Storm Glass (19 page)

  His ominous comment reminded me there was no sense in lamenting over my deficiencies when my situation was…well, I wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps I should draw out the “pleasantries,” and give the real Zitora more time to reach me. She had to be searching for me. I hoped. I would even welcome the arrival of Captain Loris and Lieutenant Coll.

  “Where is your other companion? The magician with the blue eyes?” I asked.

  Sir frowned. “Devlen was hired for his skills with the sword. We expected you and your magician friend to have a cadre of soldiers with you.” Sir paused.

  Blue Eyes’ name was Devlen. Which clan did he belong to?

  Before I could ask, Sir continued. “Devlen surprised us when he used his magic. I haven’t seen him since we escaped.” A murderous glint flared in Sir’s eyes. “That was a disaster. But the plan is coming together now. Much nicer than the original.”

  Finally, my frozen thoughts thawed as the shock dissipated, allowing fear to flow into the empty places. What part of the plan was I in? “Why-”

  “Are you here? I’d thought you’d never ask.” Sir’s cackle increased my unease. He was enjoying himself. “You’re going to help us make orbs.”

  “And if I don’t?” I dreaded the answer.

  “You will.” Sir’s voice held confidence. “Do you want the painful details? Or vague threats? Or perhaps you would rather be surprised?” His grip on my arm tightened.

  I should have run. When I had discovered the trick about Zitora, I should have bolted. Wrong decision. Again. I should have known better. But there was no comfort in should-haves. None.

  I asked another question instead of answering Sir. “Why do you want to make orbs?”

  “That’s not your concern,” Sir said.

  “Why do you need me? You have Tal and Ash; surely they know how to make the orbs.”

  “We need you to mix the sand. The Stormdance glassmakers keep the percentages of the sand ingredients a secret. Job security, I suppose.” Sir shrugged.

  “I don’t know the percentages.”

  Sir released my arm and spun, slamming his fist into my solar plexus. I doubled over as the air in my lungs exploded frommy mouth. Pain radiated. I knelt on one knee, keeping my bent position and tried not to gasp for air. Unfortunately, I had experienced this sensation before when sparring with my sais at the Keep. When I could breathe without pain, I straightened.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Sir said.

  “I overheard Varun telling his brother you figured out the recipe of their precious sand,” Tal said.

  Sir accepted my silence as agreement to Tal’s statement. I had estimated the percentages, but Varun hadn’t said how close I had been to the actual numbers. Even a small difference in the mix could affect the quality of the orb. I wasn’t about to tell Sir. He might decide my usefulness was over. Tricky’s comment about “after” was a more powerful threat than Sir’s sucker punch.

  “Now that the introductions are over, why don’t we get started?” Sir grabbed my wrist and led me over to a line of four barrels.

  While Tal pried the lids off, Ash brought an array of bowls and a spade.

  “Tell Ash what the proper percentages are,” Sir instructed.

  Secret recipes were secret for a reason. My father had taught us never to divulge his special recipes. They were our pride and our livelihood. What Sir wanted went against twenty years of habit. “No.”

  Without warning, Tricky slapped me. The force sent me reeling back as pain stung my cheek. Sir pulled me forward. Tricky kicked me in the chest. This time Sir let me fall. My impact with the floor was a mere nuisance compared to the sharp pains emanating from my ribs. Each time I gasped for breath, fire flared.

  Tricky placed his right boot on my throat and leaned, closing my windpipe. Panic overrode all other emotions and I clawed at his leg.

  “Enough,” Sir said.

  The pressure lifted and I gulped in lungfuls of air.

  “What are the percentages?”

  When I regained my composure enough to sit up, I said, “One hundred percent sand.”

  “Magic this time, Tricky. Be creative.”

  A half smile quirked before the amusement in his eyes died, replaced by an icy gleam.

  I scooted away from him; hoping distance would lessen the magical attack. A black beetle, the size of a thumbprint crawled over my knuckles. I yanked my hand from the floor when I spotted a couple more beetles scurrying toward me.

