The Will of the Empress

6

Once the empress and Briar vanished into the long greenhouses, servants appeared with ground cloths to spread on the grass. The nobles occupied benches or cloths in the sun to await Berenene’s return. Small groups wandered through a complex of flower gardens nearby, while Rizu invited Daja to sit with her and some of Berenene’s other ladies-in-waiting. Sandry, unwatched for a moment, stepped back under a shady tree. She looked on as Jak, Finlach, and other men who had eyed Berenene as they hovered around Sandry formed a clump of watchers. Their eyes were fixed on the greenhouses as they muttered to one another.

“Silly amdain,” a man said near her right shoulder. Sandry glanced back and up. She had seen him in the crowd, the hunter who had been so angry with Chime. He was a tall man even not on horseback, with glossy dark blond hair, direct brown eyes, and a clever mouth. It was a face that was made for smiling, which he was doing at that very moment.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, knowing amdain meant fool in Namornese.

“Her Imperial Majesty sets her pretty boys to courting you, and the moment she isn’t here to make them hop, they start sulking about her and ignoring you. In their shoes, I wouldn’t grumble about her walking off with your friend.” He stood loosely, his green coat open, his hands in the pockets of his baggy black trousers. “I’d be making certain you remembered my name when you went home tonight.”

Sandry raised her chin. “If you were present earlier, you’d know I don’t care for flattery.”

He grinned down at her. “What flattery? I’m talking common sense. Here you are, all the way from Emelan. You have to be more interesting than most of my friends, who know nothing but the roads between their lands and the imperial palaces.”

Sandry covered a giggle. He wasn’t as obviously handsome as redheaded Finlach or swarthy Jak, but he was good-looking in a friendly, approachable way. I wonder if his nose got that flat bit in the middle when someone hit it? she asked herself. “Forgive me,” she said with a smile of her own. “You must think I’m dreadfully conceited.”

“No, but you must feel like bait at the moment,” he told her. He offered her a large hand. “I’m Pershan fer Roth. Shan.”

Sandry let him take her hand. “Sandrilene fa Toren. Sandry.” His grip was warm, strong, and nicely brief, after so many men had already tried to make a romance of a handclasp. “Let’s see,” she murmured, looking at him. “Are you a cleham? Bidis? Saghad? Giath?” The last title was equal to that of duke.

“No, no, no, and no. My father’s the giath, my older brother the heir. I’m just Shan,” he said with a scapegrace grin. “I’m Master of the Hunt. In other words, I tell the servants what to do, and they make all the arrangements.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you enjoy the post,” Sandry remarked.

“It beats crop management for my father and brother. Here I’ve little to do except inspect the hunting gear and animals from time to time, scout new places to hunt, flirt with pretty girls, distract their mothers and chaperones for my friends, and make Her Imperial Majesty laugh. The life of a younger son at the empress’s personal court.”

“Are there many of you here?” asked Sandry. “I would think most couldn’t afford the life.”

“Oh, Her Imperial Majesty gives us posts with salaries that help us survive,” Shan replied with a casual shrug. “She likes handsome men, and she’d be the first to tell you those of us who depend on her for a living are very devoted to her interests. We had better be.”

“What did you mean before, she set her pretty boys on me?” Sandry asked. She had figured it out, but she wondered what this outspoken man would say.

Shan dug his hands in his pockets. “You’re not very good at playing the empty-headed noble,” he informed her. “Of course you know our mistress would prefer that you and your fortune be confined strictly to Namorn from now on.”

Sandry had suspected as much, and hoped he would report her answer to her cousin. “That’s not up to her, or to Jak or Fin or anybody. I make my own choices.”

Shan grinned at her. “Very fiery,” he said with approval. “She’s had people oppose her before, you know. It never quite worked out as they wished it to. The will of the empress is not easily ignored.”

She sniffed in disdain. Then something made her add, “Besides, I’d never marry any man who’s so obviously in love with someone else, like they are. Isn’t my cousin a bit old for them?”

“Being imperial inspires a great deal of passion,” her companion replied. “Money inspires more passion still. I’m surprised you don’t know that, being a viymese and educated and all. I hear you mage students run wild at the temple and mage schools.”

Sandry fiddled with a button and ordered herself not to blush at the sudden turn in the conversation. “I dislike passion, and I was much too young for it at Winding Circle,” she said firmly, watching the courtiers mingle like so many butterflies. “If your friends try it on me, they’ll only be disappointed.”

Shan studied her for a moment, long enough that Sandry felt the weight of his attention on her. She looked up into his puzzled face.

