Four days later, the semifinals arrive, ushered in by a glorious sunrise. I’m up early, too restless to sleep, sitting on a balcony on the roof of Lady Evershed’s shop and watching the blazing, burnished sun burn off the early morning mist. I’m glad I made the decision to move here. Sleeping in the guest room above the shop, instead of spending more of my hard-won coin at the inn, means I can squeeze in more practice time.
I finish my tea and shuffle downstairs, running through my plans for the semifinal round and mulling over the last few days of developments. Padouk is staying away from the shop, out of sight in case his presence tips off the [Inquisitors]. He’s keeping the PPP safe—although, part of me fears that he’ll abscond to Naftali if things go sideways.
The back-up shop lights come on as I enter the room and trigger the enchantments. The soft glow overhead brings me back to the present moment. I survey the quiet studio and nod in satisfaction. I’m as prepared for the next round as I’ll ever be, thanks to my constant work in the hot shop practicing my glass techniques. Best of all, the boisterous [Enchanter], Yarrington, completed his work on the claw-like glass hand I made. The mana scripts on it allow me to temporarily borrow a lesser version of Lady Evershed’s Skill [The Weight of the World: The Domineering Manifestation of Pride]. I try not to think about the title too much. I’m intimidated by the name, but I know it will help me compete.
A smile creeps across my face at the thought of the impressive, high-level Skill. I’ve only practiced operating Lady Evershed’s Skill once, since I need to make sure it’s available for the actual competition. She pulled strings and called in favors on my behalf to approve the Skill use. The judges pushed back at first, but she prevailed, arguing that I wasn't gaining an unfair advantage, but simply achieving parity with the others. I don’t want to risk underestimating the recharge time of the ability. The amount of precision that I’m able to wield, even with the diminished variation of the Skill, almost brought tears to my eyes last night when I made an amphora in half the time it would have taken me with only a single hand.
I flex the fingers of my right hand, then turn my gaze to the skeletal, crystalline structure that’s strapped to the end of my left wrist. A lesser enchantment that operates passively, as long as it’s charged with mana before, enables me to grip anything the finger-like tines of my glass hand touch. Thankfully, Lady Evershed is gracious enough to assist me with mana-charging in the evenings, while we play cards. I can’t manipulate objects with it the way that her Skill can, but it operates almost like a small magnet stuck to my arm. The improved autonomy is fantastic.
A shadow passes over a patch of sunlight on the floor nearby, and I flinch. I toss a look outside, wondering if someone is peeking through the studio windows to spy on me, but there’s no one there. Only a moment later, a gust of wind blows away the wispy cloud cover, and the sunlight streams back through the window. I sigh. You’re literally jumping at shadows, Nuri. Get hold of yourself!
I swallow hard, forcing myself to relax. After all this time, fear still follows me. My time on the road did my mental stability no favors, although I started to relax in Grand Ile prior to laying eyes on the wanted posters proclaiming me a traitor. Now that I know my hunters are here, I’m having a hard time focusing on the competition. I find myself breaking into a sweat throughout the day that has nothing to do with the sweltering heat of the furnace.
There’s no one there. Act like a responsible man, not some shivering child, I admonish myself. Several times since my discussion with Padouk, I’ve caught myself glancing over my shoulder as my heartbeat accelerates and my breathing stutters to a stop. I can’t seem to shake the suspicion that [Inquisitors] are watching me at all hours.
Meanwhile, Lady Evershed is tight-lipped about her plans. I don’t want her to talk with the [General] preemptively, in case I still have a chance of slipping past the army unnoticed, but she has her own plans and goals. Now that I’ve made the decision to tell her who I am, I can’t very well take back my words. Even if I’m not sure I trust her, I grumble as I warm up.
“One more spin for good luck,” I mutter to myself, aloud this time. I pick up a hollow metal rod using the passive attraction enchantment on my glass left hand. I haul the rod over to the furnace and collect some glass I prepared beforehand, gathering it in a glowing, gooey ball at the end of the blowpipe. I blow into the tube attached to the end, inflating the ball with air, and then spin it in my hands like a [Band Leader] twirling a baton in a parade.
