Briar's Book (12 page)

Sandry blew her small nose briskly and inspected Briar once she’d put the linen handkerchief away. “You need rest, and you need decent food,” she announced. “Rosethorn probably hasn’t done much better than you.”

“Look for yourself,” Daja remarked softly. Sandry turned.

Rosethorn had dismounted. Now she stood ankle deep in mud, arms wrapped tight around Lark, her face buried in Lark’s shoulder as the other woman held her. She didn’t seem to be crying; she just hung onto her friend for all she was worth.

Sandry gathered her skirts and went over to the women, sliding her own arms around Rosethorn’s waist. Daja followed her more slowly, to pat Rosethorn’s back. Briar went to stand nearby. Tris, crimson with emotion, glared at the guards as if daring them to comment.

Their corporal twitched his head. Quietly they turned their mounts and rode back to Summersea.

When Rosethorn drew out of Lark’s and Sandry’s holds, she said crossly, “I’m not crying, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just… tired. I needed to rest for a moment.”

Lark wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “No wonder. You two look worn to the bone, my dearest. And why not? Locked up for days, like jail, without your garden and only nursing to occupy you – I think Little Bear likes nursing more than you.” She drew Rosethorn uphill, toward Winding Circle. The four and Little Bear walked along. Lark continued, “And I bet Jokubas and his people were talking at you too.”

“As if this were my fault,” Rosethorn said blackly, and sniffed.

“But you’re all right now,” Sandry announced. “You’re both home safe, and we’re going to be fine.”

“The epidemic is far from over,” cautioned Lark. “We still have work.”

“But we’re where we should be. That’s the important thing,” Sandry replied cheerfully. “We’re all
home.”

S
oon after Rosethorn’s and Briar’s return, everyone but Tris went back to bed: Daja was exhausted from her work in the forge, Lark and Sandry from spelling cloth to keep disease at bay. Not long after they went to their rooms, novices came with fresh supplies of oils, powders, and clothing. Tris directed them to Lark’s workshop and watched as they placed their supplies along the wall. She noticed that the big makeshift table in the workshop had to be scrubbed, the wood cleaned of anything from the day before. Tris did that first; it was the only thing she could help them with. The dull work of blending fresh ingredients into a paste that blazed with magical strength, then rubbing it into cloth, was Lark’s and Sandry’s craft.

Once the table was clean, scrubbed with sand, and wiped down with an infusion of thyme leaves, Tris checked the cold-box. Rosethorn’s and Briar’s arrival had caught her by surprise. Until now Lark and Sandry had been too weary to eat anything but soup at the end of the day, and Daja had taken her meals with Frostpine and Kirel. Tris didn’t have the supplies she needed to feed the entire cottage again. Picking up two baskets, she walked out onto the spiral road that wound through the temple community. It would take her to the central kitchens at the Hub.

On her way back to Discipline, Tris didn’t realize she had company until long hands wrapped around one of her baskets and tugged. Looking up with a sharp comment ready for the interloper, she saw Dedicate Crane.

She surrendered the basket without an argument. Work was good for Crane. “You look
terrible,”
she informed him. “And doesn’t that wash off?” She pointed to the red thumbprint between his eyes. “Rosethorn and Briar still have theirs from this morning.”

“I spelled it to last for weeks,” Crane drawled. “It is better so, particularly when one is known to be exposed to the disease regularly. And I am sorry I do not meet your qualifications for male beauty. I have been working.”

“You look like you need a rest,” she replied. “It won’t do anyone good to have you fall ill from overwork.”

“You are too young to sound like my former governess,” Crane informed her as they walked across the road to Discipline. Little Bear came bounding out, set to give Tris his usual hysterical greeting. When he saw her companion, the dog raced back inside. On his frequent visits to the cottage after he had asked for Lark’s help, Crane had made his opinion of enthusiastic dogs very clear.

“They must be up,” said Tris, allowing the man to open the gate for her. “Little Bear is sticking close to Briar.”

“Fortunate Briar,” murmured Crane as they went inside.

The cottage’s inhabitants were seated at the table, clutching steaming cups of tea. Rosethorn’s head came up when she saw Crane.

“Turn right back around,” she said tartly. “I didn’t escape quarantine to get buckled into
your
harness.”