“You really think you can defy her,” he remarked slowly. “You really think you’ll beat her. Sandry, nobody beats Her Imperial Majesty. Not in the long run. She’s as beautiful and as treacherous as the Syth, and at least the Syth is limited just to weather. If I were you, I’d do the wise thing and accept one of her pets. Jak’s a good sort. Not particularly clever, but easygoing and cheerful. Once you’re married, the empress will move on to some other game and you can go where you please, as long as you produce an heir.”

Here it was again, the ghost in the corner of her life, the one she had been sick of years ago. She had escaped it at Winding Circle, only to run into it again the moment she returned to noble society. She hated it. Why do people insist on seeing me as a doll dressed up in wedding clothes? she thought, furious. I’m a person with skills and friends and worth of my own beyond my fortune in lands and money. Beyond being an heiress! And to be told I’m not just a wedding doll, but one that will fold up the moment Berenene frowns at me—it’s just too much!

“You must think I have the will of a jelly,” she told Shan tartly. “That I’m one of those sweet noble girls who does as she’s told.”

“If you’re not, I’d advise you give it a try just this once,” Shan told her gravely. “Berenene is implacable. And I’d warn your friend, Viynain Briar, if I were you. None of us would dare to raise a hand or even to criticize Her Imperial Highness, but him? Jak’s too good a soul to think it, but I wouldn’t put it past Quenaill or someone else to arrange an accident for Briar, to keep him from ousting anyone she favors. I wouldn’t even be surprised if Fin bundled him up and dropped him off a cliff some night, viynain or no. His uncle is a viynain with a soft spot for Fin, and he’s head of the Mages’ Society of all Namorn.”

“Why do you care?” demanded Sandry. “Why should you care what happens to us?”

Shan chuckled. “Because I want to marry you myself, and stay on the good side of your magical friends,” he said teasingly. “It would be a shame to have a bride who weeps for her friends all the time.”

Sandry frowned, but a smile kept tugging her mouth. It was hard to take Shan seriously.

Shan’s grin broadened. “See? You like me already. I’m housebroken, well-trained, not so handsome that all the other wives will be flinging themselves at me ....”

Sandry laughed outright. “Are you always silly?” she asked when she caught her breath.

“Always,” Shan told her. “It’s part of my charm. Did I mention I’m charming?”

“Just tell me you’re not serious about marrying me,” replied Sandry. “Truly, I mean to return to the south when autumn comes.”

“But you’ll break Jak’s and Fin’s hearts,” protested Shan.

Sandry giggled again.

“You watch. Berenene will find out that they didn’t court you in her absence and the fun will begin.” Shan scratched his jaw. “No, she doesn’t care for it when people don’t hop to. They’ll have to do something really desperate, like, oh, rescue you from a rampaging bear or something.”

“I’ll remember to be wary of bears, then,” Sandry replied solemnly. “Do many of them get inside the palace walls?”

Shan leaned back against the tree behind them. “I have a feeling the population is about to increase.” His face was sober and earnest, but his eyes danced. “Bear importation will be the newest fashion. We can hold hunts through the palace galleries. Everyone will buy new wardrobes, and the grand prize winner will carry you off over his saddle.”

Sandry sighed. “I think I’d prefer to marry one of the bears.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Shan told her earnestly. “My father is one, and he’s gone through three wives. Is it true that your friend Daja walks through burning buildings?”

“Ask her yourself,” Sandry replied impetuously, holding out her hand. “Come. I’ll introduce you.” As he wrapped a very large palm around hers, she felt an agreeable ripple of gooseflesh course along her arms.

Rizu and her circle of friends sat or reclined on the grass in a loose arrangement with Daja at their center, joking and laughing together. When Sandry approached with Shan, the Namornese ladies greeted him happily and made room for him and Sandry.

“Oh, sure,” said Shan as he took a space between Rizu and Sandry. “Now that I come to you with another woman, you’ll happily let me join you.” To Sandry, he said, “Would you believe half of these ladies have broken my heart?”

Rizu slapped his broad shoulder. “Tell us you didn’t enjoy it.” To Sandry, she said, “Be careful of this one. A few jokes with him and you’re in a secluded little nook with his hands where they shouldn’t be!”

“Pershan fer Roth, this is my friend, Daja Kisubo,” Sandry said, introducing them. Deliberately testing them and him, she added, “Daja, Shan says it’s the empress’s will that I marry one of those young men who hovered around me in the Hall of Roses.” From the cynical smiles of the courtiers, she saw that Shan had told her the truth, and that the empress’s plan was common knowledge.

Daja clasped Shan’s hand, smiling. “I hope the empress has some years to wait for that marriage,” she said lazily, turning her face up to the sun. “Sandry’s made up her mind to go home before the mountain passes close. She’s just here to inspect her estates and return to Emelan. Unless your bucks mean to chase her to the border?”

