cian. And I suspected he had been Keep trained. I would use
my time here to learn more about him.
It wasn’t until I stood in the formal garden in the middle
of the Keep’s campus that I realized I had wandered without
a destination in mind. The apprentice wings bookended me
and the Fire Memorial glinted with reds and yellows in the
afternoon sunlight. Having no desire to reminisce about the
past, I averted my gaze from the statue.
Magic collected in parts of the campus like stationary clouds
of dust. Without warning, I would walk into one, stumbling
on the sudden thickness of the air. A feeling of unease crept
through my bones as if these pools of magic waited to ambush
me. Janco nailed it. Creepy Keepy.
Shaking off my disquiet, I pondered my present situation.
I could return home and smooth the relationship with my
mother. Or I could travel to the coast and stay with Kade. Or
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I could return to Fulgor to work in my factory and be close to
my friends. And visit Devlen? I refused to answer that ques-
tion. I also could stay here a few days and ask around. Perhaps Finn had come through the Citadel on his way to sell my
blood. It was more appealing than waiting for an assignment
from Bain.
Feeling better, I stopped by the guest room manager’s office
to secure a room. My possessions had already been delivered.
He handed me a key. Then I checked on Quartz. She grazed
in the small pasture located along the back wall of the Keep,
looking healthy and content. She trotted over and nuzzled
me.
The Keep’s glass shop was to the east of the pasture. Mara
was the shop’s manager. Light gray clouds puffed from the
kiln’s chimney. The hot sweet smell of burning white coal
filled the air, and a faint hum reached me. In the past, the
scent alone would have drawn me in.
Instead, I passed the shop and found the Weapons Master
drilling first-year students in self-defense. They worked in the training yard next to the armory, sweating in the warm sun.
A wide smile spread across Captain Marrok’s face. “Opal!
Good to see you.” He shook my hand. “When did you get
back?”
“This
morning.”
“Have you been keeping up with your training?” he
asked.
I laughed. The seasoned soldier didn’t waste time on pleas-
antries. His reputation as the best Weapons Master in years
had been well earned. His gray hair bristled from his scalp,
matching the short commands he shouted to the students.
Long ropes of muscle covered his arms and his roughened
hands sported a spider’s web of scars.
“I’m keeping fit,” I said. If he counted Valek’s special train-
ing, then I was in good shape.
“Yeah? Care to prove it to me?”
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“Not today, I’ve only had a few hours’ sleep last night.”
“Tomorrow then. Right after breakfast.”
“Yes,
sir!”
With a mock salute, he returned to work, encouraging stu-
dents and demonstrating moves. I stayed by the fence until the
session ended. Students gathered practice swords and milled
about.
Deep down, I recognized my procrastination. Why was I
avoiding the glass shop? I had designed it. I had ordered all
the equipment. I had helped get the kiln running. A lot of
memories resided in there. The answer to my question snapped
in my mind. I worried those recollections would ambush me
and I wasn’t strong enough to fight my way through them.
Utter nonsense. Determined, I walked toward the building,
focusing on the good times, remembering when Piecov had
spilled a wheelbarrow full of lime, coating everything with
white powder.
“Um. Excuse me,” a boy called from behind me.
I turned. One of the first-year students hustled closer. He
skidded to a stop about an arm’s length away. Uncertainty
filled his gaze. I guessed his age to be around fourteen.
“Are you Opal Cowan?” he asked. His voice cracked
midsentence.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
Sudden resolve hardened his features. His hand dipped into
his pocket, and the distinctive snick of a switchblade sounded.
“Yes. You can die!”
I stepped back, keeping my hands in sight as the student advanced. He held the switchblade in front of him,
signaling his unfamiliarity with the weapon. When he stabbed
it toward my neck, I blocked his arm so the blade missed.
Then I grabbed his wrist with both my hands while turning
to the side, yanking him off balance. Now I had control of
his weapon and his arm. Basic knife defense.
Finding a point on his wrist, I applied a little pressure. He
yelped and the switchblade dropped to the ground. I pulled
his thumb back and he went down on his knees in pain.
“Why did you attack me?” I asked him.
No answer. However, a strong bubble of magic bloomed
from him, pushing me. Expecting this attack, I leaned into
the power. He sent another robust swell before stopping.
Impressive.
“You’re out of options, Puppy Dog. Talk to me.” I sup-
pressed a groan. I couldn’t believe I just quoted Janco.
Silence.
I increased the tension in his hand. “Hard to finish class
assignments with a broken thumb. Last time. Why?”
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Pure hatred beamed from his blue eyes. His cheekbones
reminded me of another regal face, which had sneered at me
in disdain and contempt through most of my years at the Keep.
