and begin to concentrate your power.”

Daja did not like the sound of that. She knew that
mimanders
focused all their attention on mastery of one thing, such as wind or rock. They would make her choose one aspect of her magic and forget the rest.

They would make her give up working with tools.

Of all the Traders standing there, only Polyam met her eyes. She also fell into step with them as Daja and Frostpine walked up the road to the castle.

“They could have been more polite about it,” grumbled Daja's teacher.

Polyam chuckled. “Come, come, Master Frostpine.
Tsaw'ha
have a dozen words that mean ‘thank you'—each with its drop of dislike. We don't like to
owe
. Our
gilav
won't be happy until the caravan's debt is paid in full.”

“Owing me doesn't seem to bother you,” Daja pointed out, knowing Polyam was right about thanks and bitterness.

“It does,” the Trader replied coolly. “But I know you
better than does my mother. I know the prices you paid for what you are. That eases the sting for me—a little, anyway.”

Daja worked on her project for an entire month as the weather got colder and the leaves fell. In the end, all of the Winding Circle mages helped her and Frostpine in their forging. Plant and thread magics gave their device the movement and flexibility that iron was not expected to have. Niko guided the placement of interwoven spells, while Tris touched the design with heat, just a drop, to make it as warm as living flesh.

Once the ironwork was done, Daja brought out the large bowl that held all of the liquid brass that she had pulled off her hand in the weeks since the fire. As the others watched, she stretched out small dollops of the stuff as she might pull taffy and draped them over the iron. Once the brass was gone, she let Sandry wrap the finished work in blue silk as she cleaned out the portable forge and returned it to the castle farrier.

That night, after Lark had blown out the candles and left the girls to sleep, Sandry uncovered the spelled lump of crystal that was her night-light. She tossed it from hand to hand for a moment before she asked, “Daja? Have you decided?”

Tris sat up in her own bed, and put on her glasses. “You haven't said a word, and Niko didn't want us bothering you.”

Daja realized what they meant. “I didn't know you were worried.”

“You should,” growled Tris. “You've been carrying that staff everywhere like it's a favorite toy.”

“It means a lot to me,” Daja said defensively, wishing the redhead didn't always press so hard. “You have no notion.”

“You're going with them, then.” Sandry's voice was soft. She could have been addressing her pillow, or her night-light.

“No,” Daja flatly replied.

The noble's eyes flashed. “
No
?”

Daja sighed. “I could give up our circle, perhaps, or I could give up smithing. I
think
I could, anyway—though I'm not entirely sure. But give up both? I thank you, but no. I've changed too much to go back.”

“Why didn't you
say
so before?” Tris demanded, lying back down.

Daja sighed. “I've been thinking about it. All right? May I go to sleep now?”

The next morning Daja was making her bed when Little Bear's hysterical barks and Shriek's answering whistles announced the arrival of guests. Hurriedly she tucked her work under her blanket and went to see what was going on. The newcomers were Traders—Chandrisa, the ride leader, the
mimander
, and Polyam. Knowing why they had come, Daja
fetched her new staff and took a seat beside the table, along with her three friends. Lark went for refreshments; Rosethorn summoned Niko and Frostpine. Daja realized that the women also guessed the reason for the Traders' visit.

First, however, there were Trader rituals for serious conversation to be gotten through. Once everyone had a seat, Lark served tea and cakes. The adults chatted about the aftermath of the fire as they politely sipped and ate. The four young people fed their cakes to the dog on the sly and tried to be patient.

Finally
gilav
Chandrisa put down her cup, and folded her hands in her lap. “We take the road at dawn,” she said flatly.

“The snows will begin in six days,” added the
mimander
, invisible behind his lemon-colored veils. No one questioned his certainty—
mimanders
often specialized in weather magic of some kind.

“You must pack and be in Polyam's cart at first light,” the
gilav
told Daja. “Do not hold up our departure.”

Daja picked up her staff with both hands. “I thank you, but I cannot accept this.” Getting to her feet, she offered the staff to Chandrisa. “I've been a
lugsha
for too long. I cannot give that up.” She swallowed hard. Even knowing her answer hadn't prepared her for how difficult it was to actually
say
the words. “I cannot give up my new home, and my new family. I would be grateful if you just took my name from the
record of
trangshi
. That way I can do business with the
Tsaw'ha
, without anyone being
qunsuanen
.”