The young ladies around them cried aloud at this, protesting that Sandry would never see the best of Dancruan if she didn’t stay for at least one winter’s social season.

“Then she wouldn’t have to worry about going home,” Rizu announced with a broad smile. “She’d be frozen to this place!”

Once inside the main greenhouse, Briar expected the empress to drift along, pointing out this sight and that, attended by bowing gardeners. And I’d’ve been dead wrong, he thought.

It was true, the gardeners in sight had looked up when the door closed behind the lady and her guest, but they immediately returned to their work when they saw who had come in. Next, the empress had opened a drawer in a table that stood against the outside wall and pulled out a worn pair of gardener’s gloves, which she then tugged onto her hands. Briar watched as she briskly walked over to tables that held pots and boxes of flowering plants.

“Most of these are for gifts,” she explained to Briar, inspecting potted lilies for mites on the undersides of their leaves. “The guild heads, ambassadors, and my fellow monarchs claim to prize what comes from my garden, so from time to time I gratify them with a plant. Coleus is always popular. The leaf colors go very well with the colors favored by those who live in east Namorn and Yanjing, and it brings cheer during wintertime. The same with cyclamen.” She caressed samples of each with gentle fingers, pinching off a wilted leaf here and there. “My goodness. What on earth ...”

Briar sighed. The greenhouse plants had noted his presence. At first the ones closest to him began to move, bending toward him or turning their flowers toward him as if he were the sun. As he watched, the more distant plants began to shift as if they could crane to see him. They reached out with leaves like hands, wanting his touch and his influence. “Sorry,” he told the empress, thinking to the plants, Slop that! Before you get me in trouble!

The plants began to bristle, turning sharp edges outward and stretching out thorns if they had them. If anyone tries to trouble you, they will soon learn you have friends, their quivering stems seemed to say. They will learn the world can be filled with green enemies.

Now, enough! Briar told them impatiently. Is that how you would treat this nice lady, who gives you rich earth and water and helps her people keep the itching things from your leaves and roots? It’s because of her that you sit warm in here when the cold wind makes your house rattle. She saves you, her and her friends, from the white death of snow and ice. She ties you with cloth when you get too heavy for your stems, and she gives you good things to eat. It’s her that gives the others their instructions to look after you and care for you, too.

One after another, the plants that surrounded them lifted the surfaces of their leaves and the positions of their stems. Flowers turned their open faces toward the empress, who watched them all without giving away her feelings.

She smells like us sometimes, said the roses and gardenias. She is quick with the clippers and the fork. She has touched each of us, often. She handles us gently.

“It’s all right,” Briar said gruffly. “They just needed reminding of who they owe this soft living to.” He suddenly remembered to whom he spoke. “Your Imperial Majesty.” He glared at the plants within his view. “They didn’t mean to distress you. They like you.”

“I’m grateful, Viynain,” Berenene replied. “This is the first time I ever had to wonder what might happen to someone they dislike. Actually, I had no idea they had thoughts or feelings.”

“Not like we know them, Majesty,” Briar explained. “Your Imperial Majesty” was just too much of a mouthful to use each time he spoke to her. “They don’t have brains, exactly, but their bodies remember things like who waters ’em, who clips ’em, and so on. They just were so excited, feeling me come in, they forgot themselves a bit.” Now calm down! he ordered them silently. Act like I’m just another person! He glared at the vine that had reached out to twine around one of his hands and insert its tendrils up his baggy sleeve.

The vine released him and returned to the trellis it had adorned before Briar had come into the greenhouse. Berenene watched it go. “I take it this happens to you fairly often,” she commented wryly.

“Only till they get used to me being around,” replied Briar. “They’re like kids—children,” he explained. “They get all worked up, and they need time to calm down. You should see them around my teacher, Rosethorn. They can’t not touch her when she’s by. It’s like she’s the sun, except then the moss and funguses would stay clear of her, and they don’t. Are those potted palms?” He wandered over to the stand of large, tree-like plants, hoping to distract her from thinking about plants on the move. In his travels he had discovered that some people reacted oddly to it. Stopping next to the nearest one, he ran an appreciative hand over its trunk.

“It’s vanity, I know,” said the empress. “But it’s so satisfying, knowing I have a bit of southern warmth when winter shrieks down off the Syth.”

Briar smiled. “Winters are always hard if you like seeing green things about you,” he admitted. “I tried to get my teacher to visit Dedicate Crane’s greenhouse—he was my other plant teacher, back at Winding Circle—but she’s old-fashioned. She growls how plants are supposed to have their own season, then surrounds herself with potted plants all winter long. She just can’t get the tropicals to thrive in her workshop.”

“I’ve read Crane’s book, you know,” Berenene said, leading him farther back into the greenhouse. As they walked, the gardeners continued to work. When the empress moved inside the palace she was followed and preceded by bows and curtsies. Idly, Briar wondered, how long do you s’pose it took her to break her gardeners of the habit?

