“The world does not appreciate such stunts,” the man told Tris softly but fiercely. “Do you know the harm you could do with such dangerous magic? What if a wagon had rolled, or if animals had fallen? When you scry a thing, you announce it immediately—you do not stage a panic in mid-river! I mean to file a complaint with Winding Circle—”
“They will tell you your complaint has no merit.” Tris’s voice was low and cold. “I did not scry this. As soon as I knew it was coming, I told everyone with the ears to hear. Forgive me if I did not consult you. There was no time.”
“What am I supposed to believe, kaq?” demanded the mimander. He’d used the most insulting term for a non-Trader there was. “Did you see it on the wind, like some fabled mage of old? I suppose you—a child!—expect me to believe that!”
“Go away. Tell your bookkeeper goddess you’d rather question the debt you owe me for your life than consider ways to repay me!” snapped Tris. “On second thought, don’t bother! There’s no coin small enough I’d consider worthwhile exchange for your life!”
Sandry smothered a gasp and pressed herself into a crevice behind the rock that hid her. Is she mad? Sandry wondered, horrified. If she were a Trader he’d have to kill her for so many insults! She said he was questioning his gods for letting him live. Then she told him not to bother repaying her—a Trader, not to repay!—and then she told him his life isn’t worth anything!
Finally the mimander replied, his voice shaking. “I expect no better of a kaq.”
He walked away.
Sandry’s temper blazed again. Tris not only orders us around like the Queen of Everything, but she insults our hosts! I have to remind her she used to have manners!
She yanked herself out of her crevice, shook her riding breeches clean of the leaf-litter that had collected there, took a deep breath, and walked around the rock. Tris had left it, to sit on a fallen tree next to the spring nearby. She patiently held one side of her snood, Chime the other, as her braids twined around each other, forming a snug ball. There was no way to tell now which had carried lightning and which had been lightning. Even the two thin braids that framed her face were neatly done up and tied again.
Sandry halted in front of her. “Never have I given you the right to order me around. Neither have Briar or Daja. And we have certainly not given you the right to throw lightning at us.” Despite her resolve to be firm, her voice quivered.
Tris’s eyes flicked to Sandry dangerously, though Tris’s hold on the snood remained steady as her braids moved and wriggled to fit themselves inside. “Pardon me for not kissing your hand and saying pretty please, since that’s what you’re used to these days,” she replied, acid dripping in her voice. “Had I known I would offend, Clehame”—she turned Sandry’s Namornese title into an insult—“I would have let everyone die so I wouldn’t inconvenience you.”
“I know you are ever so much more clever and educated than the rest of us, but it’s not as if we are dolts. We did get our medallions at the same time as you. We have something between our ears besides hummus! And if the bond between us were open, there would have been no need for such antics!” replied Sandry, losing her temper in spite of herself.
Tris let go of the snood. With a flap of her wings, Chime leaped on top of her head to keep it in place. If either girl had not been in a rage, they might have thought it funny.
“Did it occur to you that you might not like what is in my head now?” demanded Tris. She hurriedly grabbed a fistful of hairpins and began to pin her net in place. “Or do you think I’ll be easier to control once you’re behind my eyes, Your Ladyship?”
Sandry’s eyes filled with unexpected tears. She felt as if Tris had slapped her. “Do you really think that of me?”
“I don’t know what I think,” growled Tris, taking off her spectacles. “Go away, will you? I have the most vile headache. I just want to be alone.” Chime took flight off of Tris’s head.
“With pleasure,” Sandry replied with all the dignity she had left. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll be a caravan of one, just as alone as you please.”
“I cannot believe you, my lady.” Unknown to the two girls, the caravan’s leader had come over. “She has saved all of our lives with fearsome magic, she is pale and sweating—and you choose to quarrel with her?” To Tris, the woman said, “My wagon is cushioned, with heavy drapes to close out the light, and there is cool mint tea. Will you rest your head there? Briar says he has a headache medicine that may help you.”
Sandry turned and fled. If anything, she felt even smaller than she had when Tris had accused her of wanting to control her. Why didn’t I notice she was ill? she wondered. And why is she being so mean to the three of us? She was that way to strangers when we lived together, but not us. Unless…of course. We’re strangers.
She stopped, her back to the caravan. Reaching into the small pouch that always hung around her neck, she brought out the thread with its four equally spaced lumps. Sandry turned it around in her fingers, handling each lump, feeling each familiar bit of magic. Maybe we were this cord once, but for now it’s only a symbol, she thought wearily. A symbol of four children. Now we’re four adults who have become strangers. I have to get used to that. I have to get used to it, and think of ways to make us stop being strangers once and for all.