The glass ball reaches the desired size, but I spin the metal blowpipe a few more times for good measure. It’s fun to manipulate objects with both hands again. With a grin tugging at the corner of my lips, I hold the pipe steady with the glass pointing straight down. Solemnly, I watch the glass as it melts and flows down into a bucket of water. Molten glass sizzles and hisses as it hits the cold water, spinning and transforming into a giant teardrop with a fragile, spiraling tail. The round end is nearly-indestructible, however.
“I’ll retrieve this tonight. I have more crafting ideas in mind,” I say to Lady Evershed as she shuffles into the studio, leaning on her cane. “Since these drops are so strong, I thought I might make a hammer. As long as I protect the tail that’s liable to break, the end result should be pretty strong.”
“Are you sure you'll be up to it after an entire day of working with glass?” Lady Evershed asks, sounding skeptical. Even so, her voice is more subdued than usual, lacking its typical bite.
I let out a forced chuckle. “I know it must come as a shock that I’m skipping our CnC game, but I have projects on my mind. I want to tinker with this one more after the competition is over. In the meantime, I figured that I’d get as much done as I can. With the way you scheme, who knows how much longer I’ll have in your studio?”
“Why the accusing glare?” Lady Evershed demands, laughing at me and shaking her head. “I have only your best in mind. I promise you that.”
I squint at her. “You have a trick up your sleeve. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm fairly certain I won't like it. You’re consistent that way.”
“Still so suspicious, Nuri! Don’t forget that the principle of mutual benefit still guides my actions. Don't be too hasty to rush to judgment—no matter what happens. Try to keep an open mind. You never know what you might learn,” she says.
I snort. “You should work for an axeman. That way when you make terrifying statements, people already know they're heading to their final encounter and aren’t gripped with existential horror at what unknown nightmare awaits them.”
Lady Evershed smacks me lightly with her cane. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s comfort in certainty,” I say, turning a macabre grin toward my glass master. “I’d rather know I’m facing something simple, like my execution, instead of wondering what disaster is lurking for me.”
“You’d rather die than face the unknown?” Lady Evershed asks, arching her brow at me.
I clench my jaw, reflecting back on the last year of surprises and heartache, and nod at Lady Evershed. “Some things are worse than death.”
“Come along, then,” Lady Evershed says, ignoring my morose mood. “We don't want to be late for the semifinals. How’s practice going with your new hand, by the way?”
“It's still not as dexterous as my own fingers, but it's an enormous step toward normality. I'll actually be able to spin the blow pipes if needed, or hold a graphite paddle in place with one hand while I shape the glass with the other.”
“Good! Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed so far without a second hand. It’s an inspiration to me,” Lady Evershed says.
“I didn’t have much of a choice.” I hold up my hand, examining the crystalline structure to cover my blush at the rare praise. “I know it’s not a perfect solution, but I’m already significantly faster than I was for the previous rounds. I think I have a solid chance.”
“Look at you! Positively brimming with confidence,” Lady Evershed teases.
“I would be,” I say, “if not for the looming specter of the [Adjutant] and his [Inquisitors]. I have to admit, I’m still worried that they’re hot on my trail.”
I grow silent and moody as we gather our things and depart for the hot shop, repeating our now-familiar routine of talking while we travel to the competition—the carriage ride flies by, and before I realize it, we’re in the gently-rocking boat, on our way to the glass guild island. I’m not sure if participating in the competition is a wise choice, but I’m committed now.
Part of me wants to take Padouk’s deal and run. I sigh, leaning my forehead against the gunwale. Of course, I don’t want to entangle myself in Naftalin politics, either, but at least I won't actively be hunted down as a traitor. Padouk isn't very pleased about the current arrangement, but it’s my life, not his. I chuckle softly. At least he brightened considerably after Lady Evershed struck a deal to pay him four fold the amount I had initially promised for his time as a courier.