There was a wave of motion here, but it was directed at Briar, and it came from the plants. He called some of his power up and let it trickle away in the tiniest of threads, running to every plant and tree in the building. He did the same in the next greenhouse, and the next, and the next. The empress had a complex of them, each closed by its own doors and connected to its neighbors by wooden halls.

“The things you learn,” Berenene said as she led the way into yet another greenhouse. “Mites. I had two greenhouses that connected, and the treacherous little nalizes got into everything. Once again I had to start from scratch. That’s the problem with gardening. One mistake will do more than just teach you. It can wipe you out.” She stood back and smiled. “I understand you have an interest in shakkans, Briar Moss. Would you care to grant your opinion of mine?”

He had seen bigger collections in the imperial palace in Yanjing, but nowhere else. This greenhouse had been divided in half with glass and yet another door. In one half, miniature trees and the gear to care for them were arranged with an eye to the light that filled the greenhouse. A number of the step-like shelves on Briar’s left were empty, but the marks that water, earth, and light left on the unstained wood indicated that upward of twenty plants were missing. “Your pines?” Briar asked, nodding toward the empty spots.

Berenene favored him with a warm smile. “Exactly so. When I think they have a chance, I bring them onto my windows and terraces. I tend to be more cautious with the ones that are not evergreens. It’s not unknown for the Syth to blow in a night’s frost even this late in the spring.”

Looking around, Briar saw a miniature forest of Quoy maples, each perfectly set in its large, flat tray. He was drawn to it like iron to a lodestone. The emperor of Yanjing would wilt to have something like this, Briar thought as he touched the miniature leaves with gentle fingers. He can’t grow maples at all, let alone a forest arrangement. The trees nearly purred under his touch, welcoming the gentle trickle of his green magic as it flowed along their stems. From there, Briar found several shapes of rhododendrons, all blooming beautifully. A step away he found miniature apple trees in bloom. He moved from dish to dish, tree to tree, noting which had been wired to follow a particular shape, which trees displayed new grafts, which were very old and which were only made to look old. He lost all track of time and his companion as he inspected each and every plant. All were lovingly tended and in the best of health.

When he looked up, Berenene was gone. Briar frowned. How long did I pay her no mind? Did I vex her, ignoring her like that, and she went stomping off? he wondered. She seemed to understand a fellow might get caught up, but it’s hard to tell what way empresses will jump.

Then he saw spring green motion through the blurred glass of the divider. She had gone into the other half of the greenhouse. He followed her, passing through the glass door and closing it in his wake. This side of the building was hot and damp, as hot as the jungles of southern Yanjing. It was an entirely different world, filled with wildly gorgeous, complex flowers. There were as many different containers for them as there were colors and shapes of flower, ranging from pots to stick holders and slabs of cork. The empress handled the blooms very carefully, inspecting them for problems, shifting them if she felt the light was too strong.

There were rolls of muslin at the inside top of the peaked roof, each with a cord that dangled to within arm’s reach at the center of the room. Briar noted small, ship-like cleats on the metal strips between panes of glass.

Curtains, he guessed. In case she thinks the light’s too strong in one part of the room, she can pull down the curtains and secure the cord so the muslin’s close to the glass. And when she says so, they roll them up again.

He knew instinctively that she was the only gardener in charge of this room, though she might have helpers to do the basic work when she could not. But these flowers bloomed with good care, and her face glowed with happiness as she tended them. Even more than the shakkan house, this was her place to be happy.

“Did you see all you wished?” she asked without looking at him. “Are they not splendid?”

“The emperor of Yanjing would perish of envy if he knew,” Briar assured her. “Even his collection isn’t as good as yours.”

“I should send him something he does not have, then,” murmured Berenene, moving on to the next plant. “As my thanks for his delightful gift of cloth. What do you think of my orchids?”

Briar jammed his hands in his pockets. He didn’t entirely approve of orchids. “Parasites,” he said, one gardener to another.

The empress chuckled. “They are not. They don’t destroy, and real parasites do. Not that I object to parasites outside my garden,” she said knowingly. “I am surrounded by them, all as gaudy and pretty as my orchids. That’s what courtiers are, you know.”

Briar shrugged. “Turn ’em loose and let them do something worthwhile,” he suggested, going over to eye a pot of striped orchids. They moved uneasily, sensing his disapproval.

“Ah, but what I think is worthwhile for my nobles and what they feel is worthwhile are so often different things,” Berenene explained. In the light her creamy skin was luminous. “The problem with nobles is that they never have enough. They always want more. They would get into mischief without my eye on them, and some of that mischief would be directed at me. I would rather keep them in my palatial hothouse, where I can prune them quickly if they show signs of plotting.”

