"Pierce, Tamora - Circle Of Magic 03 - Daja's Book E-Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pierce Tamora)

girl picked up a book. With the other she drew a skein of breeze from the sky into the
bellows-hole.
ItТs A History of Volcanoes, Hot Springs and Mud Pots in the Mountains of Emelan.
ThereТs a lot of information in it, Tris explained.
Sounds delightful, Daja commented. Letting the magical conversation go, she grabbed
a handful of long, thin iron rods, carried them over to the forge-fire, and put them in
to heat.
She felt bad for Tris, stuck behind the forge. Her redheaded friend would have liked
nothing better than to ride with the Duke and their teachers, exploring the valley.
Unfortunately, when Tris got cross, small winds turned to big ones. No one wanted
her anywhere near the grassfires they had gone to inspect today.
Unlike Tris, Daja had no interest in grassfires, and had said as much to her teacher,
Frostpine. She had wanted him to give her something new to work, like the ruddy
copper that was mined in these parts. Instead heТd assigned her the most humdrum
task an apprentice could get.
Nails, Daja thought tiredly. Barehanded, she drew a thin, cherry-red iron rod out of
the fire. I dream of forging swords and crowns and armour, but what does he give me?
Nails. She carried her rod over to the anvil, and examined its gloryless surface.
The light in the small building was poor, the outer air smoky. The forge-fire was
sinking now, to become a steady wash of heat over red coals, without giving much
light. She would have to do something about that.
Daja reached a hand towards the forge, and twitched her fingers. A rope of fire rose
from the coals. A second finger-twitch brought the rope towards the anvil. She
stopped it a foot away, then thought for a moment. Her plan was to shape it like a
branch of candles, but something else nudged her, wanting to press its own image into
the flame. She let it roll away from her and into the rope. It split, then split again,
turning itself into a multitude of fibres. These began to weave themselves in and out
of each other. When they halted, a grid of flame hung in the air, like a broadly woven
square of cloth. Daja could have stuck a thumb into the gaps between the fire-threads,
but she wasnТt sure what the result might be. The fiery cloth did cast a strong light on
her work area, and wasnТt that the important thing? She left it alone.
Using a hammer, she resentfully tapped a groove into her iron rod. Where would she
be right now, if her family hadnТt drowned? Probably south in the Pebbled Sea,
underway for their winter berth. The wind, just starting to turn chilly,

would be tumbling through her braids, filling her nose with clean, salt air - not this
dusty, smoky stuff.
Jamming the rodТs pointed end into a hole in the metal lump called a nail header, she
gave the iron a hard twist. The rod broke neatly where she had cut the groove into it.
And our ship wouldnТt have a cargo of these, she thought, putting the longer piece of
rod aside. WeТd have, oh, spices from Bihan, and gold from Sotat. Maybe some
flower-perfumes from Janaal.
With a hard, quick hammer-blow, she put a flat head on her nail. Lifting the nail-
header tool at the back of the anvil, she up-ended it: her finished nail dropped into a
water-bucket near one of her bare feet. Steam hissed out in a tiny plume. Sighing,
Daja fished for the cool nail and tossed it into a second, empty bucket. With the ease
of practice she put the nail header on the anvil, right over the hole made for it. The
remainder of the first rod went back into the fire to heat. She grabbed the next iron
rod, to begin the whole chore over again.
Daja worked steadily, ignoring the sweat that trickled down her cheeks, back and