That never changed, Briar told her before he took the shakkan’s remaining magic and dove into a forest of roots underground, spreading out through the land to draw on some of the power of its plants and trees. He drew it from the algae on Lake Glaise, the forests on the mountains around it, and the vast plain of grass on which they stood. Brambles and pear trees fed him, as did wildflowers and ancient pines. With their green fire running through his veins he felt better than he had since the battles in Gyongxe. He blazed with it.
Daja sank into veins of metal ore below. She followed some to the mountains and others down through the dense part of the earth, until she found the immense hot soup in which they were born. The lava’s heat bubbled through her, driving up to her body, seeking a way to break free into the world. She laughed at the strength of molten stone and metal, feeling it inhabit her skin, making her indifferent to the petty fire marshaled by Ishabal.
Tris swept up into the rapid winds high above the mountains, where birds couldn’t even fly. She dove down to draw up the power in the movement of lava and the pressure of water channeled through cracks in the ground. Despite her physical distance from her sisters and brother, she saw them in her magical vision, their images carried to her by the warm air that raced from Daja’s smoking body. They turned, the three of them, with Tris’s insubstantial form just behind, and walked into the barrier.
Magic inside it, built up over centuries, flew at them. Daja and Tris burned it away. Briar and Sandry wove nets of green and thread magic that snared the lattices of power that made the barrier. Slowly they dragged at the nets, forcing the barrier open.
As they walked into the open air on the Olart side of the border, the magical barrier shattered for over a mile in each direction. It was gone, as if it had never existed.
“I feel like I just walked through a glacier,” grumbled Daja, rubbing her arms. She bumped the palm that was not covered in metal and yelped. “Now what?”
“Good thing we didn’t get frozen, if it was a glacier,” Briar remarked with a shrug.
“Where’s the circle?” Sandry wanted to know. “Did I lose it?” she asked, looking at the ground, then at the hand in which she’d held it. “Mila, what’s this?”
There was a slight lump at the center of her palm, covered by shiny scar tissue. She pressed it and gasped at a sting of pain. Then the lump sank into her palm completely, leaving only the scar.
Briar also felt pain. He and Daja eyed the hands that had clasped the thread circle. Daja’s creamy brown palm showed a scarred lump like Sandry’s. When she tapped it, the lump also sank into her flesh, leaving only a round scar. Briar’s had burned a circle among the plants that grew under his skin, but the lump itself was gone. The plants were blooming in extravagant reds, purples, and blues all around the newest scar. It had fitted itself right between the deep pockmarks where a protective briar had bitten into his hand years before.
Tris, miles away, watched as a tiny sun shone and faded where a lump sank into her palm. Instant warmth spread from it like wildfire, easing some of the aches in her newly healed bones. “Every time I think I understand magic, I learn that I don’t understand anything at all,” she murmured, and looked at Ambros with a broad smile. “I like that.”
Sandry took a few steps back through the gate to look at Ishabal. “We did warn you it wouldn’t go well.” The empress’s mage sat gray-faced at the foot of one of the trees that had sprouted from the platform. “What’s the matter with you, Viymese Ladyhammer?” she asked.
“Backlash,” muttered Ishabal. “I was still bound to the barrier from raising it. When you…did what you did…the barrier took much of me with it.” She looked up, her dark eyes glinting. “I will recover,” she said grimly. “In time.”
Sandry saw only a feeble silver glow under the older woman’s skin. “It’s going to be a while before you make any magic, particularly any curses,” she observed. “That can only be to the good. I only wish I were willing to incur the shadow on my heart I could get by arranging for you to practice tumbling on a long flight of stairs, like you did Tris. You really should be punished specially for that.”
Ishabal met Sandry’s cold eyes. “Go ahead,” she said. “Do it.”
“No,” retorted Sandry. “I like to keep my magic clean.”
Ishabal sighed. “So, young mage. What will you do now? Take the throne? You’re powerful enough, you’ve shown us that.” The mages and guards who had shared the platform with her had retreated up the road into Namorn, away from the three young people. Their faces were as ashen as Ishabal’s.
Sandry took a step back. “Power? I’m going home.” She looked at Daja and Briar. “We’re going home. And Tris had better be coming home, too. We’ll be back here tomorrow. If you don’t let her through…”
“I cannot stop her,” Ishabal said honestly. “In fact, I believe I shall contrive to be miles away.”
You heard that? Sandry asked. Do you want revenge?
No, replied Tris. It’s too much time and bother.
“Tris says she had best not see you,” called Briar. He and Daja had heard the conversation. “She says if you cross her path again, she’ll have to get strict with you.” No sense in letting her—letting any of them—relax, he told the girls firmly. We don’t want them forgetting this day anytime soon. He trotted back to collect his shakkan and the horses, and returned with them through the arch.