“Seems to me they’d plot more if you kept ’em too close,” Briar said, “but I’m not as good with people as I am with plants.” He scowled at the striped orchids, which had begun to tremble. “Stop that,” he commanded them. “I won’t hurt you, now I know you aren’t really parasites. Here.” He stretched a hand out to them and gently touched their stems, sending calm into their veins. “I’d never hurt you.” Thinking of pruning, he added, “Not unless it was good for you.”

Berenene shook her head as she carefully watered a series of boat orchids. “Now I do not understand why you talk to them, and why you might allow them to speak to you. I love them because they are so beautifully silent.”

“Ouch.” Briar winced. “I suppose then that you’ve got the worst job in the world, with folk yattering at you all day.”

The empress laughed. “I’ve grown accustomed. As long as I have my refuges here, I shall do well.” She looked up at the sun and sighed. “I suppose I’ve left them unwatched long enough. It’s nearly midday, and they get cranky when they are not fed.” She caressed a blazing pink tree of life orchid. “Like my beauties, only my nobles are noisier by far. Well, I have my beauties among them, too, to console me.” She removed her gloves and put them away, then left the orchids and walked over to Briar.

“Like that Jakuben, and Finlach?” he asked, following her out through the shakkans.

“Ah, them I am willing to share,” replied Berenene. “Here. This will be quicker.” They left through a side door in the wooden corridor, one that opened onto a flagstone path through the open gardens. “It’s my hope that one of my lovely lads will convince my dear cousin Sandry to remain in Namorn.”

You’ll need more to convince her than she’ll get from those cockawhoops. Briar thought it, but he did not say it. And it’s not my place to tell her Sandry has a will of steel and a mind of her own. Berenene will have to learn that by herself. For the sake of her plants, I hope the lesson doesn’t sting too bad.

Out on the grass, Daja and her companions continued to wait as the palace clocks chimed the passage of one hour, then two. Watching those around her, Daja decided it was like being among turtles. Everyone basked in the sun, contentment on their face. Even the men who joined them, like Jak and Quenaill, did it.

“Is this a northern thing?” Sandry asked after the clock marked the second hour, adjusting the seam in one woman’s gown with her magic. “You come out to bake like buns on a tray?”

“Wait till you survive a Dancruan winter,” advised the black-haired and black-eyed Caidlene fa Sarajane, a lady-in-waiting. “Then you’ll love the sun, too.”

“But it’s terrible for your skin,” Sandry pointed out. “You’ll get all leathery in time.”

“We have lotions and creams and balms for our skin,” said Rizu, leaning her head back so the sun gilded her face. “And winter is much too long. We’ll risk it.”

Daja looked around. “I thought I saw older people inside, but no one here is older than thirty,” she remarked.

Their companions chuckled.

“We’re supposed to keep up with her,” Rizu explained, smiling. “Mornings, you never know if she’ll take it into her head to go riding—”

“Or hunting,” said Jak, who sat cross-legged on Sandry’s other side. “Or to the beach,” he continued dreamily, “or to market ...”

“The older ones rejoin us later in the day if there’s nothing else going on,” Rizu said. “Today Her Imperial Majesty wanted those closer in age to Lady Sandrilene to meet her, and she didn’t want it formal.”

“The Hall of Roses is for fun.” Caidlene plaited grass stems to make a bracelet. She had already outfitted half of their group with them. “The Hall of the Sun is for the full court and more private ceremonies, and the Hall of Swords is for audiences, elegant receptions, and the like.”

“So it’s like a code to life at court,” commented Sandry. “If you know where people are, you have a good idea of what’s going on.”

Daja smiled. “Writing a guidebook for us, Sandry?” she asked. “Or for you?”

Sandry made a rude noise in reply.

“What’s going on is that our empress took your friend into the greenhouses, where she won’t allow most of us,” grumbled Quenaill, his hazel eyes smoky.

“Speak for yourself,” Rizu said. “She lets some of her ladies come in.”

“Well, their friend Briar is hardly a lady,” Jak pointed out. “And he’d better mind his manners with Her Imperial Majesty.”

Sandry and Daja exchanged a smile. Nobody makes Briar mind his manners but Rosethorn, thought Daja, knowing that Sandry thought the same thing. And Briar’s not such a fool as to offend the empress, no matter what these court fluff-heads think. “He’s a green mage,” she said aloud, choosing the diplomatic comment. “If she’s got a problem with bugs or something, she’ll want his advice. Does she keep shakkans?”

“Dozens,” replied Jak. “They’re her second favorites, after her precious orchids.”

