Rosethorn smiled at him. “But they won’t be spelled against us. We become part of the wood; we don’t try to work spells on it.”
“As you say,” the soldier answered, clearly not believing her. “I’m just here to run errands for you.”
“We could use more water,” Briar said. The man nodded and left. To Rosethorn, Briar said, “Will you handle catapults and I’ll take care of arrows?”
He did not have to ask her twice. She sat and placed her palms flat on the earth on either side of her. Briar sat cross-legged next to her and kept his eyes on the imperial forces. He could not hear their officers’ cries, but he saw the next volley of crossbow bolts arch into the air. He reached for them, tapping the memory of their lives as trees deep in the wood. He called those lives out, encouraging the bolts to sprout and leaf. They fought the metal arrow tip and thrust roots past the fletching, slowing the bolts’ flight and draining their deadly power as they dropped to the ground. He couldn’t reach all of them, but he reached a great many.
He was so fixed on that flight of arrows, and the next, and the next, that he did not hear the groans of the catapults as Rosethorn called upon their own memories as trees. They sprouted roots, splitting their metal fixtures and joins. The catapults exploded into pieces as the wooden towers and throwing arms burst free of their constraints, sank roots, and put out branches. Once a newborn tree was fixed in its bed, Rosethorn moved on to the next.
Briar kept track of her work through occasional touches as he rested between flights of arrows. A glimpse of Evvy as she drooped over Luvo and her horse’s neck told him that they had finished whatever they’d been doing.
A roar from a large number of human throats drew Briar’s attention to the battlefield. General Sayrugo’s trumpets were sounding the attack. On their left, cavalry riders on both sides battled with spears and halberds. On the right, a pit opened under the Yanjingyi cavalry. They were trying to climb out, but the earth was dry. It slid under the feet of horses and fighters, dropping them back on top of those who were lower down.
Whose work? Briar wondered. He looked at the different groups of shamans. One of them sat on the ground, resting. The others were chanting, dancing, or standing with hands joined. He felt magic roll off them in waves. He made a silent vow never to vex the shamans.
A shout drew Briar’s attention upward. Twenty or more zayao globes fell toward their forces. Lighter than the boulders, they had been thrown by Yanjingyi mages, not catapults. His belly rolled and cramped. He reached with his power but knew the attempt was useless. The charcoal in zayao was dead wood, untouchable by Rosethorn and him; sulfur was metal somehow, immune to plant and stone magic. Saltpeter, the third ingredient, was outside all three of them. He had tried to tell Evvy it was part stone, but she did not believe him.
The bombs fell, exploding throughout their army. Horses and soldiers shrieked. Riders and foot soldiers raced to fill gaps in the front and shift the screaming wounded and the dead. Clouds of stinking smoke rolled over the field.
Briar tried not to listen to the cries for help as he reached underground with his power, seeking roots. He groped in his jacket with one hand until he found a vial of strengthening oil. The enemy’s cavalry was charging. If he rubbed the oil on his hands to strengthen his power, he could get a wide swathe of grasses to trip the horses….
He was loosening the wax around the vial’s cork when fire, or a pain like burning, raced over his skin. A mage had singled him out for attack. He cried out and reached for Rosethorn. She lay on the ground, doubled over on herself. With a gasp she smacked his hand away. “Don’t touch me! I’m burning up!” she shouted, though he saw no blisters on her pale skin.
He fumbled to put the vial back in his pocket. He felt more invisible flames spill over him and swore he would have the Yanjingyi mage’s teeth out in revenge. He didn’t see fire, but he heard it crackle; his nose was filled with the stink of cooking flesh. Tears of pain streamed down his face.
Rosethorn cried out again. He fell to his knees and began to crawl to her, shouting for Evvy and Luvo.
He stopped at a pair of splayed brown feet. Knotted brown hands yanked him up as Riverdancer shouted into his face. More heat engulfed him. Briar shoved the older woman away to keep her from being burned, but he still couldn’t see the fire that crackled so convincingly on his own skin.
Riverdancer grabbed him again. This time her translator stood beside her. “She says, the Yanjingyi, did they get a chance to collect your hair or your fingernails?” the translator bellowed in tiyon. “Did they take clothes with your sweat on them?”
He stared at the two Gyongxin women. They had tried to be careful back in the Winter Palace, using their magic to remove all trace of themselves from the guest pavilion, but they could do little about the cushions and drying cloths they had used during all those meals with the nobles and the emperor. A very good mage might have drawn enough of their essence from those to do them harm now. Briar had learned all about sympathetic magic and the uses of all things that were once part of a person on their journey east. He was trying to remember if they had forgotten anything important, like nail clippings or hair, when the pain swept over him and Rosethorn screamed.
Riverdancer released him. Briar fell to the ground beside his teacher as the shaman began to dance, one foot up, one foot down. Had he known Riverdancer wore tiny bells in her clothes? One foot up, one foot down in a strange, turning step. She danced around Rosethorn and Briar, her bells singing. Fine white crystals spilled from Riverdancer’s fingers. She sang, too. Briar could see her words in the air. They spoke of the strength of the mountains and the power of eagles, about the roots of the glaciers and rivers of Gyongxe. Even though he didn’t know the language she used — it wasn’t tiyon — he saw and understood everything.