I still haven't told him what the PPP does, although I’m sure he has his suspicions. Lady Evershed figured it out almost instantly, badgering me with questions until I caved and admitted what it could do. Despite her wealth and prestige, even she grew wide-eyed with sudden desire when she realized just how powerful of a relic the device actually is. True to her word, however, she hasn’t stolen it from me or remanded me into the custody of [General] Tychicus. She’s been extremely busy “laying the groundwork” to sort everything out behind the scenes, whatever that means, but she refuses to tell me exactly what she actually has in mind.
Something tells me that I’ll find out in spectacular fashion. I only hope that the surprise is in my favor, for once.
I'm committed now, I remind myself as the keel of our little boat scrapes against the rock and sand of the beach. I look up at the imposing, muscular silhouette of the old warehouse, standing stark against the rosy morning sky, and set my jaw resolutely. I take a deep breath and clear my mind as much as I can. No turning back. No second guessing. No running away. It's time to make glass.
=+=
My back is damp with cold sweat by the time we reach the converted warehouse hot shop and go through check in, where I register my surprise ingredient for the day. I haven’t even gotten close to the furnace yet, but it’s not the heat that's getting to me. I’m having trouble keeping the tremors out of my hand as I walk up to my assigned workbench to prepare myself for the preliminary round.
My eyes are twitching about, my gaze constantly roving around to pick out threats. Are they even here? Perhaps this paranoia is all for nothing. I tell myself to relax, but I’m peering into every shadow, watching for [Inquisitors]. At this rate, I’ll be a quivering puddle on the floor by lunch time, unable to work at all.
Get hold of yourself, I reprimand myself sternly.
“Sweating already? You’re in the wrong place if you can’t handle the heat, Zebulun,” a light, mocking voice announces as Zephyr breezes up to me, winking and bumping me with her elbow. Her hair is coiled up in an elaborate bun today, held in place with a golden clasp, and for the first time it strikes me that she’s actually quite pretty.
Why have I never noticed? Singular focus, I suppose. I need to get out more.
“Good thing I’m only competing against you. I might actually be worried if I had to take on the elements themselves,” I fire back.
Zephyr snickers and elbows me again as she walks by to her own workstation. I don't mind her trash talk, since it never really seems too mean spirited or personal, unlike some of the other competitors. A few of them are downright nasty. She pauses and turns back with a look of surprise on her face. “Nice glass hand you got there. Going all out for the semifinals!”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Nah, going all out would mean actually using my Skills,” I shoot back at her without thinking.
A look of surprise flits across her face, chased immediately by a complex mix of anger and shame. Her shoulders slump. “You really have been sandbagging, haven’t you?”
“Not by choice, but I’ve muddled through. Thankfully the competition isn’t too bad,” I say stiffly. Her eyes widen at the unintentional insult, and I scramble to find words to make myself seem less rude. “Uh, good luck with your piece today, although I don't think you need it. I’ve been impressed with your skill with glass.”
“Should I be flattered?” she asks, her voice flat.
“Huh?” I reply, my mind stuttering to a halt. My eloquence flees me—as if you had any to begin with, Nuri.
“You make it sound like your approval should mean something to me,” Zephyr mutters, still giving me an aggrieved look.
“Oh. I wasn't trying to be patronizing.” I scratch my beard awkwardly, wracking my brain for the right words to say to salvage the situation.
Zephyr just laughs and waves me off, although she seems miffed. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you make today. I bet you’ve got something good prepared for us. I just hope it's less creepy than last time—I still shudder a bit when I recall those interlocking rings. Proper unsetting! Where did you get such an odd idea, anyway?”
“Oh, it was just something I saw in the last Rift I visited,” I reply offhandedly, my attention split while I dig through the shelves for the right color of glass.
Zephyr stalks off to her own workbench, scowling as though she thinks I’m making fun of her. I start to follow her to apologize, but the judges call for us to take up our positions. With a helpless shrug, I shake my head and turn back to my workstation. Let her think what she wants. I have bigger problems to worry about.
