It was harder to take it this time, to make that deliberate choice, without the useful distraction of desperation. I couldn't help but think about the strength of his clasp, the long graceful lines of his fingers closed around my hand, the warm callused tips brushing my wrist. I could feel his pulse beating against my own fingers, and the heat of his skin. I stared down at my book and tried to make sense of the letters, my cheeks hot, while he began to cast his own spell, his voice clipped. His illusion started taking shape, another single perfectly articulated flower, fragrant and beautiful and thoroughly opaque, and the stem nearly covered in thorns.

I began in a whisper. I was trying desperately not to think, not to feel his magic against my skin. Nothing whatsoever happened. He didn't say anything to me: his eyes were fixed determinedly on a point above my head. I stopped and gave myself a private shake. Then I shut my eyes and felt out the shape of his magic: as full of thorns as his illusion, p.r.i.c.kly and guarded. I started to murmur my own spell, but I found myself thinking not of roses but of water, and thirsty ground; building underneath his magic instead of trying to overlay it. I heard him draw a sharp breath, and the sharp edifice of his spell began grudgingly to let mine in. The rose between us put out long roots all over the table, and new branches began to grow.

It wasn't the jungle of the first time we'd cast the spell: he was holding back his magic, and so was I, both of us letting only a thin stream of power feed the working. But the rosebush took on a different kind of solidity. I couldn't tell it was an illusion anymore, the long ropy roots twisting together, putting fingers into the cracks of the table, winding around the legs. The blossoms weren't just the picture of a rose, they were real roses in a forest, half of them not open yet, the other half blown, petals scattering and browning at the edges. The thick fragrance filled the air, too sweet, and as we held it, a bee came hovering in through the window and crept into one of the flowers, prodding it determinedly. When it couldn't get any nectar out, it tried another, and another, small legs scrabbling at the petals, which gave way exactly as if they could bear the weight of a bee.

"You won't get anything here," I told the hovering bee, and blew at it, but it only tried again.

The Dragon had stopped staring over my head, any awkwardness falling before his pa.s.sion for magic: he was studying our twined spells with the same fierce intent look he bent on his most complicated workings, the light of the spell bright in his face and his eyes; he was hungry to understand. "Can you hold it alone?" he demanded.

"I think so," I said, and he slowly eased his hand from mine, leaving me to keep up the wild sprawling rosebush. Without the rigid frame of his casting, it half-wanted to collapse like a vine with its trellis gone, but I found I could keep hold of his magic: just a corner of it, enough to be a skeleton, and feeding the spell more of my own magic to make up for its weakness.

He reached down and turned a few pages of his book until he came to another spell, this to make an insect illusion, as diagrammed as the flower one had been. He spoke quickly, the spells rolling off his tongue, and made half a dozen bees and set them loose on the rosebush, which only confused our first bee-visitor further. As he made each one, he-gave them to me, with a kind of small push; I managed to catch them and hook them into the rosebush working. Then he said, "What I intend to do now is attach the watching spell to them. The one the sentinels carry," he added.

I nodded even while I concentrated on holding the spell: what could more easily pa.s.s unnoticed in the Wood than a simple bee? He turned to the far-back pages of the book, to a sheaf of spells written in his own hand. As he began the working, though, the weight of the spell came heavily down on the bee illusions, and on me. I held them, struggling, feeling my magic draining too quickly to replenish, until I managed to make a wordless noise of distress, and he looked up from the working and reached towards me.

I grabbed back at him just as incautiously with my hand and my magic both, even as he pressed magic on me from his side as well. His breath huffed out sharply, and our workings caught on one another, magic gushing into them. The rosebush began growing again, roots crawling off the table and vines climbing out the window. The bees became a humming swarm amid the flowers, each of them with oddly glittering eyes, wandering away. If I had caught one in my hands and looked closely, I would have seen in those eyes the reflection of all the roses it had touched. But I had no room in my head for bees, or roses, or spying; no room for anything but magic, the raw torrent of it and his hand my only rock, except he was being tumbled right along with me.

I felt his shocked alarm. By instinct I pulled him with me towards where the magic was running thinner, as though I really was in a rising river, striking out for a sh.o.r.e. Together we managed to drag ourselves out. The rosebush dwindled little by little down to a single bloom; the false bees climbed into flowers as they closed, or simply dissolved into the air. The final rose closed itself up and vanished, and we both sat down on the floor heavily, our hands still entangled. I didn't know what had happened: he'd told me often enough of the dangers of not having enough magic for a spell, but he'd never before mentioned the risk of having too much. When I turned to demand an answer, he had his head tipped back against the shelves, his eyes as alarmed as my own, and I realized he didn't know any more than I did what had happened.

