Free Daja's Book by Tamora Pierce Page A

Back and forth she waddled with her skirts kilted up, grinding dirt into her knees. Her shoes and stockings lay discarded under Briar’s worktable.
    â€œYou’d be surprised at the work I do, Master Firetamer,” Sandry told him grimly.
    â€œMy dear, you are a fa Toren.” He stretched his lips even wider, baring discolored teeth. “You should be at fine needlework, not—
weaving
.”
    Lark, who was sewing ties to both ends of a widecloth band, looked at Yarrun. “You say it like it’s a dirty word, Master Firetamer. But if I’m not mistaken, that fine robe you wear is the product of weaving—as is every stitch you have on, but for your boots.”
    Yarrun stroked his overrobe—blue, shimmering silk with multicolored embroideries at the hems—and stopped, as if Lark had tricked him into giving something away. His eyes slid away from her to settle on Briar and Tris. For a long moment he stared, his sallow cheeks turning a mottled red. Briar was straining chunks of aloe from oil. All of his attention was locked onto his task as he carefully poured one jar’s contents onto a piece of cheesecloth stretched over a pot.
    Tris noticed Yarrun’s stare and glared at him.
    â€œSomething for you?” she demanded.
    â€œThat will make enough burn ointment for an army!” he snapped.
    Briar put his jar down and wrapped the cheesecloth around lumps of aloe, squeezing out every bit of oil. Only when he’d finished did he look at the older man. “Dedicate Rosethorn thinks it might be needed.” His gray-green eyes sparkled with mischief. “Me, I’ve learned she’s nearly always right.”
    â€œI am sure your experience is vast, boy—certainly I, with thirty years as a mage, and ten years’ study before that, cannot hope to equal it.” Yarrun’s voice shook with fury. “You—and your teacher!—are wasting your time!” He stalked out of the courtyard.
    â€œPeople around here think well of themselves,” murmured Daja, striking off a nail.
    â€œWe’ll fix that,” remarked Briar.
    â€œRosethorn
is
perfectly capable of taking care of herself,” Lark reminded them. “Sandry, wait. You’re winding too tightly.” Going over to the girl, she explained how pulling too hard made the stakes on which Sandry wound her thread lean inward. Sandry nodded, then picked up a mallet and pounded the stakes into a straight line again. If Lark hadn’t caught her mistake, she would have finished with a weaving that was shorter on the top than at the bottom.
    Daja went to the bellows and gave it a quick pump, watching as strands of fire streamed into the air. They twisted to form a straight trunk, then spread in branches to either side, just as the iron vine had the day before.
    They called to her. Reaching almost to the bed of coals, she gripped a pinch of the blue heart-flame in her right thumb and forefinger. Steadily she pulled it up as if she drew thin wire. Starting about an inch above the branching section of fire, she began to weave the blue flame in and out between the orange stems. It was the kind of pattern that Sandry had woven hundreds of times over the summer, the kind of work Daja once used to make a wire net. Reaching the leftmost branch, she doubled back and wove in the other direction. Inside she felt steady and clear, assmooth as a glassy sea with no hint of a breeze to ruffle it. The fire made sense, handled this way. The blue mixed with the orange where they met, providing a small blue spot at every joining, like the heart of a candleflame.
    To and fro Daja walked, drawing her blue fire-thread with her, passing it gently through the orange strands. At last she could go no further. She had reached the ends of the orange stems. While she might have pulled them even higher and woven more, she felt a little odd—light-headed, with hot, dry eyes. With her left index finger and thumb