“Well, then, there you are,” Daja said. Movement tickled her skin: Rizu was curiously tracing the outline of the metal on the back of her hand. It made Daja shiver. She smiled shyly at Rizu and continued: “Briar’s made himself rich on fashioning shakkans. She probably wanted his advice. They’re tricky creatures.”

“They’ve been in there a long time for him just to inspect some runty trees,” grumbled Quenaill. “I saw how he looked at her.”

Rizu laughed outright. “Quen, you silly creature, only think how insulted she would be if he hadn’t,” she teased, nudging Quenaill with her foot. “When she goes to two hours of effort to dress every morning, men had better look at her!”

“Women, too, eh, Rizu?” snapped Fin.

Now all of the women laughed. “Next you’ll be jealous of the sun and the moon for looking at her,” said one of Rizu’s friends with a wicked smile. “And her mirror.”

“Her bath,” suggested Caidlene, her eyes sparkling. “He’ll break into the imperial chambers some night—”

“When she’s not there,” Shan interrupted. “Never break into her chambers when she’s there. The last fellow who tried is nothing but a greasy spot.”

“He thought she would like a pretend kidnapping, for the sake of romance,” murmured Rizu in Daja’s ear. “She didn’t. Only a dunderhead would have thought she’d like it.”

“Anyway,” Caidlene said, glaring at Rizu and Shan for interrupting, “Fin will burst into her chambers and attack her bathtub. Then our new friend the smith mage here ...”

She winked at Daja. “She’ll turn Fin into a bathtub so he can embrace Her Imperial Majesty at long last.”

“And he’ll get soap in his mouth,” joked Shan. “His borscht will never taste the same.”

“Tubs don’t eat soup,” replied another man with a grin. “They’re always being emptied.”

Fin grimaced. “Don’t listen,” he told Sandry. “Do you believe these are my friends?”

Daja watched Sandry giggle and wave his remark away.

It seems she likes a bit of flattery, whatever she might say, Daja thought. Though if any of them think that Sandry might mistake flattery for true affection, they will be in for a sad awakening. She’s too levelheaded for that. Or she always was.

Sandry glanced at Daja and smiled crookedly.

She still is, Daja told herself with satisfaction.

Shan draped his grass bracelet over one of Sandry’s ears. She laughed and took it off, then threw it, discus-like, to Daja. Within a moment, grass bracelets flew through the air as their group reached and grabbed, everyone trying to collect the most.

“Ah-hah,” Shan said, getting to his feet. It was a long look from the ground to the top of his head, Daja noticed. Now the other courtiers were rising to their feet. In the distance they could see the empress and Briar emerge from behind the greenhouses, Berenene on the young man’s arm.

As most of the court surged forward, Daja kept Rizu back. “They aren’t, well, courting Her Imperial Majesty, are they?” she asked quietly. “She’s old enough to be their mother—or at least, mother to some of them.”

Rizu flashed her lovely smile. “Well, it’s the fashion, for everyone to be in love with her. She makes sure of that,” she replied, her voice as soft as Daja’s. “If they’re hanging on her every word, she says, they stay out of trouble. Besides, if she makes one of them her favorite, like some in the court, they can make their fortunes on offices like that of Chancellor of the Imperial Purse and Governor of the Imperial Granaries.”

“Would she marry any of them?” Daja inquired, awed.

“Hardly!” Rizu said, amused. “Give a husband governance over her? No one but Her Imperial Majesty even knows who fathered her three daughters.” She tugged at an eardrop, smiling wistfully. “Being a woman with power in Namorn is nearly impossible. She’s managed it by never letting us take her for granted. She can ride all day, dance all night, and then wants to know why your work isn’t done the next morning—hers is. She has spies and mages by the barge load, and she pays close attention to them. Men have tried to get control over her, and failed. Nowadays, they don’t even try. But that’s her.” Rizu shook her head. “She’s one of a kind.”

Tris was absorbed in a history of the Namornese empire when she realized it was stuffy in the small library she had settled in. Putting her book aside, she got to her feet and went to open a shuttered window. Leaning out, she smelled lightning mixed with water. In the distance she could feel a rapidly climbing build of wind. A storm! she thought, excited. And with so much water-smell to it, I bet it’s on the lake. I wonder if I can get a look—it’s worth the image-headache, to see a storm on the legendary Syth.

Her student Keth had described the lake’s storms to her so eloquently that Tris would even forego reading to watch one. She placed her book where she had found it, closed the shutters, and went in search of a view. Turning a hall corner, she nearly ran into the chief mage, Ishabal Ladyhammer.

“I’m sorry, Viymese,” Tris said. “I wasn’t looking.”

Ishabal smiled. “In any case, I was looking for you, Viymese Chandler. Her Imperial Majesty and the court are sitting down to afternoon refreshments, and would like you to join them.”