"Well," I said after a moment, inconsequentially, "I suppose it did work." He stared at me, outrage dawning, and I started laughing, helplessly, almost snorting: I was dizzy with magic and alarm.

"You intolerable lunatic," he snarled at me, and then he caught my face between his hands and kissed me.

I didn't properly think about what was happening even as I kissed him back, my laughter spilling into his mouth and making stutters of my kisses. I was still bound up with him, our magic snarled up into great messy tangled knots. I didn't have anything to compare that intimacy to. I'd felt the hot embarra.s.sment of it, but I'd thought of it vaguely like being naked in front of a stranger. I hadn't connected it to s.e.x-s.e.x was poetic references in songs, my mother's practical instructions, and those few awful hideous moments in the tower with Prince Marek, where I might as well have been a rag doll as far as he'd cared.

But now I toppled the Dragon over, clutching at his shoulders. As we fell his thigh pressed between mine, through my skirts, and in one shuddering jolt I began to form a startled new understanding. He groaned, his voice gone deep, and his hands were sliding into my hair, freeing the loose knot around my shoulders. I held on to him with my hands and my magic both, half-shocked and half-delighted. His lean hardness, the careful art of his velvet and silk and leather lush and crumpling under my fingers, suddenly meant something entirely different. I was in his lap, astride his hips, and his body was hot against mine; his hands came gripping almost painfully tight on my thighs through the dress.

I leaned down over him and kissed him again, in a wonderful place full of uncomplicated yearning. My magic, his magic, were all one. His hand slid along my leg, up beneath my skirts, and his deft, skillful thumb stroked once over me between my legs. I made a small startled huff of noise, like I'd been shocked in winter. An involuntary glittering raced over my hands and over his body, like sunlight on a moving river, and all the endless smooth buckles running down the front of his jerkin opened themselves up and slid free, and the lacings of his shirt came undone.

I still hadn't quite realized what I was doing until then, with my hands on his bare chest. Or rather, I'd only let myself think far enough ahead to get what I wanted, and I hadn't let myself put that into words. But I couldn't avoid understanding now, with him so shockingly undone beneath me. Even the lacings of his trousers were open: I felt them loose against my thighs. He could push aside my skirts, and- My cheeks were hot, desperate. I wanted him, I wanted to drag myself away and run, and most of all I wanted to know which of those things I wanted more. I froze and stared at him, wide-eyed, and he stared back at me, more undone than I'd ever seen him, high color in his face and his hair disheveled, his clothes hanging open off him, equally astonished and almost outraged. And then he said, half under his breath, "What am I doing?" and he caught my wrists away from him and heaved us both back to our feet.

I stumbled back and caught myself against the table, torn between relief and regret. He turned away from me already jerking his laces tight, his back straightening into a long stiff line. The unraveled threads of my magic were gradually coiling back into my skin, and his slipping away from me; I pressed my hands to my hot cheeks. "I didn't mean-" I blurted, and stopped; I didn't know what I hadn't meant.

"Yes, that's patently obvious," he snapped over his shoulder. He was buckling his jerkin shut over his open shirt. "Get out."

I fled.

In my room, Kasia was sitting up in bed, grimly struggling with my mending-basket: there were three broken needles on the table, and she was only with enormous difficulty making long sloppy st.i.tches in a spare sc.r.a.p.

She looked up as I came running in: my cheeks still red and my clothing disheveled, panting like I'd come from a race. "Nieshka!" she said, dropping the sewing as she stood up. She took a step and reached for my hands, but hesitated: she had learned to be afraid of her own strength. "Are you-did he-"

"No!" I said, and I didn't know if I was glad or sorry. The only magic in me now was mine, and I sat down on the bed with an unhappy thump.

Chapter 12.

I wasn't granted any time to contemplate the situation. That very night, only a little past midnight, Kasia jerked up next to me and I nearly fell out of the bed. The Dragon was standing in the doorway of the room, his face unreadably stiff, a light glowing in his hand; he wore his nightshift and a dressing-gown. "There are soldiers on the road," he said. "Get dressed." He turned and left without another word.

We both scrambled up and into our clothes and went pell-mell down the stairs to the great hall. The Dragon was at the window, dressed now. I could see the riders in the distance, a large company: two lanterns on long poles in the lead, one more in the back, light glinting off harness and mail, and two outriders leading a string of spare horses behind them. They were carrying two banners at the front, a small round globe of white magic before each one: a green three-headed beast like a dragon, on white, Prince Marek's crest, and behind it a crest of a red falcon with its talons outstretched.

