The Will of the Empress - By Tamora Pierce Page 0,46

feet below at the foot of the crenellated wall. The young woman and the old walked some two hundred feet along the top, the wind pulling at their hair and gowns, until Tris halted in one of the crenels, or stone notches. She pointed to the grey mass of storm clouds some ten miles offshore.

"I spoke out of foolish national pride," Ishabal said, leaning against the merlon at the side of the crenel. "The god Sythuthan is a notorious trickster with a nasty habit of hurling storms at us with no warning to our mages."

Tris bit her lip. The wind showed her a sharp image of a distant scene that was just a blurred dot to her normal vision.

"I hope all the fishing fleet got back to shore," Ishabal remarked worriedly. "The storms are infamous for the speed in which they appear."

"They're trying," murmured Tris. The image of the fleet tore out of her hold. She closed her eyes and did a trick with her mind, shifting the shape of her eyes and of the power she slid in front of them. Carefully she removed her spectacles and tucked them into a pocket inside her overgown, then opened her eyes. Now she could see across the miles without being forced to rely on a windblown image. A small fishing fleet struggled to turn and race for the shore, caught in a crosswind that left it becalmed.

Ishabal's hands were moving in the air. Suddenly everything in front of the wall ripped, and Tris's view was ablaze with silver fire. "Ow!" she cried, clapping her hands to her watering eyes. "What did you do? That hurt!"

Ishabal, who had turned the air before them into an immense scrying-glass that showed them the fleet in exact detail, asked, "Hurt? What do you mean? Why do you hold your eyes — child, what did you do?"

Tris yanked a handkerchief out from under the neckline of her undergown. "What I normally do, prathmun bless it!" A blessing from the outcast prathmun of Tharios was no blessing at all. Tris wiped her eyes and changed her magic until her vision was normal, then returned her spectacles to their proper place on her long nose.

Ishabal clasped her hands before her as she watched the fleet struggle to move again. "If you may correct your vision as you like, why do you wear spectacles?" she inquired, her voice distant.

"Because I like them," Tris grumbled. "Because I have better things to do with my magic than fix my vision when ordinary glass will do."

"Isha, what is this?" The empress, along with her court, Sandry, Daja, and Briar, had come to join them. "Your messenger said Viymese Trisana predicted a storm on the Syth."

"And more, Imperial Majesty." With a wave of the hand, Iahabal spread the zone of air along the walkway so the entire group could see the drama that unfolded miles away.

"Are you going to do something, Viymese Ladyhammer?" asked Tris, mindful of her manners now that they had company.

"This is not an area in which I have expertise, Viymese Chandler," Ishabal replied. To Berenene, she said, "They won't be able to escape in time, Imperial Majesty."

"We'll see about that," Tris said. She hated making a scene. More than anything she wished the court would go back to its refreshments, but she was in no position to give orders. Those fishing crews were running out of time. She drew an east wind braid from the net at the back of her head and undid it, unravelling half. Berenene and Ishabal were forced to step back as wind roared around Tris, stirring dust and grit on the walkway. Tris turned up her smiling face into the air current as the wind tugged at her. Carefully, stretching out both arms, she pushed her wind out over the wall and through Ishabal's spell.

Once it was in the open air in front of the cliff, Tris clung to lengths of the wind like reins, letting her magic stream through them into the billowing air. For a moment her grip on the wind shuddered as the air tossed, confused. Why was it starting in the south, it seemed to ask, if it was an east wind?

"Because I need you to go north first, then east," Tris whispered to it. "Now, go. I'll tug when you're to take your rightful path. You have sails to fill and boats to send home."

That satisfied her wind. It liked to fill sails. North it went, Tris keeping a