Hello, here's another installment of All My Mages. It's pretty heavy- handedly Sandry/Briar in this chapter, though I really didn't mean it to be when I started writing this story. It was meant to be soaked through and through with Rosethorn and Crane, and I promise it will get very much so, very soon. It's always so fun writing dialogues between Rosethorn and Crane, though I like writing Briar's thoughts best of all. I don't have to watch my grammar, for one.

Also, I know I haven't mentioned the little apprentice mages, but- here I am ashamed- I haven't read all of the Circle Opens yet. In fact, I've read only one. However, I am quite broke right now, and I haven't been able to pick up the books at the store yet (I already checked the library). So, I'll throw in a bit about them later. It will suffice to say that only Pasco is in Emelan.

Please comment! I feed on comments. Feed. Feed.



Sandry had more than one reason for not wanting to go home to Discipline, and Briar was definitely not the least of her worries. So she took a long, leisurely soak in the bathhouse, only ducking into Discipline for her bath robe and supplies.

She had just slipped back into her room and into her nightdress when Daja's mindvoice rang through her head. You can put it off as long as you want, but it won't go away.

Sandry ran a comb through her long hair, only partially dried. I know, I know, she said with a sigh. I just don't know what to say.

Well, if it's any help, the boy is dozing on the roof. Rosethorn half killed him today, in case you haven't noticed all the fresh rose geraniums hanging around Discipline. Sandry giggled. Despite her haste, she had seen the cups and vases filling the table and Rosethorn's workroom. They're a bit of pretty, Lark decided, so they're being displayed for now. They were all dried before Rosethorn and Briar redid them.

Sandry whistled, impressed. I'll go talk to him, she said sheepishly. Especially since he's half asleep.

Then go!



From where he lay sprawled on an oilcloth, Briar could hear the creaking of the hatch as it opened. "Briar?"

He groaned as he rolled over to stare at Sandry. "Ow." Adjusting himself so that the straw of the roof wouldn't scratch his bare arms, Briar only managed to tear another muscle.

No, that was just a seam in the ancient shirt he was wearing, which had already lost its sleeves and most of its buttons.

She climbed up onto the roof to crouch by him, her blue eyes wide with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Just stiff. We sat all day staring at those awful rose geraniums, I think my back has solidified into one big ouch." He looked up at her and blushed, scrambling to sit up. "Sorry. Sit on this, so the dust won't get at you."

She settled beside him on the oilcloth, making her body small to fit into the little space left by his lanky body. "So."

"So..." He refused to meet her eyes.

Briar didn't know what to begin to say. The back of his neck began to ache slightly, and he rubbed at it with a dusty hand. He massaged the tense spot, willing the muscles to relax.

Sandry sighed. "Oh, just lie back down before you hurt yourself some more." Her thin arms were surprisingly strong as she hauled him back into his former position, settling his head in her lap. Briar supposed that, if he thought of it, he had seen both Lark and Sandry doing hard work before. He just didn't realize she was that strong.

He came out of his half-reverie to hear a wicked chuckle. "I tricked you, you realize," she said, almost wiggling with glee. "I knew you wouldn't look me in the eye, and now I have you trapped." Briar looked up, startled, to meet a pair of dancing blue eyes.

He looked away; a cool hand deftly repositioned his chin.

He tried to sit up; a hand pressed against his forehead quickly discouraged this move.

His curly hair dragged into his eyes, and he looked at her through the protective curtain they formed; her hand appeared less than an inch above his eyebrows and he yelped.

Ok, so maybe she was right. "You win, Sandry."

"I know," she said, magnanimous in her victory. "But you put up a good fight."

And the ice had been broken, just like that. Not for the first time, Briar was seeing some of Lark's subtle abilities emerge in Sandry.

"Briar, I'm really sorry I didn't tell you about me being Princess." Her voice floated, disembodied, above his head. "It wasn't something I really wanted everyone to talk about, anyway."

He couldn't help sounding a little accusatory, even though he tried not to. "I wish it had been you who said it, not that ugly chuff this morning."

"I didn't mean for you to hear it from him," she said angrily. Briar could tell that the clip in her soft voice was for the chuff, and not for him, but he felt guilty anyway. "Especially not him. I'll murder him, if you'd like," she offered, her voice light. Deceivingly light.

Briar, tired as he was, decided it would be more useful to poke about in her mind. He teased a strand of his magic into hers- and instantly hit a shadowy barrier. "Just what," she said, "do you think you're doing?"

"I wish you'd tell me what's really bothering you. I know that blot means you're hiding something."

Briar could feel Sandry's shoulders droop. "Becoming a princess ... well, it made me feel like I wasn't going to be Sandry anymore."

