“It’s a question of the power of the quake,” Rosethorn pointed out. “It builds up over years. That power must go somewhere—you can’t make it vanish.”

“But there’ve been little shakes all summer,” protested Briar. “Didn’t that bleed some of it off?”

“No. They just made it stronger, because they weren’t in the spot where this quake is growing. Am I right?” Tris asked Niko.

He nodded and moved food around on his plate. “I don’t like the messages from Wave Circle Temple in Ragat,” he said at last.

“Who’s in charge there?” asked Lark.

“Honored Huath,” Niko replied.

Lark whistled softly. “Huath. Him and his machines, the ones that turn one kind of magic into another. What was the last one? Oh, yes—a mill that was supposed to turn wind-magic into lightning-magic. How could I forget?”

“Did Huath say anything?” asked Rosethorn.

“His message to Moonstream was, ‘You may be surprised,’” Niko told her. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“There’s nothing you can do now,” Rosethorn pointed out. “You look like you should be in bed.”

“Even Huath isn’t so prideful as to fiddle with an earthquake,” Lark added, but the four heard uncertainty in her voice.

Niko sighed. “Tris, be patient for two or three more days. I’ve been leaving you on your own, and I know you need training badly. I am sorry, but a problem like this would take the sap from a far younger tree than I am.”

“Is he allowed to talk like you do?” Briar asked Rosethorn. “About being a tree?”

Niko smiled. “Forgive me, Tris. I’ll make it up to you.” He levered himself to his feet and left the cottage.

“Why’s he tired?” asked Sandry.

“He’s been far-seeing in his crystal, scrying for the future. It drains him,” Lark explained. “We’re lucky he was here to assist our own seers in sorting out the different omens.” She got to her feet. “Who’s got dishes?”

Was she dreaming? It looked so real, in places:

A woman, a maidservant by her clothes, sat on the checkered tile floor, drinking from a heavy crystal decanter. The white sores on her face, arms, and legs oozed; she couldn’t open one eye at all.

“Have a drink wi’ me, y’r ladyship,” she said with a sly grin. “Drink t’ Lord Death, as has us all.”

“No, thank you,” she whispered. Dodging the woman, she ran on as drunken laughter followed her. Her parents were here, in this palace whose empty corridors twisted and turned. Her mother, her father, Pirisi—she had to find them. It was time to go. She had never liked palaces. They were cold places, boxes of marble, crystal, metal, and porcelain, with no place where a person could sit and be comfortable. Once she found her people, they could leave.

She stumbled around a corner and was suddenly in her parents’ bedroom. Here they were, still abed, as usual, arms wrapped around each other, as usual. Now they would sit up, and laugh, and beckon for her to come to them.

But they did not. She went to where they rested on the pillows and shook her father’s shoulder. He slipped down. She saw his face, the pockmarks dry and clotted, the white matter gone brown. Suddenly the reek of old death billowed over her, the smell of rotten meat. Her mother slid with him, locked to his chest, as dead as he was. Pirisi lay across the foot of their bed, her face battered by her murderers’ attack. Her scarlet dress—mourning for her three children who died two days before—was unmarked.

A door slammed. She looked around, frantic.

The candles and lamps in the room went out. She was alone, in the dark, with the dead.

Sandry gasped and sat up. The first things she saw were Discipline’s white stone walls and her embroidered Tree of Life hanging. It was almost dawn. There was plenty of light in the room—just as well, because her small bedside lamp was out. She frowned at it. Had the nightmare come because her light was gone? Perhaps she ought to ask Lark for a bigger lamp, if this one could run out of oil in one night.

Shaking, she got out of bed. The dream was always the same. Her parents looked just as they had when she found them. In reality, Pirisi had been alive, had been trying to stop her from entering their bedroom. In reality, they had heard the roar of the mob, and Pirisi had insisted on hiding her.

Pouring cold water into her basin, she scrubbed the fear-sweat off her face. Cleaning her teeth with hands that still trembled, Sandry vowed to ask Lark for a bigger lamp. She just had to stay out of the dark, that was all.

Everyone woke to a hazy sky and odd, orange-colored light. The air was hot, damp, and close. Little Bear ran from the front door to the back, whining. Tris had a headache and a queasy stomach. Rosethorn and Briar were edgy. Daja, who liked to go barefoot when she could, put her shoes on. She was fine upstairs, but the ground seemed hot.

No one did well as they meditated that morning. They were all too restless.

“You’d better take a holiday, Briar,” Rosethorn said at midday. “I’m going to lie down.” Ashen, she went into her room and closed the door.

“I’ll clean up,” Lark said. She too looked unwell. “I need something to do. Go play—and take the Bear with you. He’s annoying me.”

Sandry hung her workbag off one shoulder and caught the pup. She needed both arms to hold him. He was not as easy to carry as he was five weeks before, when they brought him back from the city. “Tris, maybe you should lie down,” she suggested.