Tris took her basket from Crane and carried everything into the kitchen area. Sandry brought the man a chair from Lark’s workroom.

“Charming as ever,” Crane remarked as he arranged himself on the chair. “However did they manage to entertain you at Urda’s House?”

“Only you could make ‘Urda’s House’ sound like an ill wish,” Rosethorn growled.

Crane raised a single eyebrow. “I would have to care about the place to ill wish it,” he informed her. “I assume their own poor management is curse enough for them.”

“How would you know about their management or anything else?” demanded Rosethorn. “You wouldn’t sully the purity of your habit by going anywhere near the Mire.”

“Shall I point out that your mission of mercy to the impoverished resulted in your enforced stay?” drawled Crane. “On second thought, I shall not. You so frequently assure me you are attentive to all things that I must believe you spent your last week in quarantine by design.”

“Will you both just
stop?”
Lark asked wearily. “There’s nothing to be gained by bickering.” She smiled a thank you at Tris, who was setting bowls and plates on the table.

Sandry got up to help, but Tris waved her back into her seat. Within a few moments everyone was able to help themselves to the food sent by the temple’s finest cooks.

When Rosethorn put down her fork, Crane said, “With regard to your time – ”

“No!” Briar said hotly, glaring at Crane. “Let her be! Find somebody more important. She did her bit, and she needs rest!” When Rosethorn put a hand on his arm, he shook her off. “I know you swore to serve folk when you got dedicated,” he told her, “but you got to be sensible, and if you won’t speak up, I will.” He glared at Crane, who regarded him as if he were a bug. “Find one of them
great
mages that’s up to your weight,” insisted the boy.

“‘One of them great mages,’ ” Crane repeated tonelessly. “Are you serious?” He looked at each of the four, brows arched, mouth pursed. “None of you has the least notion, I take it?”

The young people stared at Lark, then Rosethorn, confused. Both women looked down, not meeting their charges’ eyes.

Tris scowled at Crane. “The least notion of what?”

Crane sighed and fanned himself with a linen handkerchief. “Rosethorn
is
a great mage. She is one of the most powerful with regard to medicines and plants in all the Pebbled Sea and its environs.”

“He says one of because he means he’s another,” muttered Rosethorn. She poured herself a fresh cup of tea.

Crane sniffed. “Surely that is obvious.” To the four he said, “Winding Circle is the rival of the university at Lightsbridge in the renown and quality of its mage-teachers. It is famed from Yanjing to Blaze-Ice Bay.” He sighed. “You didn’t know about Winding Circle either. How charming.”

“We knew that Niko’s a great mage,” said Tris. “Someone we met last fall told us.”

Crane inclined his head in agreement as regally as any king. “Lark too is a great mage, for all she came to it later in life,” he went on. “Frostpine is the greatest of the smith-mages of our time. None other can work all kinds of metal, except for young Daja, here.”

Briar, Sandry, and Tris looked at Daja, who shrugged. She had known of Frostpine’s reputation for a year, but had not chosen to speak of it much. Frostpine wanted to teach her: nothing else mattered. Crane went on, “You four have the honor of studying with teachers of royal magnitude. How you could be ignorant of their stature – ”

The young people looked down, embarrassed. “Oh, cork it,” said Rosethorn, glaring at the man. “Don’t belabor the point. It happens we are the best teachers for their talents – that’s all they ever needed to know. If you have something really important to say, say it. I want to go back to bed.”

Crane spread his handkerchief on the table and fussed with it, folding it into a series of tiny pleats. After a moment he said quietly, “Very well. Here it is, with no flourishes: most of those sent to work with me are hopeless. I have no time to both teach them and uncover the nature of this disease. You know this work must be done quickly and accurately, by masters, not green students.”

“I’m so tired,” Rosethorn muttered. She looked up, meeting Crane’s eyes. “You don’t need me. You have a diagnosis oil; you must be halfway to a cure.”

“If I am, it is news to me,” replied Crane acidly.

“Finding the oil was luck. As far as divining the heart of the disease, I have done test after test, without result.” He took a deep breath. “We have our differences, but you know – I would hope you know – that I respect your gifts and your knowledge. You are needed.”