"Of course you're still Sandry," Briar protested.

"You always like to point out to me that I'm a noble- you call me Duchess, and I don't really mind because you're teasing." Her voice was becoming quieter and quieter. "But we hadn't seen each other for so long. I know we'll all always be friends, but I was afraid that maybe you would turn around one day and-"

She was going to cry, and that scared Briar. He still wasn't good with crying females, especially ones he liked.

"-and maybe you'd see me differently, like how lots of people have looked at me since I became Princess. They treat me differently. I didn't want you to do that, too." She sniffed, looking down at her lap. "I was just scared and stupid."

Because she had just told him something she hadn't wanted to, Briar felt obligated to open his big dumb mouth and say something to reassure her. "You weren't stupid, I was," he told her. "When Chuff said you were a Princess, the street rat in me froze up. I thought I wasn't fit to touch your right shoe."

Sandry slammed her hand into the thatching of Discipline. "Briar, you know that was exactly what I did not want to hear!"

He shrugged, and winced as his stiff shoulder gave a twang of pain. "I thought it might make you feel better if I told you what a moron I was. But Sandry," he hesitated. "You'll always be you to me. No matter what, I promise."

She hesitated, then took his hand in hers. "So we're okay, then? I really didn't like not telling you things."

"Friends," he said firmly. "Even if you're Sandry, Queen of the Universe." She tousled his hair playfully. "Since I can't call you Duchess anymore, can I at least call you Princess?"

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "We'll see."

The tension had drained from the air, and Briar finally felt himself relax. He was tired, after all, and began to feel his eyelids droop. "Maybe I'd hug you, but the rose geraniums got the better of me today."

She smiled down at him, and he barely managed one back. "Just rest. I'll wake you up when it's time to go in." His head sank into her rose-silk lap, and vaguely he recognized the smell of sweet pea. From the sachets in the boxes, he remembered. Her dress was soft, like her hand. Which was still in his, he remembered suddenly, because he could feel it resting lightly against his chest.

Abruptly, he was more awake.

"Maybe I should go to bed," he stammered, aware that his heart was beginning to pound much more quickly than it should.

Sandry was apparently unaware of Briar's anxiety. "If you'd like," she said, preoccupied. "It's rather warm inside, though. There's some air up here, at least." The wind fluttered her hair around her face, and she smiled into the breeze.

"There is," he agreed, his green eyes drawn to her face. Glancing down at him, surprised, her eyes flicked to her hand, still cradled tenderly in Briar's. In the half-light, he thought he saw her blush, but he couldn't be sure.

I can't be, he thought to himself, incredulous. But I think I am.

The next few minutes passed quite silently. Rather ordinarily, Briar thought ruefully, until a huge gust of wind blew a large quantity of dust over Discipline, leaving the both of them coughing and brushing brown grit from their clothes.

"Maybe the wind isn't all good," the girl said mournfully. "As hot as it is." She crouched, rolling up the oilcloth, as Briar hauled himself to his knees. Crawling toward the opening in the roof, he pulled himself in and then offered Sandry a hand.

"Goodnight," she said shyly, then leaned over to give him a one armed hug, since Briar had not yet relinquished her hand. Maybe he could get used to hugs, if it was Sandry giving them. "Thank you for being so patient with me."

"Naw," he replied. "I ain't done nothing."

Briar didn't actually have a list of things that he wouldn't ever do, but, if pressed, he would have claimed one existed. There were quite a few things he suspected he would never do, ever, and one of those unwritten laws would have been, "No romancing." Another would have been never to eat rotten goat meat again, something he had silently promised himself after coming to Winding Circle. But mushy stuff would definitely have been on the top of the list.

However, Briar managed to surprise himself as he raised Sandry's fingertips, dusty as they were, to his mouth and just barely brushed them with his lips. Then he slipped out of the attic to the second floor with only a slight thump, leaving Sandry wide-eyed in the attic.

I've got it bad, he told himself, rather sheepishly. He wasn't sure he cared all that much. A guy's gotta go soft sometime. Maybe it was just his turn.



Lark was sitting at the table, quite peacefully writing a letter, when the door opened and Rosethorn walked in from the dark. "Hello, Rosie."

"I did it," came the irritated reply. "I went to the greenhouse and I thanked him. Are you happy now?"

Mildly, Lark just looked at her friend. "I don't believe I even asked you to do that. But I would have, so, yes, I might be happy." She bent to her task again until a muffled thump made her look up. Rosethorn had sat at the table, and the sound was her head hitting the wood.

"Rosie?"