"Why are they coming?" I whispered, although they were too far away to hear.

The Dragon didn't answer at once; then he said, "For her."

I reached out and gripped Kasia's hand tight in the dark. "Why?"

"Because I'm corrupted," Kasia said. The Dragon nodded slightly. They were coming to put Kasia to death.

Too late I remembered my letter: no answer had come, and I had forgotten even sending it. I learned some time after that Wensa had gone home and fallen into a sick stupor after leaving the tower. Another woman visiting her bedside opened the letter, supposedly as a kindness, and she'd carried the gossip of it everywhere: the news that we had brought someone out of the Wood. It traveled to the Yellow Marshes; it traveled to the capital, carried by bards, and there it brought Prince Marek down upon us.

"Will they believe you that she's not corrupted?" I said to the Dragon. "They must believe you-"

"As you may recall," he said dryly, "I have an unfortunate reputation in these matters." He glanced out the window. "And I doubt the Falcon has come all this way only to agree with me."

I turned to look at Kasia, whose face was calm and unnaturally still, and I drew a breath and caught her hands. "I won't let them," I told her. "I won't."

The Dragon made an impatient snort. "Do you plan to blast them, and a troop of the king's soldiers besides? And what after that-run to the mountains and be outlaws?"

"If I have to!" I said, but the press of Kasia's fingers on mine made me turn; she shook her head at me a little.

"You can't," she said. "You can't, Nieshka. Everyone needs you. Not just me."

"Then you'll go to the mountains alone," I said defiantly. I felt like an animal penned up, hearing the butchering-knife on the whetstone. "Or I'll take you, and come back-" The horses were so near I could hear the drumming of their hooves over the sound of my own voice.

Time ran out. We didn't. I gripped Kasia's hand in my own as we stood in a half-alcove of the Dragon's great hall. He sat in his chair, his face hard and remote and glittering, and waited: we heard the noise of the carriage rolling to a halt, the horses stamping and snorting, men's voices m.u.f.fled by the heavy doors. There was a pause; the knock I expected didn't come, and after a moment I felt the slow insinuating creep of magic, a spell taking shape on the other side of the doors, trying to grasp them and force them open. It prodded and poked at the Dragon's working, trying to pry it up, and then abruptly a hard fast blow came: a shove of magic that tried to break through his grip. The Dragon's eyes and mouth tightened briefly, and a faint crackling of blue light traveled over the doors, but that was all.

Finally the knock came, the hard pounding of a mailed fist. The Dragon crooked a finger and the doors swung inward: Prince Marek stood on the threshold, and beside him another man, who despite being half as wide across managed to be an equal presence. He was draped in a long white cloak, patterned in black like the markings of a bird's wings, and his hair was the color of washed sheep's wool but with roots of black, as though he'd bleached it. The cloak spilled back from one shoulder, and his clothes beneath were in silver and black; his face was carefully arranged: sorrowful concern written on it like a book. They made a portrait together, sun and moon framed in the doorway with the light behind them, and then Prince Marek stepped into the tower, drawing off his gauntlets.

"All right," he said. "You know why we're here. Let's see the girl."

The Dragon didn't say a word, only gestured towards Kasia, where she and I stood a little concealed. Marek turned and fixed on her at once, his eyes narrowing with a speculative light. I glared at him fiercely, though he didn't get any benefit of it: he didn't have so much as a glance for me.

"Sarkan, what have you done?" the Falcon said, advancing on the Dragon's seat. His voice was a clear tenor, ringing, like a fine actor's: it filled the whole room with regretful accusation. "Have you grown completely lost to all sense, hiding yourself out here in the hinterlands-"

The Dragon was still in his chair, leaning his head against his fist. "Tell me something, Solya," he said, "did you consider what you would find here in my hall, if I really had let one of the corrupted out?"

The Falcon paused, and the Dragon rose deliberately from his chair. The hall darkened around him with sudden, frightening speed, shadows creeping over and swallowing the tall candles, the shining magical lights. He came down from the dais, each step striking like the deep terrible ring of some great bell, one after another. Prince Marek and the Falcon backed away involuntarily; the prince gripped the hilt of his sword. "If I had fallen to the Wood," the Dragon said, "what did you imagine you would do, here in my tower?"