  A light tread ran down my pants. Four more of the bugs crisscrossed my legs. Pricks of movement climbed my back. In no time, beetles coated my body.

  I yelped and swatted, but they clung with tenacious determination. They started to bite. Tearing holes in my clothes, they soon reached skin. A fiery pain burned with each bite. Blood welled and a beetle would drink, while his partner chewed hunks of my flesh. Two gnawed into my stomach, disappearing from my sight.

  They were eating me alive. Horrified, I writhed on the floor trying to dislodge them, my motions frantic. I didn’t want to die.

  One of the beetles ate through my cheek; I felt its hard body on my teeth before it clamped down on my tongue. The hot tang of blood filled my mouth.

  “Do you want it to stop?” Sir’s voice asked.

  Choking on beetles and blood, I tried to say yes, but a gurgle was all I could manage.

  The attack stopped. No bugs. No pain besides my aching ribs and burning throat. My clothes were intact. I rubbed my hands over my skin just to make sure it wasn’t pockmarked with gaping wounds. My fingers slid over smooth skin.

  Sir helped me to stand on trembling legs. “The percentages?”

  I hesitated.

  “If your sand mixture doesn’t match the sample Tal brought from the Stormdancers, Tricky’ll make sure you do better with your second try.”

  The threat pulsed in my heart with a familiar ache. The controlling fear. To do as instructed because the alternative was unbearable.

  “Tricky-”

  “No. Give me a minute. I can’t think.” Was keeping silent about the Stormdance recipe worth the anguish? The beetle attack replayed in my mind as a shudder of revulsion ripped through my body. I wasn’t strong enough before; what made me believe I could endure this time?

  I pushed the horror of the beetles from my mind. I needed to concentrate, to become a glassmaker.

  Wrong numbers would cause my sand to look different. Even though they had a sample, they still needed me. A small portion wasn’t an accurate representation of the entire batch. During the Glass Wars, competing glassmakers tried to steal buckets of their rival’s sand to deduce the ingredients. It hadn’t worked. The coarser, heavier components tend to settle to the bottom of the pile.

  Sir yanked on my arm, twisting my elbow. “We’re waiting.”

  He released my wrist. I rubbed my left shoulder while I examined the contents of the barrels.

  The lava flakes and red Bloodgood sand were easy to identify. I dipped my hand into one of the remaining barrels. White Krystal sand flowed through my fingers, powdery and light.

  The second barrel contained sand from the Stormdancer’s beach. The coarse yellow and brown grains rasped when they poured from my palm. This, along with the Krystal sand made up eighty percent of the recipe. I would have to keep the red sand and lava flake numbers the same, but I could fudge the others.

  In fact, the heavier granules would settle to the bottom of a stockpile over time, leaving the lighter particulates near the top. If Tal had been in a hurry when he stole the sample, he would have scooped from the top.

  I pointed to the Krystal barrel. “Fifty percent.”

  Ash filled one of his bigger bowls with the contents and handed it to Sir. He carried it over to another table.

  “Thirty percent from this one.”

  Ash used a smaller bowl this time.

  “Fifteen percent for the red sand and five percent lava flakes.”

  The glassmaker filled his two remaining bowls. Sir and Tal helped him carry them over to the mixing table. Using a scale, Ash weighed each bowl and adjusted the contents to meet a certain weight.

  Again a sense of disorientation swept over me. The effect of seeing a scene from my childhood acted out by people who wanted to harm me. My father had taught me how to use the scale to calculate the right weight of sand for a certain mixture before I learned how to read.

  Once satisfied with the weights, Ash dumped all the bowls into a drum mixer. Inside the drum were metal fins. He secured the hatch and spun the drum using a handle, mixing the ingredients with a quick efficiency.

  After he emptied the contents into another container, Ash compared the mix with Tal’s sample. A new surge of terror swept over me. I willed myself to stay calm and suppressed the desire to swallow the hard knot in my throat.

  “Looks the same,” Ash said.