Understanding dawned. I scooped up his weapon, then pushed
Pazia Cloud Mist’s little brother away from me. He sprawled
on the ground for a mere second before hopping to his feet.
Ah, youth.
I stood in a fighting stance, holding the knife close to my
body, while keeping my free arm extended in front. “Didn’t
Captain Marrok teach you not to attack with a weapon until
you learned how to fight with it? ’Cause now you’re unarmed
and I’m not.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “You ruined my family.”
“How?”
He sputtered. With his face reddening, he charged me. I
sidestepped and tripped him as he lunged past. He slid into
a bush. Once he regained his feet, he wheeled around and
rushed. I faked a dodge, tricking him to veer left where I
clotheslined him. He fell onto his back. But this time I fol-
lowed him down, pressing my forearm on his windpipe. Strug-
gling, he tried to push me away. I intensified the pressure,
pinching off his air.
All color drained from his face. Panic and fear replaced his
anger.
When he stilled, I eased up and said, “While this is fun, I
have more important things to do. So listen up, Puppy Dog.
Your family is not ruined. Last time I checked, everyone was healthy, wealthy and schmoozing with the political elite. Pazia and I are both respo
nsible for what happened to her. We
worked it out and are friends.
“Obviously, you’re not happy with our arrangement. You
can ambush and attack me again, except the next time I will hurt you. Or you can learn how to fight, and then challenge
me to a match with a referee, witnesses…the works.” I stood
and extended my hand, offering to help him up.
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He rubbed his neck, staring at me. “You’d honor a chal-
lenge?”
“Yes.”
“What if I challenged you now?”
“Then my opinion of your stupidity would be supported.
Otherwise, I’d agree to the match. It’s a guaranteed win for
me.”
A balloon of his magic spread over me. It popped. “Do you
have a null shield around you?”
“I’m not inclined to tell you, Puppy Dog.” Keeping my
immunity a secret wasn’t going to last long at the Keep.
Ignoring my hand, he sprang to his feet. He straightened
and puffed out his chest. “My name is Walker Vasko Cloud
Mist the Second. Expect my challenge.”
“Aww… You’re cute when you’re trying to be haughty,
Puppy Dog. I look forward to our match. In the meantime,
don’t f lash this around until you know how to use it.” I tossed him his switchblade, gave him a jaunty wave and continued
toward the glass shop.
His challenge didn’t concern me too much, but I wondered
if Pazia’s father, Vasko, was Finn’s client. As one of the richest men in Sitia, he had plenty of gold. As for the hate, he
never gave me an indication when I had met him. He had
even offered to support me with the production of my glass
messengers. But the friendliness could have been an act, and
he really believed I was fully responsible for his daughter’s
situation.
I considered Pazia. We had become friends despite every-
thing. And unlike Devlen and me, she retained a small bit of
her magic. It had been a blow for her to go from potential
master-level to basically a one-trick magician.
Adding research into the Vasko family to my to-do list, I
entered the glass shop; the heat from the kiln wrapped me in
warmth. I hadn’t even broken a sweat fighting Puppy Dog.
Standing near the door, I scanned the room as the roar from
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241
the kilns vibrated through my boots. Kilns? Mara had added
another one along with two more annealing ovens. I toured
the shop, searching for more additions. She had designed a
water system and installed a drying rack to evaporate the water inside of the blowpipes.
Students worked at gaffer benches, turning molten glass
slugs into a variety of items. A few acknowledged me, but the
others concentrated on their tasks. One of the new first-year
students dipped a long thin rod—a pontil iron—into the kiln’s
cauldron. Squinting into the bright orange light, she rushed
the gather, dripping hot glass onto the lip of the cauldron and down onto the f loor. The long strings hardened and broke,
making a mess. Plus the lip was now sticky. Mara would be
upset by the sloppy effort.
I helped the newbie clean up and demonstrated the proper
way to gather. “You need to dip into the liquid glass, like this.”
I opened the kiln’s door a crack, sliding the iron over the lip.
Raising my end up, I pushed the tip into the mixture and
spun the rod with my fingers as if wrapping thread around a
spool. “Then you push forward and pull up, but keep the rod
spinning. See how it sticks like taffy?” I drew the slug from
the hot kiln and closed the door with my hip. The molten
glass f lickered with an orange heartbeat.
I kept the iron parallel with the f loor, spinning it. “Big
angles mean big trouble. See what happens when I hold the
end up? The glass coats the iron and there is nothing hanging
off the end to work with. And when I tip it down…” Glass
bulged, and would have dropped to the f loor if I kept that
angle. “Even if you do keep it level, if you don’t keep spinning the rod…” I stopped and the glass dripped.