The Falcon had already brought his hands together, thumb and forefingers in a triangle; he was murmuring under his breath. I felt the hum of his magic building, and thin sparkling lines of light began to flicker across the s.p.a.ce framed by his hands. They went faster and faster, until all that triangle caught, and as if that had provided an igniting spark, a halo of white fire went up to wreath his body. He spread his hands apart, the fire sizzling and crackling over them, sparks falling like rain to the ground, as if he was making ready to throw. The working had the same hungry feeling as the fire-heart in its bottle, as if it wanted to devour the very air.

"Triozna greszhni," the Dragon said, the words slicing out, and the flames went out like guttering candles: a cold sharp wind whistled through the hall, chilling my skin, and was gone.

They stared at him, halted-and then the Dragon spread his arms in a wide shrug. "Fortunately," the Dragon said, in his ordinary cutting tones, "I haven't been nearly as stupid as you imagined. Much to your good fortune." He turned and went back to his chair, the shadows retreating from his feet, spilling back. The light returned. I could see the Falcon's face clearly: he didn't seem to feel particularly thankful. His face was as still as ice, his mouth pressed into a straight line.

I suppose he was tired of being thought the second wizard of Polnya. I had even heard of him a little-he was often named in songs about the war with Rosya-although of course in our valley the bards didn't talk overmuch about another wizard. We wanted to hear stories about the Dragon, about our wizard, proprietary, and we took pride and satisfaction in hearing, yet again, that he was the most powerful wizard of the nation. But I hadn't thought before what that really meant, and I had forgotten to fear him, from too much time spent too close. It was a forcible reminder now, watching how easily he smothered the Falcon's magic, that he was a great power in the world who could make even kings and other wizards fear.

Prince Marek, I could tell, liked that reminder as little as the Falcon had; his hand lingered on his sword-hilt, and there was a hardness in his face. But he looked at Kasia again. I flinched and made an abortive grab for her arm as she stepped away from me, out of the alcove, and went to him across the floor. I swallowed the warning I wanted to hiss, too late, as she made him a curtsy, her golden head bowed. She straightened up and looked him full in the face: exactly as I had tried to imagine doing myself, all those long months ago. She didn't stammer. "Sire," she said, "I know you must doubt me. I know I look strange. But it's true: I am free."

There were spells running in the back of my head, a litany of desperation. If he drew his sword against her-if the Falcon tried to strike her down- Prince Marek looked at her: his face was hard and downturned, intent. "You were in the Wood?" he demanded.

She inclined her head. "The walkers took me."

"Come look at her," he said over his shoulder, to the Falcon.

"Your Highness," the Falcon began, coming to his side. "It is plain to any-"

"Stop," the prince said, his voice sharp as a knife. "I don't like him any better than you do, but I didn't bring you here for politics. Look at her. Is she corrupted or not?"

The Falcon paused, frowning; he was taken aback. "One held overnight in the Wood is invariably-"

"Is she corrupted?" the prince said to him, every word bitten out crisp and hard. Slowly the Falcon turned and looked at Kasia-really looked at her, for the first time, and his brow slowly gathered with confusion. I looked at the Dragon, hardly daring to hope and hoping anyway: if they were willing to listen- But the Dragon wasn't looking at me, or at Kasia. He was looking at the prince, and his face was grim as stone.

- The Falcon began testing her at once. He demanded potions from the Dragon's stores and books from his shelves, all of which the Dragon sent me running after, without argument. The Dragon ordered me to stay in the kitchens the rest of the time; I thought at first that he meant to spare me watching the trials, some of them as dreadful as the breath-stealing magic he had used on me after I had come back from the Wood. Even in the kitchens, I could hear the chanting and the crackle of the Falcon's magic running overhead. It sounded in my bones, like a large drum played far away.

But the third morning I caught sight of myself in the side of one of the big copper kettles and noticed I was an untidy mess: I hadn't thought to mutter up some clean clothes for myself, not with the rumbling above and all my worry for Kasia. I didn't wonder that I'd acc.u.mulated spots, stains, tears, and I didn't mind it, either; but the Dragon hadn't said anything. He'd come down to the kitchens more than once, to tell me what to go and fetch. I stared at the reflection, and the next time he came down I blurted, "Are you keeping me out of the way?"

He paused, not even off the bottom step, and said, "Of course I'm keeping you out of the way, you idiot."

"But he doesn't remember," I said, meaning Prince Marek. It came out an anxious question.

"He will, given half a chance," the Dragon said. "It matters too much to him. Keep out of the way, behave like an ordinary serving-girl, and don't use magic anywhere he or Solya can see you."