I focus on the work at hand, breathing deeply to calm myself. My heartbeat slows down at last, and I close my eyes, recovering my equilibrium. A moment later, the bell rings to signal the start of the semi-final round.
I dash for the furnace as soon as we're given leave to touch the glass, carrying a bundle of multicolored glass chips tucked under my arm. I add the red chips to the current batch, select a suitably-sturdy metal rod from the rack, and limber up my shoulders.
Today, I’m planning to spin up rondelles of various colors. My plan is to cut square and triangular sections from each one, then run a bead of molten glass across the edges to hot join all of the pieces together. I want to create a hanging lamp, like a small chandelier, built out of increasingly-complex geometric shapes. By mimicking the look of an incalmo technique, I’ll combine the brilliant color from the rondelles with clear glass to make see-through windows so that the judges can catch a glimpse of the very core of the lamp. The glass structure will create a shell expanding out from a central mana crystal, all lit up with energy to provide illumination.
Admittedly, it’s not a particularly complicated set of techniques. Compared with some of the exotic work I see around me, my design is fairly basic, but I think it will make sense by the time it all comes together. The glittering, prismatic glass structure in my mind is worthy of a win. If I could make molds or press out flat, thin panes of glass with rollers, then I could craft the shapes far more quickly. Yet something about the nostalgia of spinning a series of rondelles by hand and then pressing them flat appeals to me.
I test the batch, prodding the molten glass with the metal blow pipe to confirm the texture and consistency of the material. When it’s just the right level of elasticity, I scoop up as much of the ruby red glass as I can hold and pull it out of the furnace. I hook the back end of the metal pipe through the rounded fingers of my glass hand, balancing the rod, and start spinning the first of many rondelles.
Every few moments, I balance the rod across the workbench, pushing with the sole of my boot to keep the rod turning, and press paddles to either side of the glass to thin it out. As the rondelle disc grows larger, I periodically return the glass to the furnace to maintain the right heat and consistency. I’m humming under my breath, despite the oppressive heat, and I fall into an old, welcome rhythm of creation.
As the hours tick by, I spin up over a dozen discs in all the hues of the morning’s sunrise. I stack them in the accelerated annealer—which is powered by runes to speed up the process so that they’ll be ready after lunch—and take a break. I’ve never been more grateful to hear the bell announcing it’s time to eat. Sweat drenches my clothing and covers my face, stinging my eyes, and my dehydrated lips are crusted over with a thin layer of salt-like chemicals, but I’m happy with the day’s progress.
After wolfing down a quick meal in the corner of the cafeteria, avoiding eye contact with my fellow competitors, I trudge back out to the workshop. I can’t resume work until the judges ring the bell, but I’m mentally rehearsing my next steps. If all goes well, I think I’m ready to play my trump card.
I pace a few strides away from my workbench, casting disgruntled glares at the nearest competition judge. Eventually, the lunch hour ends, the [Glassworkers] return, and the head judge rings the bell. I sprint for the annealer, retrieving my thin discs of spun glass.
Back at my workbench, I lay out the rondelle discs in a line and tape them out to mark triangles and squares. With a knife enchanted for sharpness, I trace the squares and triangles with the blade, scoring the stone surface of the bench in my eagerness to cut out the shapes I’ll need to create the final lamp.
As I’ve often experienced before, the world around me fades away. My focus is the work at hand. Glass is all, until the very last shape is cut. My hands are a blur as I rely on the passive enchantment of the glass hand to pick up and rearrange the pieces into the right order. Once I’m done, I’ll hot join them all at once, but first I have to complete the beating heart of the lamp.
I tune out the fear and distractions. All the pieces are prepared. It’s time to bring out my secret weapon. I slip the thumb-sized shard of crystalized Rift mana—judge approved, after my master rolled over the judges’ initial objections—out of the leather pouch I’ve kept hidden under my robes. Trembling with anticipation, I hold up the rough crystal and cradle it against my heart.