Scraping glass off the f loor, I dumped the bits into the cullet barrel to be remelted, and stuck the glass-covered end of the
iron into a bucket of water. I grabbed a clean rod and handed
it to the girl. “Your turn.”
She rushed through it again. Hard not to, with the twenty-
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Maria V. Snyder
three-hundred-degree heat and searing light pouring from the
kiln. I admired her determination as she kept trying. And I
celebrated with her when she gathered a perfect round slug.
“Now what?” she asked. Her young face peered at me with
excitement.
A brief memory of my first gather f lashed through my
mind, bringing back the pride and feelings of accomplishment.
Feelings I needed to acknowledge more often in my own life.
Despite the result, getting into and out of Wirral was a heck
of a feat.
“To the colored glass powder!” I shouted. “Everyone’s first
project is always a paperweight.”
I helped her shape her molten blob into a multicolored—
and a bit lumpy—paperweight, instructing her how to break
it off the rod and into the annealing oven. Glass had to cool
slowly or the finished piece would crack.
A passion burned in her eyes. She had caught glass fever.
“What’s next?”
“I’ll show you how to thumb a bubble.” I pulled a blowpipe
from the heater and blew through the hollow pipe, making
sure it wasn’t blocked. After gathering a slug, I sent a puff of air into the pipe and covered the hole with my thumb. A bubble
of air grew inside the slug. I still marveled at my ability to
produce the round shape. Before losing my magic, I would
blow through the pipe, but, instead of air, magic would be
trapped inside the glass. The interior would glow, but the glass wouldn’t expand at all.
“You can puff and blow to start one, but thumbing is easier,”
I said. “And once you have a starter bubble, it’s not hard to
expand it.” Working with the glass, I created a dolphin.
“How do you make a vase?”
“You need to transfer the piece to another rod. It’s more
complicated and you’re not ready yet.”
“How do I get ready?”
Oh yes, she had the fever. “Practice, practice and more
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practice. Make sure you keep your first efforts. You’ll be
amazed how much you improve in only half a season.”
“Then you’ll show me the next step?”
I hedged. “If I’m around.”
“Great! Thanks for your help.” She extended her hand. “I’m
Keelin.”
I shook it. “Opal.” I hurried away before she could re-
cover from her shock. The story of my adventures in Hubal
had reached the Keep via the lightning-fast gossip network.
According to Mara, the students had marveled over my “ul-
timate” sacrifice and the topic had been endlessly debated.
After a full night’s rest, I ate breakfast
and joined Captain
Marrok in the training yard on the east side of the Keep. Dark
clouds covered the sky, threatening rain. Marrok had a dif-
ficult time beating me during our match, but he still claimed
my skills had lost their edge. He assigned Sarn as my sparring
partner for the rest of the gray morning.
I was glad to see a familiar face, but Sarn could wrestle a
couple of bulls and win. He was in his fourth year of study
and his magic could move objects and people.
“Hiya, Opal!” He beamed. “I missed you.”
“Tired of picking on first-years already?” I teased.
“Yeah. They’re no fun. Not a single one of them can break
my hold.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. Muscles wrapped
around his thick arms and legs. Despite all his bulk, he was
f lexible.
But not fast. I could outrun him if I escaped. Big if. “Can
anyone in the Keep break your hold?”
“Only
one.”
“Just one? Who?”
Sarn’s eyes about popped out. “Did losing your magic mean
you lost your memory?”
I thought back to my last bout with Sarn. “You can’t count
that. It was cheating.” I had used a pressure point on him.
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“Oh no, it wasn’t. It was a perfect move. How many other
defenses leave no bruises or stop hurting immediately? None.
It’s great for fending off drunks who pick fights, and people
you don’t want to injure, but you want to warn them you could hurt them.”
Except if a person kept the pressure on the point, it was un-
bearable torture. With my firsthand experience, I had learned
almost all the sensitive places on a body.
“I found one of the spots,” Sarn said.
Great. Yet another one of my mistakes coming back to bite
me. “Have you taught it to anyone?”
“Not yet.” He peered at me in confusion. “What’s wrong
with teaching it? You used it on that Cloud Mist whelp the
other day.”
Interesting how I hadn’t even hesitated to use the move
on Puppy Dog or the guard in the prison, and I had felt no
remorse. Not like the time I had broken Sarn’s grip. Then I
had been upset.
Before, pressure points and Devlen equaled evil. Now. Not
so much.
“Sarn, what happens when that defensive move is learned
by the wrong people?”
“I wouldn’t use it in a real fight.”
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