"Kasia's all right?"

"As well as anyone would be," he said. "Make that the least of your concerns: she's a good deal harder to harm now than an ordinary person, and Solya isn't egregiously stupid. In any case, he knows very well what the prince wants, and all being equal he'd prefer to give it to him. Go get three bottles of milk of fir."

Well, I didn't know what the prince wanted, and I didn't like the idea of him getting it, either, whatever it was. I went up to the laboratory for the milk of fir: it was a potion the Dragon brewed out of fir needles, which somehow under his handling became a milky liquid without scent, although the one time he'd tried to teach me to do it, I'd produced only a wet stinking mess of fir needles and water. Its virtue was to fix magic in the body: it went into every healing potion and into the stone-skin potion. I brought the bottles down to the great hall.

Kasia stood in the center of the room, inside an elaborate double ring drawn on the floor in herbs crushed in salt. They had put a heavy collar around her neck like a yoke for oxen, of black-pitted iron engraved with spell-writing in bright silvery letters, with chains that hung from it to her manacled wrists. She didn't have so much as a chair to sit on, and it should have bowed her double, but she stood straight up underneath it, easily. She gave me a small smile when I came into the room: I'm all right.

The Falcon looked more weary than she did, and Prince Marek was rubbing his face through an enormous yawn, though he was only sitting in a chair watching. "Over there," the Falcon said in my direction, waving a hand to his heaped worktable, paying me no more attention than that. The Dragon sat on his high seat, and threw me a sharp look when I hesitated. Mutinous, I put the bottles on the table, but I didn't leave the room: I retreated to the doorway and watched.

The Falcon infused spells of purification into the bottles, three different ones. He worked with a kind of sharp directness: where the Dragon folded magic into endless intricacies, the Falcon drew a straight line across. But his magic worked in the same sort of way: it seemed to me he was only choosing a different road of many, not wandering in the trees as I did. He handed the bottles across the line to Kasia with a pair of iron tongs: he seemed to have grown more rather than less cautious as he went along. Each one glowed through her skin as she drank it, and the glow lingered, held; by the time she had drunk all three, she lit up the whole room. There was no hint of shadow in her, no small feathery strand of corruption lingering.

The prince sat slouched in his chair, a large goblet of wine at his elbow, careless and easy, but I noticed now that the wine was untouched, and his eyes never left Kasia's face. It made my hands itch to reach for magic: I would have gladly slapped his face just to keep him from looking at her.

The Falcon stared at her a long time, and then he took a blindfold out of a pocket of his doublet and tied it over his eyes: thick black velvet ornamented with silver letters, large enough that it covered his forehead. He murmured something as he put it on; the letters glowed, and then an eyehole opened in the mask just over the center of his forehead. A single eye was looking out of it: large and oddly shaped, roundish, the ring around the enormous pupil dark enough to make it seem almost entirely black, shot through with small flickers of silver. He came to the very edge of the circle and stared at Kasia with it: up and down, and walking in a circle around her three times.

At last he stepped back. The eye closed, then the eyehole, and he raised shaking arms to take off the blindfold, fumbling at the knot. He took it off. I couldn't help staring at his forehead: there wasn't any sign of another eye there, or any mark at all, although his own eyes were badly bloodshot. He sat down heavily into his chair.

"Well?" the prince said, sharply.

The Falcon said nothing for a moment. "I can find no signs of corruption," he said finally, grudging. "I won't swear there is none present-"

The prince wasn't listening. He'd stood up and picked up a heavy key from the table. He crossed the room to Kasia. The shining light was fading from her body, but it had not yet gone; his boots smeared the ring of salt open as he crossed it and unlocked the heavy collar and the manacles. He lifted them off her and to the ground, and then held out his hand, as courtly as if she were a n.o.blewoman, his eyes devouring her. Kasia hesitated-I knew she was worried she would break his hand by accident; myself, I hoped she would-and carefully put her hand in his.

He gripped it tight and turning led her forward, to the foot of the Dragon's dais. "And now, Dragon," he said softly, "you will tell us how this was done," with a shake of Kasia's arm, raised up in his own. "And then we will go into the Wood: the Falcon and I, if you're too much a coward to come with us, and we will bring my mother out."

Chapter 13.

"I'm not going to give you a sword to fall on," the Dragon said. "If that's what you insist on doing, you can do so with considerably less damage to anyone else by using the one you already have."