Briar was uneasy, hearing so proud a man do what sounded too close to begging for comfort. He knew without even reaching out that the girls felt it too. He wanted to offer to help, but there was too much unpleasantness between him and Crane. In the man’s eyes he was a low-bred thief – Briar did steal the
shakkan
from Crane’s greenhouse – and in Briar’s experience Money-Bags like Crane never changed their minds about people like him.

“I’ll help.” Rosethorn looked at Crane. “You knew I would.”

Crane relaxed, giving something that sounded like a sigh of relief. “I thought you might want me to beg just a while longer.”

“Once they stop fussing, they really do well together,” Lark explained to the young people. With a glare at the other two adults she added, “They just have to get the fuss out of the way.”

“She has no system,” began Crane.

“He’d rather criticize how other people work,” added Rosethorn.

“You see what I mean,” Lark told the four.

“We’ve never handled a brand-new disease, though we know the theory!” Crane pointed out quietly. “Finding cures for the current manifestation of old diseases is our strongest area of expertise.”

“You tried all the procedures for known diseases?” Rosethorn asked suddenly. “The smallpox ones, and the measles ones? Just in case?”

Crane looked down his lofty nose. “You must be mistaking me for an apprentice,” he told her coolly. “It was the first thing I did.”

Rosethorn made a face. “AH right. Speaking of apprentices – ”

Crane looked at Briar. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” snapped Rosethorn as Briar glared at Crane. “You don’t have to work with him – ”

“I don’t want him in my greenhouse.”

“He’s thorough, he does exactly what he’s told, and he has the steadiest hands of anyone in Winding Circle,” Rosethorn informed Crane.

Briar gaped at her. So much praise from Rosethorn was unnerving. Until the start of quarantine, he could count on his fingers the number of times she’d so much as said “Good job,” and still have plenty of fingers left.

Crane raised his brows. “I know he possesses steady hands. He is a pickpocket.”

“You’re in no position to refuse,” Rosethorn told him. “I need to know if he can do this. There are too few of us who have any aptitude for it. If he’s one, we’ll find out.”

Crane sighed, and looked at Briar. “Keep out of my way,” he warned, getting up.

Briar was about to spit on the floor to show his opinion of the man, but Rosethorn caught his eye. He didn’t need to mind-speak with her to see the warning in her face.

Lark put out a hand to delay Crane’s departure. “Sandry, the new masks and gloves.” Sandry darted into their workroom as Lark asked Crane, “How are you on the spelled robes and foot covers?”

“We have enough for tomorrow and the day after,” Crane replied. “I suppose we will need smaller ones, though, for the boy.” He said it without looking at Briar.

Sandry returned with a metal box. She squinted as she handed it to Crane; the other three turned their faces away from the blaze of magic coming from the protections on the box and from its contents.

“What’s the matter with them?” Crane wanted to know.

“They see magic,” explained Lark. “Don’t you?”

“No,” Crane admitted. “I have a visualization potion I use when I need to see it, but I confess, it makes my skin break out. Rosethorn?”

She sighed. “I know. Dawn. Get some sleep.”

Crane thanked Lark and walked out into the gray afternoon.

“I don’t like him,” Briar growled softly.

“You don’t have to,” said Rosethorn, getting to her feet with a yawn.

“I won’t do it,” retorted Briar. “I just won’t.”

Rosethorn lifted her own eyebrows, enough like Crane that Briar, who’d never seen a resemblance before now, blinked at her. “There are adult mages, rejoicing in great power and knowledge, who would
kill
for the chance to work for Dedicate Crane,” she informed him. Then her mouth twitched. “Of course, they don’t know him personally.”

Sandry giggled.

“It won’t kill either of us, though we may wish it had,” said Rosethorn. “I’m going back to bed. So should you – we’re due at the greenhouse first thing tomorrow.”

Briar, about to argue, choked. He had been inside the Air Temple’s greenhouse only once, to steal the
shakkan.
After that, he wasn’t even allowed to loiter near it, to glimpse at the unknown plant-treasures inside.

“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” asked Rosethorn, her voice a little too innocent. “Crane’s workroom is inside the greenhouse.” She sauntered into her room and closed the door.

“She must feel
some
better if she’s tormenting people,” said Lark, standing. “I’d better get to work.” She walked into her workroom. Sandry followed and closed the door as Tris and Daja gathered the dishes.