Pierce, Tamora - The Circle Opens 02 by Pierce Tamora

Author:Pierce, Tamora [Pierce, Tamora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-08-15T16:19:40+00:00

Chapter Nine

Golden House echoed as market keepers opened the giant shutters, allowing sunlight to enter the building. Flinching as the sound battered his sleepy ears, Briar inhaled the steam from his tea and tried not to hate himself for having been fool enough to rent a stall. He knew it was a good idea - people had to see his miniature trees before they would pay plenty of money for them - but his body longed passionately for bed. His work with Evvy the afternoon before had tired him more than he had thought.

The last hour in particular had been a trial, he thought, and sipped his tea. No doubt he'd asked too much of her first real stab at meditation, but how could he know what was too much? He was somewhere around fourteen, just a student himself, as Rosethorn often reminded him. He would definitely be relieved when Jebilu took over.

Evvy had been surprised - Briar had not - when Rosethorn came home to say Jebilu would meet his new student at Golden House. "Don't expect him much before noon," Rosethorn cautioned, a grim twist to her mouth. "But he'll come, or I'll know the reason why." She had looked at Evvy. "Did you give my boy a hard time?"

"Your boy?" Evvy had asked with a grin. "He's no boy, he's old."

"I feel old," Briar mumbled as the first rays of light hit the shelves of miniature trees behind him. They chorused a welcome to the sun, their leaves eager for even tidbits of light. Only his own tree, a pine in the shape called shakkan, did not call. Briar had positioned it so the sun would touch it first. It was his companion and friend, a one-hundred-fifty-year-old work of art, every bit of it filled to near-bursting with magic. It was not for sale.

Others were. Five he had started from trees found in and around Chammur. Like Rosethorn building supplies of seed for the local farmers, Briar had used his power to bring those trees to perfect miniature form, careful not to weaken them as magic filled their veins. Another six were miniatures he'd bought on the way, shaping them to the point where they could be sold for ten times what he had paid. Others he had brought from home. Some he wouldn't sell unless the offered price were very good. They were samples of his expertise in the varied classical forms of miniature tree, and insurance against a need for money further down the road.

Once he finished his tea, he rearranged his charges on the shelves to take advantage of the light. He was trying to ignore a nagging voice in his mind, one that sounded like Sandry, his foster-sister. The voice tugged at his thought constantly, asking a question he didn't want asked or answered: what good will a resentful teacher do her? Or worse: what if he waits for you and Rosethorn to leave, then treats her badly?

I stank as her teacher yesterday, he argued.

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