The younger dedicate raised her head, hair mussed on the side that had collided with the table. "What's wrong with me? Why can't I just get along well enough without- without-"

Lark reached over and took Rosethorn's hand, which had been twitching violently. "I'm not sure what happened between you two, though I'm sure it was quite interesting. But do you think you could be friends again?"

Rosethorn gave a little bitter glare and then sighed. "I don't know how." The side of her mouth twisted ironically. "I don't think I can."

Lark smiled her most comforting smile. "Rosie, of course you can. Why don't you bring him something for Midsummer? It doesn't have to be something like tomatoes-" Rosethorn grinned viciously- "but today was almost like an armistice. Back it up."

"You know the problem was never tomatoes," Rosethorn said airily, before her expression changed to one more inscrutable. "But I do have something." Standing briskly, she disappeared into her workroom to return with a small package wrapped in paper. "They're roots," she explained, opening the parcel to reveal four dried, twisted brown lumps.

"What kind?" Lark said, fascinated. They looked almost like small potatoes to the thread mage, but she'd have to run fast if she had told that to Rosethorn.

Rosethorn was very carefully regarding the brown lumps. "Sunblooms," she said slowly. "Warm weather flowers. Perfect," she added dryly, "for certain greenhouses."

"I don't think I've seen them before."

"They're not all that easy to find." Lark raised an eyebrow quizzically. "I bullied a few dozen merchants before one of them managed to acquire these."

Lark touched one with a gentle fingertip. "What do they look like grown? And does Crane like these?"

"They range from yellow to dark red, and, yes, Crane likes these." Rosethorn swallowed a bit before grudgingly admitting, "They're his favorite warm-weather flower."

Lark smiled, pulling out a small piece of white silk. "You didn't just happen upon these, did you, Rosethorn?" Retying the paper, Lark wrapped the small package in the silk, tying a thin green ribbon around with a bow.

Rosethorn's glare was impressive. "I was missing home so badly one day, and I tried to reach Discipline and our plants. Crane was doing a bit of weeding in the garden; I could feel him there." She poked the neatly wrapped package with one finger. "I thought I'd bring these back for him. Maybe I got carried away, but I just wanted to do something nice in return. I don't know if he'll like being reminded that we knew each other so well, once."

"Oh, Rosie, and you said you didn't know how to be friends," Lark said, almost laughing. "You'll do fine." Rising, Lark placed Crane's gift in the small pile accumulating near the doorway, near a tall vase of rose geraniums.

"I could come to regret this," Rosethorn said gruffly. "I'm going to bed. Blasted flowers are everywhere."



Tris isn't back and its Midsummer already! Daja complained loudly. Sandry groaned and pulled a pillow over her head in an attempt to block out sound, before realizing Daja was shouting through their magic.

It's early, Trader. Briar was obviously still in bed, too, and surly. Whatcha have to go and yatter on for?

Oh, good, you're both up now! Happy Midsummer. Daja was never the least bit thwarted by silent death threats at dawn. Come out now.

Sandry dragged herself out of bed with a sigh, pulling on her lightest cotton dress. Braiding her hair, which was now mostly dust-free, she washed her face in the pitcher of water she had left herself in the attic and stumbled ungracefully downstairs.

Rosethorn looked just as good as Sandry and Briar when they emerged from their rooms, but Lark was already wide awake and laying out breakfast. "Happy Midsummer," she told everyone with a smile. "Tea? All of you seem to need it."

"Happy Midsummer," Daja said cheerfully. "Did I tell you I have a slave?"

Rosethorn smiled, showing many teeth. "A slave, you say? How useful. A gift from Frostpine?"

"From Dedicate Moonstream, I'd say, though Frostpine owes me at least a dozen by now."

Lark laid a platter of small baked cakes on the table, as well as some strawberry jam and butter. "Moonstream assigned a young fire mage to Daja to help her with her wire project. I think the authority is getting to her head."

"Yes," Daja admitted. "But he's useful. You see," she explained, "I need someone to keep the wire reasonably warm, and it's inconvenient to have to keep it near a heat source when I'm concentrating. His magic can take care of that for me."

A voice from the doorway caused everyone to turn. "I also move the wire precisely an inch every time her Almighty is done with a section. And," the novice added caustically, "I deliver wire that she forgets at the forge."

"Oops," Daja said, getting up from her seat to take the bundle from the boy, who looked to be about twelve. "Thanks, Trevin. Want some breakfast?"

Trevin grimaced. "Frostpine promised to feed me, or at least he told me so. I'd better go, he just told me to give this to you." He quickly disappeared around the corner and was gone.

