Storm Glass g-1 Page 13

  “Do you sense something?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I studied her. Her emotions were hard to decipher. Each interaction with Zitora seemed off. She acted distant and our student-teacher relationship was gone. Now she gave orders without explanation. Perhaps she was angry with me for causing so much trouble.

  The sun cleared the treetops, warming the clearing. Tired from our flight, I considered napping.

  Zitora stood and wiped the sand from her clothes. “I’ll check the surrounding area.”

  Confused about why she wouldn’t just use her magic, I stared at her back. When she strode out of sight, I caught a glimpse of her shadow.

  My heart locked. The black shape following her heels was not Zitora’s shadow. It was the shadow of a man with a sword hanging from his belt.

  13

  MY FIRST IMPULSE was to deny what my eyes had seen. In the quick glance I had of Zitora’s shadow, I couldn’t have discerned a man’s shape or a sword. Could I?

  But it made perfect sense. Zitora had acted strange since freeing me last night. Even the rescue was out of character. She had been determined to prove me innocent.

  I cursed myself for my incredible stupidity. If I was killed, it would be a good thing, preventing my idiocy from being passed on to my children. My self-recriminations wouldn’t help me now, so I ceased them and concentrated on what to do next.

  Who was the shadow man? Blue Eyes? He wanted me for an unknown reason—unknown to me. Disguising himself as Zitora and tricking me into going with him was plausible. As a magician, he possessed the skill.

  Scanning the surrounding pine trees, I searched for signs of his return. What should I do? Run? Hide? Yell for help? All three? In order or in a different order? My thoughts spun in place, failing to produce an answer.

  Gut instinct urged me to run. Logic argued for hiding, but I dismissed the idea, knowing he would find me with his magic. We were away from the road, doubtful anyone would hear me if I screamed.

  Another option presented itself, and every inch of me wanted to reject the notion. I could play along and find out what he wanted. That was the logical plan.

  Taking in a few lungfuls of air, I settled my spinning thoughts. If I intended to pretend everything was normal, I needed to act calm.

  Of course, as soon as he returned, a wedge of fear lodged under my heart. I hoped the terror hadn’t spread to my face. Concentrating on Zitora’s image, I tried to ignore the mismatched shadow and pretended the Master Magician was with me.

  “Find anyone?” I asked.

  “No, but there’s a trail through the forest. Let’s go.”

  I regained my feet and brushed the sand off my pants. “Where are we going?”

  “North to the Krystal Clan lands.”

  “Then back to the Citadel and the Keep?”

  “Eventually.” He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Let’s go.” Blue Eyes led the way through the pine trees.

  Thick branches whacked me in the chest, but soon we broke through the dense cluster and traveled along a thin path. Conversation was kept to a bare minimum just as before. This time, though, I was glad for the quiet.

  We stopped for a quick lunch. Fatigue dogged my steps and I lagged behind. Eventually, he decided to find a spot to sleep.

  Worried about what the imposter would do while I slept, I fought to stay awake. I tried to think of a few questions to ferret out information about our destination or about his plans, but my overworked mind refused. Sleep won.

  My round house of glass shook. It rocked in the wind and threatened to break. Cracks appeared, carving a spiderweb pattern along the smooth walls.

  “Opal, wake up.” A man’s voice hissed in my ear.

  My glass world shattered. I jerked awake before the jagged shards could pierce my heart.

  Yanking me to my feet, the Zitora impersonator said, “We need to go.”

  The cold night air, the quick pace and the knowledge of who I traveled with blasted the tired fog from my mind. I kept an eye out for any sign of our destination, but we pushed through thick stands of pines and crossed empty stretches of black-streaked sandy soil.

  By morning, I knew we had crossed into Krystal lands. Glints of quartz sparked from the white sand. The open areas widened. Stone and sand quarries dotted the horizon.

  I searched the surrounding area for people or houses, but found none. We had traveled far from the main roads. Panic simmered below my ribs. Once he revealed his true identity, I would no longer have the upper hand.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t smart enough to use my advantage. My mind couldn’t produce a plan. Even if I had my sais, I knew Blue Eyes’ skill with the sword would reduce me to a bloody mess. I hoped we would see a few Krystal Clan members so I could enlist help.

  After traveling all day, we rested for a few hours before setting out again. We encountered no one. When I finally spotted a wooden barn-shaped building the next morning, hope bloomed. No animals roamed, and the renovations to the structure implied its new use could be a house or workshop. Smoke billowing from the large stone chimney meant at least one person was inside.

  In fact, four people waited within. I recognized three of their faces. They stood among glassmaking machinery. The warm, kiln-humming comfort contrasted with the cold, heart-drumming fear of understanding. A moment of disorientation swept over me.

  Tal leaned on a post in the center of the room. His smirk matched the superior cock of his hips. The two others were the ambushers. I expected the leader to start cackling as he had on the day they had tried to stop Zitora and me from reaching the Stormdancers. The woman magician seemed pleased with my reaction. The man sitting on the glassmaker’s bench was unfamiliar to me.

  I glanced at the Zitora imposter, expecting to see Blue Eyes with a smug smile. But it wasn’t him. Standing next to me was the other magician.

  “I love a surprise. Don’t you?” he asked, pulling the backpack from my shoulders.

  “And I love it when a plan is executed without trouble,” the leader said. He hustled over and linked his arm around mine. “Come in, come in.” Pulling me away from the door and from any chance of escape, he made a swooping gesture with his free arm. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  My advantage was at an end.

  “Let me give you a tour,” the leader said.

  With his arm still tight around mine, he showed me the kiln, the glory hole and all the other equipment needed to make glass. Bowls, vases and a few glass balls littered the work space. My mind registered the information, but couldn’t produce any intelligent thoughts beyond my terror.

  The leader escorted me through a door behind the kiln and brought me into a long thin room studded with bunks.

  “Our sleeping quarters, but look!” He opened a door at the back. “Your own room.”

  A single cot had been wedged into the narrow space. No windows and the formidable door locks were on the outside.

  He pointed at my cloak. “Why don’t you leave that here for now.” He released my arm long enough for me to toss the garment on the bed.

  Reclaiming my elbow, he walked me to the opposite side of their quarters and through another door, entering into a kitchen with a table and chairs. The place also had a couch along the side wall.

  He whisked me back to the main room. The others looked at me as if expecting me to say or do something. “Who—”

  “I’ve forgotten my manners.” The leader tsked. “Let me introduce you. My name is Sir.” He pointed to the man who had led me here. “His name is Tricky. She’s Crafty. Our glassmaker’s name is Ash.”

  The ambushers all shared grins with each other, and I knew their names were pseudonyms. Sir gestured to Tal. “I believe you already met him.”

  I studied Tal. He was obviously in league with these people. Logic followed and I guessed he had been the one to sabotage the lime with Brittle Talc.

  “I know him,” I said. “His name is Traitor.”

  Tal purpled with rage. He
moved toward me with the intent to harm clear in his body language.

  Tricky blocked his path. Tall and muscular, the magician was the strongest-looking person of the group. I marveled at his skill in convincing me he was the diminutive Zitora. Even criminals possessed more magic than I did. Wonderful.

  “After. Wait until after,” the magician told Tal.

  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.