I hadn’t seen anyone from Dvernik since the beacon night. Danka had sent the fire-heart back to Olshanka, with an escort gathered grimly from every village of the valley as it passed through with the message. They had come in force to the tower four days after I had transported the Dragon and myself back. It was brave of them, farmers and craftsmen, coming to face a worse horror than any of us could even have imagined; and they had been wary of believing that the Dragon was healed.
The mayor of Olshanka had even had the courage to demand that the Dragon show the wound to the town physician: he grudgingly obliged, rolling up his sleeve to show the faint white scar, all that was left of the wound, and even told the man to draw some blood from his fingertip: it sprang out clean red. But they had also brought the old priest in his full purple gown to say a blessing over him, which infuriated him to no end. “What on earth are you lending yourself to this nonsense for?” he demanded of the priest, whom he evidently knew a little. “I’ve let you shrive a dozen corrupted souls: did any of them sprout the purple rose, or suddenly announce themselves saved and purified? What possible good do you imagine saying a blessing over me would do, if I were corrupted?”
“So you are well, then,” the priest had said dryly, and they at last allowed themselves to believe, and the mayor had handed over the fire-heart with great relief.
But of course my father and brothers hadn’t been allowed to come; nor had anyone from my village, who would have grieved to see me burn. And the men who had come, they’d looked at me standing beside the Dragon, and I didn’t know how to name what was in their faces. I was back in comfortable plain skirts again, but they looked at me anyway as they went away, not with hostility, but not the way any of them would ever have looked at a woodcutter’s girl from Dvernik. It was the way I had looked at Prince Marek, at first. They looked at me and saw someone out of a story, who might ride by and be stared at, but didn’t belong in their lives at all. I flinched from those looks. I was glad to go back into the tower.
That was the day I had taken Jaga’s book down to the library, and demanded that the Dragon stop pretending I had any more gift for healing than I did for any other sort of spell, and let me learn the kind of magic that I could do. I hadn’t tried to write a letter, even though I suppose the Dragon would have let me send one. What would I say? I had gone home, and I had even saved it, but it wasn’t my place anymore; I couldn’t go and dance in the village square among my friends, any more than six months ago I could have marched into the Dragon’s library and sat down at his table.
When I saw Wensa’s face, though, even from the library window, I didn’t think of any of that. I left my working hanging in the air, unfinished, as he’d so often ordered me never to do, and flung myself down the stairs. He shouted after me, but his voice couldn’t reach me: because Wensa wouldn’t be here if Kasia could have come. I jumped down the last few steps into the great hall, and at the doors I halted only a moment: “Irronar, irronar,” I cried: it was only a charm for untying snarled knots of thread, and slurred besides, but I flung profligate magic behind it, as though I’d determined to hack my way through a thicket with an axe instead of taking the time to find a way around. The doors jumped as if startled and opened for me.
I fell through them onto suddenly weak knees—as the Dragon delighted in telling me, caustically, there was good reason that the more powerful spells were also the more complicated—but I staggered up and caught Wensa’s hands as she raised them to knock. Her face, seen close, was wrung with weeping; her hair was hanging down her back, clouds of it pulling out of the long thick plait, and her clothing was torn and stained with dirt: she was wearing her nightshift and a smock flung over