Before I lose my nerve, I draw in a portion of the power through the carved-out conduit in my chest and activate the mana crystal. The energy surges into me, down into my core, setting my soul on fire. Grinding my teeth to hold back a scream, I immediately loop the mana back into the crystal while holding the principle of fire in my mind. Flickering flames, I call out in the voice of my soul, pouring all the mana I can channel into the command.
The mana crystal pulses, glowing as though lit from within by a warm, welcoming fire. I cheer under my breath at my success and place it on the workbench surface. Gathering my wits about me, I activate the bound version of Lady Evershed’s Skill [The Weight of the World: The Domineering Manifestation of Pride] to lift up all the pieces of glass and rotate them into their final positions. They orbit about the mana crystal, glimmering and twinkling in the sunlight still streaming through the warehouse skylights.
Keeping the glass in place, I run back to the furnace and draw out a small globe of glass that’s glowing white-orange with heat. I draw on the power of Lady Evershed’s inscribed Skill to pull strings of the molten glass into the air. With a flex of my will, I coat the edges of each glass piece that I need to join together to complete the geometric glass shapes of the lamp.
I tentatively open myself up to the mana swirling all around me, bracing for the sensation of acid seeping through my cracked channels. The pain hits me like an army of stinging fire ants crawling in and along and through my skin. I hiss in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, and my right hand grips the metal blow pipe as hard as I can squeeze. Nonetheless, I manage to push through the pain long enough to harvest the mana required to ignite a brief burst of [Heat Manipulation].
The levitating edges of the glass lamp fuse together in the blistering heat I bring to bear, locking the fiery glimmer of the mana crystal shard inside the multifaceted, triple-layered lamp. I hold it up with a shout of triumph, pleased with the fruit of my labor. Without the glass hand and the crystal shard, I never would have had time to complete the lamp in a single day, let alone have the mental energy to even attempt channeling enough mana to join the pieces and light up the inside.
I’m glad I didn’t give up because using mana hurts, I think, staring at the flickering fire of the mana crystal. The shining mana core is the most mesmerizing artificial flame I’ve ever seen, pulsing with fire and glory.
The entire construction is too delicate for me to hold in the flame-resistant gloves at my bench, so I continue to control the glass with the embedded Skill borrowed from Lady Evershed. The glass lamp—a cube within an icosahedron, all inside a geodesic dome—floats through the air, held aloft by her borrowed Skill on its way to the annealer.
“Beautiful,” Zephyr whispers solemnly, speaking under her breath. She pauses from her work just long enough to nod at me with a slight smile. She seems to appreciate fine craftsmanship, even if we are competitors. I nod back in acknowledgement.
Halfway to the kiln, levitating my precious cargo next to me, the doors to the warehouse slam open with a hollow, echoing bang. A dozen masked agents rush into the hot shop, fanning out and dashing through the cohorts. Amid the shouts of indignation, I try to slip by on my way to the annealer, hoping they don't notice me.
One of them skids to a stop beside me. A wave of mana washes over me like a bucket of ice water to the face, followed by a cry of triumph. “Found him! Extensive damage to the core space, but the Class and Skills are an exact match.”
The other [Inquisitors]—what else could they be? They've found me at last, just when I thought I might have a chance, I think bitterly—converge on my spot. Two of them scan me again, setting my skin crawling with the rough, invasive touch of foreign mana.
“Known Skill structures and ranks confirmed. This is our target,” a woman’s sharp, sophisticated voice snaps from underneath a mask. She tilts her head, as though hesitating. “Something's off with his mana signature. What in the abyss happened to him?”
Despite the danger, despite my fears as my plans come crashing down around me, my ears perk up in interest at the mention of a change in energy profile. What did she notice to make her sound nervous all of a sudden? Before I can ask any questions, however, her companion unfurls a scroll and reads off a declaration in a booming voice.
“Nuri Shahi, at the behest of the Royal Army, by virtue of the power vested in me by [General] Tychicus of Densmore's counter-intelligence department, I place you under arrest. Come with me.”
I draw back a step, looking around frantically for a way out of this mess. Surrounded. Caught out. And no mana to fight back. Trembling, I sink to my knees, my mind reaching for a solution that doesn’t present itself.