Lark, after saying the breakfast prayer, quickly wiped her hands and looked at the cloth-wrapped package Trevin had brought. "Daja, is this the wire we're to work with?"

The Trader nodded, mouth full. "It should be pliable enough to weave through cloth without making it too stiff," she said after swallowing. "We would have tried thinner, but the wire would probably break too easily to even help protect."

Wire between her forefinger and thumb, Lark inspected it closely. "This should be fine," she murmured, showing the sample to Sandry. "Water Dedicates brought the undyed robes to our door yesterday, so today our job is to weave the wire into patterns in the cloth."

Sandry nodded. The basic procedure had been outlined by Moonstream yesterday, to assure the nobles that Winding Circle would have proper defenses in case of attack. "Along with rose geranium oil."

Briar groaned. "Lots of rose geranium oil."

Rosethorn looked at her student thoughtfully. "After today, it's up to you. I have to go work with Crazy Head Crane, so make sure with Lark and Sandry while you do supplies. Don't run out of one thing first, because that wastes time."

"I know. I'll try not to mope."

"See to it that you don't," Rosethorn said, voice acidic. "I know it seems like humdrum work now, but buck up, boy. It's important that it's done."

The table was silent for a minute or two. In the hassle of new lessons and Midsummer, it was apparent that not a single resident of Discipline had forgotten the danger their home faced.

Breakfast was over too soon. They cleaned up and said goodbye to Daja, who was spending Midsummer making more magicked wire at the forge. Rosethorn and Briar, as well as Sandry and Lark, disappeared into their respective workrooms, while Little Bear slept in the doorway of the kitchen. Somehow it didn't seem like a holiday when everyone had to be apart to be useful.



"Do we need to treat the robes first?" Sandry asked, a bit of fine wire in her fingertips. The copper was almost slippery, and wound around her fingers like string.

"Not this time," Lark said with a smile. "We need to use a drop of rose geranium oil, though," she said as she demonstrated, "across the surface of the wire before we weave it into the cloth." With a flick of her fingers, Lark sent the fragile copper into her first undyed robe, allowing the strand to loosely weave itself in a simple basting stitch. "We're to do more herb work after the metal is in place. This morning, we'll use some of the old oil we put up in storage, but when we need to rest this afternoon we'll grind some more from the fresh Rosie and Briar have been working on."

Sandry fingered the edge of her first robe as she experimentally sent a copper thread through the seam of the cloth. "How far apart do we place the wires?" she asked, measuring in her mind.

Lark's copper wire had threaded itself vertically from the back hem of the robe to the front. Picking up a pair of small scissors, she snipped the wire free at the hem and magically tucked the pointed end into the cloth. "We'll alternate copper and iron, about a hand's width apart," she told her student, "with one strand of silver around the front opening of the robe."

Sandry silently measured her robe in her head, deciding she would need three copper stripes and three iron stripes to span the width of the shoulders. "These will do for battle?" The robe was shorter than those most dedicates wore, coming well above the ankle, but the sides were split to increase mobility. The open edges in the front would be overlapped until the collar would fold like a V around the neck of its wearer, while a simple cotton tie in the front secured the robe around the body like a belt.

"Our fire dedicates usually wear short robes and armor," Lark said, wrestling with a roll of iron wire. "Moonstream must anticipate more magical warfare than previously expected. Enahar, remember, relied on his black powder. While these robes would definitely not have been able to protect our guards from that degree of exposure, the protections will most likely deflect most small burns and flying debris better than plain armor."

Sandry smiled as her wire neatly coiled into the palm of her hand, sweetly waiting for its turn to be oiled. "But they'll all be wearing armor underneath, right?"

"Of course. Which is why we're making the robes as light as possible. Though," Lark said, her head tilted slightly to the side as she regarded her next threading, "we'll make special ones for the mages who will be helping our Fire dedicates, those who haven't been trained with armor."

"You mean like Rosethorn and Crane, when they go to look at the Gates?" Sandry tried her best to keep a small tremble from her voice.

"Yes. Though likely ..." Here Lark paused, glancing up at her student with concern. "We'll probably need to make mage robes for all of us, too, just in case."

Sandry tried not to imagine her friends being torn apart by enemy arrows and mage fires. "But it might come to that?" she forced herself to ask.

"Yes," Lark said quietly.

"Then," Sandry told her teacher in a voice that was more than a little fierce, "we'd better make those special robes really good!"

"These," Lark said, touching the small pile of standard robes, "are to generally protect those who wear them. When we do up the stronger robes for the mages, it will help if we keep them in mind while we do the work. That way, the robe will know whom it's trying to protect. But we'll work on those when we've had some time to practice."