Maria Snyder - Storm Glass

“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.

THE END OFthe 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.

I moved fast. The commotion would alert the others. Sir grasped the hilt of his sword. I rammed him in the stomach with the hot end of the pipe. His shirt caught on fire. Flesh sizzled. He yelped and hopped back.

Ash was on his feet, reaching for me. I brandished the pipe and he backed away. A woman’s voice hollered. No time left. Wiping the rest of the slug onto the floorboards, I sprinted for a window. An odd instinct pulled at me and I grabbed one of the glass balls from the table.

Cries and shouts followed me as I ran. Smoke fogged the room. I broke the windowpane with the blowpipe and cleared the jagged edges before diving through.

Hitting the ground with an audible thud, I gasped for breath. At least the sandy soil softened the impact. But I wasn’t free yet. I staggered to my feet and raced to a nearby copse of pine trees. Once there, I paused in amazement, I still held the glass ball and blowpipe.

Logic insisted I leave the ball there—I would need two hands to defend myself. But the little orb wanted to come, so I cradled it in the crook of my arm.

Bushy green branches thwacked me as I maneuvered through the forest. I increased my speed when the trees thinned. A rustling noise sounded behind me. I glanced back. Nothing. The sound increased.

I stopped, listening. Surrounded by the pitter-patter of movement, I scanned the forest. A brown melon-sized shape dropped from a tree branch. Suddenly the trees around me were filled with these shapes. They rained down to the ground and advanced toward me. Spiders.

Panicked, I searched for a clear path. None.

Magic, my logical mind told me. Illusions. Keep moving. Get out of the magician’s range.

My body refused to heed the advice. The glass orb in my hand began to vibrate. Momentarily distracted from the encroaching spiders, I peered at the ball. Ordinary. No flaws or bubbles. No humming of power, yet I sensed potential. As if it waited for me.

I closed my eyes, blocking the vision of a mass of spiders mere feet away. Having nothing to lose, I concentrated on the glass in my hands. I imagined myself working with this piece and reaching a critical point in the process.

Summoning my energy, I channeled magic into the glass ball. A clink sounded. I peeked at the orb in my hands; a tiny brown glass spider was inside. Without thought, I continued. The clatter of the orb filling with spiders rang in my ears. The creatures on the ground disappeared one by one. When the clearing emptied, I held the orb up to the sunlight.