  The tight band around my neck eased. I drew in a quiet breath as the tension in the room dissipated.

  “Can I go now?” I asked.

  Sir snorted as if I had made a joke. “You’re our guest. We would be remiss in our duties if we didn’t feed you and let you rest. Besides we need to make certain the sand melts overnight and the orbs are made properly. And I’m sure Ash will appreciate your expert help tomorrow.”

  With an arm around my shoulder, he guided me toward the kitchen. Crafty served me a meal of beef jerky and a glass of water before Sir escorted me to my room.

  When the lock snapped shut, I almost laughed out loud. I promised myself this would never happen again. But here I was. Again.

  I lied.

  And the knowledge that I would give them the right percentages if my duplicity was discovered ate through my heart as efficiently as one of Tricky’s beetles.

  Not only a liar, but a coward, as well.

  I used my cloak as a blanket and managed to get a few hours of sleep before my door was unlocked. Bright morning sunlight spilled into the narrow room.

  “Time to work,” Tricky said.

  He followed me and kept watch as I helped Ash arrange the tools near his bench. The glassmaker had tied his hair back. The smoky color of his eyes matched his hair and could be the reason for his nickname. Powerful muscles sculpted his arms from a lifetime of working with molten glass.

  “Empty the annealing oven,” Ash instructed. “The items inside should be done.”

  I pulled open the hatch. The oven slowly cooled the pieces to room temperature to avoid cracking the glass. Removing a glass ball from one of the metal racks, I paused. Sir and his group had tried to make orbs before. The ball appeared to be an early attempt.

  “That batch wasn’t quite right,” Ash said. “We thought we had matched the formula, but the elasticity of the glass wouldn’t let the orbs get any bigger without breaking.”

  The weight and thickness of the orb was wrong, but yet the glass under my hands felt familiar. The odd desire to fill the orb with magic pulled at my heart. I dismissed the impulse. I couldn’t put magic into a glass piece I hadn’t made. Or could I?

  The memory of a sand woman and my connection with Kade floated in my mind. I had blown magic into Indra’s glass orb, but with Kade’s help.

  I set the pieces on a nearby table already laden with past attempts. Sir arrived to watch, but Crafty and Tal remained in the other room.

  “Gather a slug,” Ash ordered.

  Taken aback, I blinked at him for a second. He was letting me collect the molten glass. I moved to obey before he could reconsider. An idea formed in my mind. A chance to escape. I thought of a hundred reasons why it wouldn’t work before I could plan. The biggest reason loomed next to me. Tricky.

  Reaching for the blowpipe, I focused on the task at hand. I noted the craftsmanship of the kiln. The iron hatch was tight, but swung up with ease. Bright yellow light carried by waves of searing heat pulsed from the opening. I squinted into the glow, wishing I had my goggles.

  I inserted the larger end of the pipe into the mouth of the kiln, letting the metal heat. Hot glass wouldn’t stick to cold metal. The feel of the pipe in my hands and the habitual actions of warming the end calmed my mind and body. Doubts and worries disappeared, and the real possibility of never having another decent opportunity for escape dominated my thoughts. At least I should try.

  Dipping the pipe into the molten glass, I spun it. The motion gathered the slug as if I had twirled a stick in a bowl of taffy. I kept the pipe turning so the slug wouldn’t drip when I removed it from the kiln.

  Once clear of the kiln, I ceased spinning the pipe. The glowing slug sagged.

  “Keep it going,” Ash yelled. “You’re supposed to be an expert.”

  A small drop splattered on the wooden floor.

  “Hey!” Ash leaped to his feet. He grabbed a metal scraper from his row of tools and tossed it to Tricky. “Clean it up before the floor catches fire.”

  But I wanted the room to burn. When Tricky bent to clean the smoking globule, I swung the pipe.

14

THE END OF
the blowpipe connected with Tricky’s temple. It wasn’t a hard blow, but getting molten glass on his head was worse than being knocked unconscious. Along with Tricky’s shrieks, an acrid smell of burning hair and flesh filled the room.