Battle Magic
that he was not to anoint Briar’s shakkans — miniature trees — sniffed the jar once, sneezed, and stayed away from it. Briar and Rosethorn both sent their power through the bush, finding the traces of Rosethorn’s earlier healingof the mold. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both wanted to ensure the gardeners had not been forced to destroy the original plant.
    They were joined for supper by Jia Jui, Parahan, and those of the afternoon’s party who had actually seemed to enjoy themselves. The group introduced the foreigners to some Yanjingyi games and music, then took them to a terrace that looked out over a long body of water. There they fed the giant carp that swam in its waters until an exquisite display of fireworks — colored flowers and trees made of zayao — was set off in their honor. By the time it was over, Rosethorn, Briar, and Evvy were happy to return to their pavilion and their beds.
    Rosethorn spent an hour going over the rosebush again. Once she was done she had hoped to write to her beloved Lark, back at Winding Circle, but she could barely keep her eyes open.
    A day spent with hidden tensions between Evvy and the general, Evvy and that older mage, and whatever else was going on between the courtiers and Rosethorn’s people would do that. The emperor was also the kind of ruler who enjoyed toying with his lords. She would be happy when they left the imperial court and its pitfalls. Rosethorn was asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.

    Someone splashed her with heavy, stinking oil. She struggled to shake it off her leaves and blossoms, but the oil clung. Her sisters cried out from its weight on their stems and greenery as the men who cared for them walked between them, throwing this dreadful liquid all over them. The men didn’t even care that they broke twigs and knocked petals off their blooms! The men were usually so careful!
    Now they came to fling dry reeds down between their plants, reeds that dripped more of the stinking oil. She didn’t understand. None of them understood.

    The rose plants didn’t understand, but the sleeping Rosethorn did. With a cry she thrust her blankets aside and jumped out of bed. She didn’t even remember to put on shoes. Still half asleep, not thinking of Briar or Evvy, she raced out of the pavilion through a back door. The first touch of flame to reeds brought her to her knees on a trail that skirted a willow pond. She lurched to her feet again and ran on as light grew slowly in the sky ahead.
    When she reached the rose garden, all of it was in flames. The gardeners had been bound and left at its center: They were done screaming. The emperor and his soldiers watched on horseback from the main path.
    The emperor saw her as he turned his horse to ride away. “The plants harbored mold and the gardeners allowed them to do so,” he said, his face calm. “Surely you understand that no imperfection is permitted at one of my palaces. I did tell you.” He looked past Rosethorn. “Slaves will come to escort you back.”
    Rosethorn felt Briar put his arm around her shoulders. He had felt her magic, wakened, and followed her to discover what Weishu had ordered done. Once the emperor and his soldiers were out of sight, Briar spat on the path.
    They waited together on the edge of the burning garden until the slaves came with a palanquin. By then the roses had burned to the gravel and new gardeners had come to dig up the roots.

T HE W INTER P ALACE
D OHAN IN Y ANJING
    The next five days were drawn from the pattern of the first. They rose at dawn, for Rosethorn and Briar to pretend friendship as the emperor and his favorites showed them around his prized flower gardens, meditation gardens, and greenhouses. Parahan and sometimes Jia Jui, in addition to Parahan’s guards and a few younger courtiers and mages, would join Evvy. First they would play briefly with her cats, then venture out to visit the emperor’s wild animal collection, his treasure houses, his

Similar Books

Black Jack Point

Jeff Abbott

Sweet Rosie

Iris Gower

Cockatiels at Seven

Donna Andrews

Free to Trade

Michael Ridpath

Panorama City

Antoine Wilson

Don't Ask

Hilary Freeman