“Must I?” Tris asked, pleading in spite of herself. “I think you’ve got a nasty storm brewing in that oversized pond of yours, and I’d love to take a look at it. I’ve heard so much about them.”

Ishabal chuckled. “Our weather mages predict no storms for today.”

Tris straightened. It had been a long time since anyone had doubted her word on the weather. “Are they always right?” she asked coolly.

Ishabal raised black brows that made an odd contrast with her silver hair. “No weather mage is always right,” she replied in a tone that said this was a fact of nature.

“With normal weather, that’s untampered with?” Tris shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll come to these refreshments of yours once I’ve had a look at the Syth, if you’ll direct me to the outer wall.”

Ishabal covered a smile with one well-groomed hand. “I shall do better. I shall take you there myself.” She stopped a passing footman with a snap of the fingers and murmured something to him. As he hastened back the way she had come, Ishabal pointed to another hallway. “This way.” She led Tris down through the axis of the palace, into a wide room. It held an enclosed staircase that led onto the inner wall that surrounded the palace. From there they took an enclosed bridge to the outer wall that followed High Street on one side of the palace, and the cliffs on the other three sides.

“Don’t you like walking in the open air?” Tris asked on the bridge to the outer wall. “Why enclose your stairs and bridges?” She wasn’t exactly complaining. She could no longer simply let the open air pour over her at will, though sometimes she risked headaches and bewilderment in the open wind just because she missed it so much.

Ishabal smiled ruefully. “Why? The god Sythuthan will turn your breath into a frozen diamond necklace at winter’s height,” she replied. “We dare not walk outside up here at that season—these stairs and bridges are the closest we get. Fortunately, at that time the god himself, and the lake, are defense enough. No one has to die on guard on this open part of the wall.”

They stepped through the doors on the far side of the bridge. Here was a walkway broad enough that three people could ride abreast on it easily. The whole of the Syth stretched out four hundred feet below at the foot of the crenellated wall. The young woman and the old walked some two hundred feet along the top, the wind pulling at their hair and gowns, until Tris halted in one of the crenels, or stone notches. She pointed to the gray mass of storm clouds some ten miles offshore.

“I spoke out of foolish national pride,” Ishabal said, leaning against the merlon at the side of the crenel. “The god Sythuthan is a notorious trickster with a nasty habit of hurling storms at us with no warning to our mages.”

Tris bit her lip. The wind showed her a sharp image of a distant scene that was just a blurred dot to her normal vision.

“I hope all the fishing fleet got back to shore,” Ishabal remarked worriedly. “The storms are infamous for the speed in which they appear.”

“They’re trying,” murmured Tris. The image of the fleet tore out of her hold. She closed her eyes and did a trick with her mind, shifting the shape of her eyes and of the power she slid in front of them. Carefully she removed her spectacles and tucked them into a pocket inside her overgown, then opened her eyes. Now she could see across the miles without being forced to rely on a windblown image. A small fishing fleet struggled to turn and race for the shore, caught in a crosswind that left it becalmed.

Ishabal’s hands were moving in the air. Suddenly everything in front of the wall ripped, and Tris’s view was ablaze with silver fire. “Ow!” she cried, clapping her hands to her watering eyes. “What did you do! That hurt!”

Ishabal, who had turned the air before them into an immense scrying-glass that showed them the fleet in exact detail, asked, “Hurt? What do you mean? Why do you hold your eyes—child, what did you do?”

Tris yanked a handkerchief out from under the neckline of her undergown. “What I normally do, prathmun bless it!” A blessing from the outcast prathmun of Tharios was no blessing at all. Tris wiped her eyes and changed her magic until her vision was normal, then returned her spectacles to their proper place on her long nose.

Ishabal clasped her hands before her as she watched the fleet struggle to move again. “If you may correct your vision as you like, why do you wear spectacles?” she inquired, her voice distant.

“Because I like them,” Tris grumbled. “Because I have better things to do with my magic than fix my vision when ordinary glass will do.”

“Isha, what is this?” The empress, along with her court, Sandry, Daja, and Briar, had come to join them. “Your messenger said Viymese Trisana predicted a storm on the Syth.”

“And more, Imperial Majesty.” With a wave of the hand, Ishabal spread the zone of air along the walkway so the entire group could see the drama that unfolded miles away.

“Are you going to do something, Viymese Ladyhammer?” asked Tris, mindful of her manners now that they had company.

“This is not an area in which I have expertise, Viymese Chandler,” Ishabal replied. To Berenene, she said, “They won’t be able to escape in time, Imperial Majesty.”