The captain of the [Inquisitors], assuming the one who read my warrant is in charge, lifts a speaking stone to his lips and mutters a few words, his hands cupping the stone so that I can't hear him. Faint sound buzzes in reply, but I can’t catch the response to his query.
“The [Adjutant] will see you now,” he says.
I gulp. As if my day can't get any worse.
My nightmare in human flesh struts through the doorway a few heartbeats later, a grim smile of satisfaction plastered on his face. “Troublesome little crafter. Hiding secrets within secrets, are you? I'll pry them out of you if I have to cut them out one by one. No more stalling. You will come to the capital. This time, there’s no escape. Seize him!”
As the [Inquisitors] close ranks around me, the inscribed Skill in my glass hand winks out. I sway at the loss of power, my mind momentarily flashing white. My glittering, precision-made chandelier crashes to the concrete floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.
A wordless, keening wail bubbles up from within me at the sight of the splintered shards of glass. I poured my heart into the craft, laboring for hours in the heat to make a masterpiece. And now it's gone in the blink of an eye. Rage ignites inside me. Lady Evershed stole it back at the worst possible time. Now I'll never see the finished piece.
I knew I couldn't trust her! my inner voice screams in accusation.
Lady Evershed strides into the hot shop just then, her face set like flint. The borrowed Skill, now dancing to the tune of its rightful owner, billows out from her and blankets the entire studio. Terrible intensity presses down on me, and the ostentatious name of her Skill suddenly makes sense. The domineering weight hits the [Inquisitors] like a thunderclap, driving them to their knees before they can drag me away.
“Stand down, [Adjutant],” Lady Evershed commands, her icy voice crackling with a surplus of mana as power surges around her like a whirlwind. “Nuri will accompany you to the capital, but as your guest, not as a prisoner. I’ve reached an understanding with [General] Tychicus.”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. My mind blanks at her betrayal. She said she'd take care of everything! I don't want to go, I seethe internally, but I can't form the words to protest.
The [Adjutant] sneers, but he can't seem to speak, either, held in the oppressive grip of the Skill. The sight gives me grim satisfaction.
All at once, the pressure recedes as Lady Evershed releases her Skill. I gasp for air, then growl in frustration as once more my path is decided by another. “This is the salvation you’ve arranged?” I demand of Lady Evershed, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Hot tears spring to my eyes. I should have known.
“Trust me, Nuri. I promise I have your good in mind,” Lady Evershed pleads with me. Her cane clicks against the floor with each step as she approaches, her eyes soft and strangely luminous with emotion. “There’s more going on than you know. I have moved heaven and earth on your behalf—and I am only warming up. I am your master. I will not abandon you, student, no matter how far away you go. I swear it on the ivory walls.”
The world around me fades into dullness, all grey tones and incomprehensible whispers, as shock sets in. Mute and meek, I watch with distant detachment, as through observing someone else’s cursed life, as the [Inquisitors] seize me. I do not resist.
The [Adjutant] escorts me out of the warehouse in front of a hundred watching eyes, gloating as he squeezes my arm in a vice grip. Despair settles over me like a cloak as he shoves me into a cart with heavy bars over the door and windows. I should have known better.
Just like that, my time in Grand Ile is at an end. The competition no longer counts for anything. The capital demands my presence; despite all my struggle, despite all I've sacrificed and grown, I'm powerless to resist its call.
My lips twist into a merciless smile. That’s simply the way of things, I suppose. I’m only a humble [Glassworker], in the end, swept up in a grand drama too big for me. I should have known that none of my striving mattered. All around me, the world rushes on—the competition will crown a winner, Padouk will probably turn over the PPP to Naftali, Baryl will still scrape and steal to survive—but for me, life crashes to a halt. Something inside me splinters irrevocably at the jagged, bitter truth, but I find it hard to care. I really should have known better.
All I have left is to cast myself on Lady Evershed’s mercy. I hope it wasn’t a fool’s errand, but it’s too late now. At long last, I’m on my way to the capital.