Prince Marek's shoulders clenched, the muscles around his neck knotting visibly; he let go of Kasia's hand and took a step onto the dais. The Dragon's face stayed cold and unyielding. I think the prince would have struck him, gladly, but the Falcon pushed himself up from his chair. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness, there's no need for this. If you recall the enchantment I used in Kyeva, when we captured General Nichkov's camp-that will serve just as well here. It will show me how the spell was done." He smiled at the Dragon without teeth, lips drawn tight. "I think Sarkan will admit that even he can't hide things from my sight."

The Dragon didn't deny it, but bit out, "I'll admit that you're a far more extravagant fool than I gave you credit for being, if you intend to lend yourself to this lunacy."

"I would hardly call it extravagant to make every reasonable attempt to rescue the queen," the Falcon said. "We've all bowed our heads to your wisdom before now, Sarkan: there was certainly no sense in taking risks to bring out the queen only to have to put her to death. Yet now here we are," he gestured to Kasia, "with evidence of another possibility plain before us. Why have you been concealing it so long?"

Just like that, when the Falcon had so plainly come here in the first place expressly to insist that there was no other possibility, and to condemn the Dragon for letting Kasia live at all! I nearly gawked at him, but he showed not the least consciousness of having altered his position. "If there is any hope for the queen, I would call it treason not to make the attempt," the Falcon added. "What was done, can be done again."

The Dragon snorted. "By you?"

Well, even I could tell that was hardly the way to induce the Falcon to hesitate. His eyes narrowed, and he turned coldly and said to the prince, "I will retire now, Your Highness; I must recover my strength before I cast the enchantment in the morning."

Prince Marek dismissed him with a wave of his hand: I saw to my alarm that while I'd been busy watching the sparring, he had been speaking to Kasia, gripping her hand in both of his. Her face still had that unnatural stillness, but I had learned to read it well enough by now to see that she was troubled.

I was about to go to her rescue when he let her hand go and left the hall himself, a quick wide stride, the heels of his boots ringing on the steps as he went upstairs. Kasia came to me, and I caught her hand in mine. The Dragon was scowling at the stairs, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair in irritation.

"Can he do it?" I asked him. "Can he see how the spell was done?"

Drum, drum, drum, went his fingers. "Not unless he finds the tomb," the Dragon said finally. After a moment he added grudgingly, "Which he may be able to do: he has an affinity for sight magic. But then he'll have to find a way into it. I imagine it will take him a few weeks, at least; long enough for me to get a message to the king, and I hope forestall this nonsense."

He waved me away, and I was glad to go, pulling Kasia all the way up the stairs behind me with a wary eye on the turning up ahead. At the second landing I put my head out and made sure neither the prince nor the Falcon was in the hallway any longer before I drew Kasia across it, and when we came to my room I told her to wait outside until I had flung the door open and looked in: empty. I let her in and shut and barred the door behind us, and pushed a chair beneath the doork.n.o.b. I would have liked to seal it with magic, if the Dragon hadn't warned me against using spells, but as little as I wanted another visit from Prince Marek, I wanted him to remember what had really happened in the last one even less. I didn't know if the Falcon could notice it if I cast a tiny spell of closing up here in my room, but I had felt his magic from the kitchens, so I didn't mean to take chances.

I turned to Kasia: she was sitting on the bed heavily. Her back was straight-it was always straight now-but her hands were pressed flat together in her lap, and her head was bowed forward. "What did he say to you?" I demanded, a shudder of anger building in my belly, but Kasia shook her head.

"He asked me to help him," she said. "He said he would speak to me again tomorrow." She lifted her head and looked at me. "Nieshka, you saved me-could you save Queen Hanna?"

For a moment I was in the Wood again, deep beneath the branches, the weight of its hatred pressing on me and shadows creeping into me with every breath. Fear closed my throat. But I thought also of fulmia, rolling like thunder deep in my belly; of Kasia's face and another tree grown tall, a face under the bark softened and blurred by twenty years of growth, vanishing like a statue under running water.

The Dragon was in his library, writing and irritated, and not less so when I came down and asked him the same question. "Try not to borrow more folly than you already possess," he said. "Are you still incapable of recognizing a trap? This is the Wood's doing."

"You think the Wood has-Prince Marek?" I asked, wondering if that would explain it; if that was why he'd- "Not yet it doesn't," the Dragon said. "But he'll hand himself over and a wizard to boot: a magnificent trade for a peasant girl, and how much the better if you threw yourself in as well! The Wood will plant heart-trees in you and Solya, and swallow the valley in a week. That's why it let her go."