“We’ll see about that,” Tris said. She hated making a scene. More than anything she wished the court would go back to its refreshments, but she was in no position to give orders. Those fishing crews were running out of time. She drew an east wind braid from the net at the back of her head and undid it, unraveling half. Berenene and Ishabal were forced to step back as wind roared around Tris, stirring dust and grit on the walkway. Tris turned up her smiling face into the air current as the wind tugged at her. Carefully, stretching out both arms, she pushed her wind out over the wall and through Ishabal’s spell.

Once it was in the open air in front of the cliff, Tris clung to lengths of the wind like reins, letting her magic stream through them into the billowing air. For a moment her grip on the wind shuddered as the air tossed, confused.

Why was it starting in the south, it seemed to ask, if it was an east wind?

“Because I need you to go north first, then east,” Tris whispered to it. “Now, go. I’ll tug when you’re to take your rightful path. You have sails to fill and boats to send home.”

That satisfied her wind. It liked to fill sails. North it went, Tris keeping a light tension on her airy reins. She moved both into her right hand, then searched her head to find a braid with a hurricane’s force bound up in it. Unraveling only a third of it, she thrust its power north, straight at the onrushing storm. The lesser hurricane raced ahead of her east wind, spreading as it flowed high over the masts of the fishing fleet. Tris gave it a fresh shove north, then tugged on the east wind’s reins. The wind found its natural path at last, slowly, as Tris dragged on its reins, until it struck the limp boats’ sails with a strong punch. The sails filled to the cheers of the court, watching through Ishabal’s spell. The fishing boats scudded through the rough lake water, headed for the shore.

Tris ignored the fleet. She had released the east wind. All of her will was fixed on that quick-moving storm and its battle with her lesser hurricane, as the force she had turned loose fought to keep the storm from advancing. Sweat trickled down her round cheeks. Making even part of a hurricane obey was hard work, particularly when its biggest need was not to halt a storm, but to join in and help it along.

They don’t want me anymore, her east wind seemed to say. Now what?

Tris risked a glance at the fishing fleet. They had made harbor safely and were furling their sails as the ships drifted toward their docks.

“Thank you,” Tris murmured. She released her east wind, setting it free of any future claims. She could always braid up another. “Now for the interesting part.”

She let one end of her small hurricane feed into the storm. It plunged in gleefully. The storm, though, was another matter. If I let it loose, with my bit of hurricane in it, there’s no telling what other fleets or even villages it’ll destroy, she told herself. And I knew I couldn’t hook it with anything weaker than a piece of hurricane. Oh, curse it all. I’ll have to take the whole thing back in before it does any harm.

She took a deep breath, wishing she had a moment to pray. Quickly the hurricane struck sparks that turned to lightning as it wove itself among the thunderheads. Tris leaned on a stone merlon, letting it hold her on the wall, then reached with her magic to grip the hurricane’s tail. Sweating, she dragged on it with all of her strength, drawing it toward her as Sandry might draw a fine thread from a mass of wool.

Once Tris had brought that storm thread to her, she jammed the end into a coin from her pocket. Once it was secure, she twirled it until the thread of storm began to spin. All storms were drawn to spin, as Tris knew very well. The trick was in keeping them controlled, not allowing them to break free to become a cyclone or full-sized hurricane. Around the wind spun, dragging the storm into the funnel that ended in her thread. Out stretched the storm-parts woven in with her bit of hurricane, twirling under Tris’s magical grip. She kept the air moving, shaping it as a fine web so that its natural strength could never overwhelm her once it reached her. If she had looked up, she would have seen the long funnel of cloud that stretched from the storm to her, narrowing until it became her thread.

On and on she spun, making the thread into a ball of yarn, a skill she drew from part of Sandry’s magic still mingled with hers. Finally she had turned the entire storm into a ball the size of her hand. She broke it free of the coin, then attached the ball to her partially unraveled hurricane braid. Eager to get out of her hold, the storm sprang into her braid, feeding itself into the many hairs as if it raced along a thousand streets. Once it was absorbed, Tris tied off the braid with a special ribbon that would hold no matter what, and tucked it back into the net with the other braids. Into her pocket went the coin.

She swayed. Hands grabbed her and helped her sit in a crenel. Tris looked up.

It was Briar who had helped her sit as the court stared at her. Sandry came over with a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from Tris’s face. Daja grinned as she leaned on her staff, watching. Ishabal looked thoughtful, as did the empress herself.

Tris lurched to her feet to curtsy, Briar holding her by her elbow. She looked at her brother, her eyes pleading. She didn’t want to have to explain, not to these well-dressed strangers. Better still, she didn’t want to talk at all, not until she got all those storm powers inside her calmed down.

Briar winked at her and turned to the empress, though he continued to brace Tris. “So, Your Imperial Majesty,” he said cheerfully. “Might we go back to those refreshments? She’ll be fine once she’s got some food in her.”