Chandrisa looked at the staff and at Daja. “Our debt will be paid in full? You will not hold us owing?”

“Once I am no longer
trangshi
, we will be even,” Daja said. Taking a step closer to Chandrisa, she offered the staff again.

The
gilav
wrapped brown fingers around the wood, then let go. “Keep the staff, as a sign of friendship,” she said drily. “As a promise that we shall do business together. I hope it will please you when I say that our messenger went south two weeks ago, to correct the records of your name.”

Daja leaned the staff on her chair, biting her lip so as not to cry. She cleared her throat. “Tenth Caravan Idaram and I are clear, but there is another matter. I owe a personal debt, and I must pay it.”

Briar and Tris knew what she meant. They went into the girls' bedroom and returned with her creation, still in its blue silk wrapping.

Daja turned to Polyam. “If not for you, I never would have had a chance to wipe my name from the
trangshi
book.” Taking her work from Briar, she carried it over to Polyam's chair. “This is actually from all of us,” she told the woman quietly as Sandry pulled the silk wrappings away. Polyam's jaw dropped; Chandrisa and the two male Traders leaned forward, intent.

It was a metal leg, shaped entirely of thin iron rods and joints. Everything was covered in a gleaming brass
skin. Briar tickled the metal sole. It twitched, just as a living foot might twitch. Tris laid a hand on the shin, and the knee bent.

Polyam stretched out a hand that shook violently and touched the leg. She yanked her fingers away, shocked. “It's
warm!”

“It should act just as a real limb would,” Niko said. “We tested it enough. And you have the rest of today to try it out.”

“It will shape itself to your flesh,” explained Frostpine.

“You'll be able to take it off whenever you like,” Sandry put in.

“You can even bathe with it,” added Briar.

It was Tris who asked the question on everyone's mind: “Do you want to try it on?”

The room was absolutely silent. Even the dog sat quietly, his dark eyes on Polyam. Only Shriek moved, picking up crumbs from the table.

At last Polyam nodded.

Rosethorn and Lark helped her to remove her wooden peg and roll her legging up to bare what remained of her thigh. Gently Frostpine and Daja slid the open sleeve at the top of their creation over Polyam's stump, placing the leg so it matched the angle of her good leg. As they settled it, Frostpine showed her the brads to press on the uppermost rim of the metal, so it would relax enough for her to take it off or to put it back on.

Once the leg was settled, Polyam gasped as brass-coated iron shifted, molding itself to her flesh. “It lives!”

Daja watched the metal adjust, frowning absent-mindedly. All her power was bent on her work as it fit itself to Polyam. “It's supposed to,” she murmured.

The metal leg stiffened, then bent. “Work it as you might a real leg,” Frostpine urged.

The metal foot twitched. Very slowly the toes wriggled. Polyam braced her thigh with her hands, extended the metal limb, then pointed her foot.

“Try standing,” suggested Daja.

They had to assist her: she didn't seem to remember how to move with two good legs. Finally she was able to walk around the room and out onto the balcony alone.

“It shouldn't chafe,” Rosethorn called to her. “It's entirely covered with the brass skin. Daja will tell you, hers doesn't irritate her flesh at all.”

Polyam lifted her real leg onto the balcony rail, balancing entirely on her new limb. When she looked back at Daja, the girl held up her left hand and twiddled her fingers. The gold-colored brass glinted. “It's like it really
is
skin,” Daja explained. “That's what gave me the idea.”

Rosethorn took a jar of ointment out to Polyam. “If it
does
chafe, this should help. Just rub it wherever you have trouble.”

“Keep the limb clean,” Frostpine added. “It can be
washed, but I suggest a drop or two of oil in the foot joints every week, and a palmful into the knee.”

Polyam ran a hand over the metal encasing her thigh, then put both feet on the ground once more. No one mentioned that her good eye streamed tears. “I could wear
clothes
again,” she whispered.

“Even boots,” Lark suggested with a smile.

“You can ride,” was Sandry's contribution. “If you want, that is.”

“We tried to think of everything,” said Niko. “I hope you'll keep in touch and let us know how you fare.”

“If problems arise, send word to Winding Circle. We'll come to you,” added Frostpine. “But—I don't believe you will have problems.”