For three glorious days each week, I get to be king.
I take a deep breath, savoring the crisp, cool air of the early dawn as I stride along the path, enjoying my morning journey across the fields and forest. I hum out a contented sigh. My glass-making talents are on loan to the Peliharaon Glass Works, our sister studio, for three out of five work days all summer long. That means that the start of the work week is now instantly my favorite. No more shadowing master Ember and assisting with tasks around the hot shop, no fulfilling boring orders for five dozen identical cups if I don’t want to, and no pressure to advance my mediocre mana use.
Instead, I’ve been entrusted with the opportunity to oversee the last few [Glassworkers] at the studio, along with an elderly [Gaffer] who puts in part-time work in the glass hot shop. They’re all old hands, except for Ifran. I suspect that they don’t really need my direction, but they like paperwork even less than I do, so they’re happy to turn admin work over to me. I appreciate the chance to run the show by myself, and I’m determined to do my best to prove that I’m the right choice for the job on a more permanent basis.
“My coronation awaits,” I call out to anyone who will listen, startling a family of marsh wrens nesting in a stand of vibrant, emerald-green bulrushes. I laugh at my own ridiculousness, reminding myself to tell Ifran about my misadventures when I get to the hot shop.
My hot shop.
I savor the possessive word. All of my hard work over the last year is paying off. I’ve put in long hours learning the administrative side of the job and helping Ember run the glass studio. Challenging me with managing a hot shop solo is a flattering show of trust by Ember, my master in glass and the owner and proprietor of Silaraon Glass Works. She’s tough and talented, strict but fair. She’s looked out for me at work and meticulously taught me the trade since my parents passed. I owe her everything.
Feeling jaunty, I snatch up a stick from amid the lush carpet of grass, brandishing it like a sword. I quick-step through a few of the forms that Ember taught me. Swinging about manfully, as though I’m one of Densmore’s great heroes, I strike down five or six of the dastardly bulrushes. I bellow out a war cry: “For the Lion. For the Glass Forge!”
My laughter rings out across the glade. Thankfully, there’s no one around to hear me.
Whooping in exultation at the fresh air and wide-open horizons, I pick up the pace to a half jog so that I’ll reach my destination sooner. Work hasn’t been this fun in ages. The entire world is cast in a golden glow that has more to do with the fierce shiver of joy in my heart than the soft radiance of the pre-dawn sunlight. My fortunes are on the upswing. I can feel it in my bones and marrow. Buoyed up by my happiness, I make the journey from Silaraon, the little city where I was born and raised, with a lightness to my steps, an irrepressible strut that I fear will make me float away someday.
The best part about working in the other studio is that the [Gaffer] learned from my father before my parents passed away from the wasting mana plague. The tales the [Gaffer] tells make my heart swell with pride. My father was a virtuoso of glassmaking, to hear the stories, although I suspect they have been embellished with time. Even so, I want to be just like my father, right down to every mannerism and turn of speech.
Self-consciously, I scratch my jaw as I walk through the town gates. I’m growing out the scraggly bit of stubble on my chin that passes for a beard, just so that I’ll look more like my father. Ever since the old [Gaffer] mentioned my father’s beard in an offhand comment, I’ve been trying to grow one of my own, but it’s slow going.
My father and I share the same thick, black curls, the same big, dancing brown eyes, and the same tawny skin, a combination that he apparently said made him look like an owl at dusk, according to a quote the [Gaffer] passed along to me. We share the same height—slightly above average—and vaguely athletic build. Admittedly, I still have a ways to go to pack on as much muscle as my father carried on his powerful frame.
The only real difference is that he was deep into the ranks, well past the First Threshold, with a varied array of glass-related Skills. Me? I’m still struggling along, stuck with only a single Skill that’s not even glass-specific. I’m afraid that if I push too hard, too fast, I’ll open myself up to wasting away from mana sickness.
Just like my dad.
I rub my arm, suddenly cold as I approach the front door of Peliharaon Glass Works. I know it’s crazy to think that I’ll catch such a rare plague, but every time I ignite my Skill, [Lesser Heat Manipulation], irrational fear seizes me. The plague got my parents. Why not me, too?
“Nuri! Glad you’re here. No one gets anything done without you cracking the whip,” the old [Gaffer] calls out in greeting, cackling with laughter. He’s gone by his Class title for so long that no one remembers his name anymore. His enthusiasm melts away my morose thoughts. He shuffles over, taking his time, a snaggle-tooth smile splitting his wrinkled face with genuine warmth. He reaches out and clasps my hand.
I grin back. “Ember runs a tight outfit. Guess I take after her.”
“That she does,” the [Gaffer] agrees readily. He salutes and saunters over to his bench to get started for the day, but I follow him over to keep chatting. “Well, we’re glad to have you. I’ll leave you to the joys of paperwork while I catch up on the orders from last week. We always fall behind when you’re not directing things. Any chance we could convince Ember to release you from your own duties in Silaraon?”
I shake my head. “I’ve still got to put in my dues.”
“Tell her that the boy you took under your wing needs you,” he says. He frowns and snaps his fingers. “What’s his name again?”
“Ifran,” I reply patiently, although I’ve told him half a dozen times already.
“See?” he says with a chuckle. “I’m too old. Can’t recall anything, anymore. He needs a bright lad like you to teach him the craft and take him through to his Threshold.”
I nod at the old [Gaffer]. His vote of confidence warms my heart. Out here, no one cares that I’m technically an [Assistant Glassworker] with only one Skill to my name. My work speaks for itself, and the quality of my glass creation has earned respect for my traditional abilities. No one seems to remember I haven’t surpassed the first Threshold, either.
Or maybe the dear old [Gaffer] is so ancient that he forgot, I think with a smirk. Even that isn’t enough to stop the warm flush of happiness I feel at working here.
“So, what’s on the docket for today?” he asks me while spinning a rod, shaping the glass as instinctively as most people breathe. He’s made glass wares for longer than I’ve been alive, but somehow he’s content to look to me for direction.
I flash a cheeky smile at the pair of assembled [Glass Workers] that have drifted over to listen in to the conversation. “Look sharp, fellows. I have it on good authority that the venerable Lord Garman is shopping around for another show piece to display at his castle. My brother Mikko told me he overheard some staggering prices bandied about when the [Chamberlain] stopped by the blacksmith shop to see about a commission. I’ll bet I can convince him that his wife will be more impressed with the beauty of glass work, though, instead of the cold, hard edges of an iron sculpture.”
Bijan, the elder of the two [Glass Workers], laughs at me incredulously. “You're going to steal work right out from under your brother's nose? That’s bold, even for you, Nuri.” He folds his arms across his chest, scowling. I wonder if he’s resentful that I took his job.
I wave Bijan off. “Pfft. Mikko’s got more work than he knows what to do with. Trust me, he's drowning under the weight of all the commissions flowing in lately. ”
“No wonder you moved out," Ifran teases me. “My big brother would kick me out, too, if I kept stealing his work.”
“Hey!” I protest, laughing despite myself. “I’d like to think I've got a hand in his success, by the way, since I’ve shared some glass techniques with him. Besides, I’m the big brother. Or, well, I’m the older brother, at least. He’s just a mountain of muscle, which makes him bigger, but not older. With my encouragement, he's been able to roughly apply some of my glass-making ideas to metalworking, which gives his pieces a distinctive look. Sometimes we even do some combination work, so I certainly don't feel too bad if we have a friendly competition over Lord Garman’s coin. Besides, if I win the job, then I’ll share the profits.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
The [Gaffer] scratches his ear absently. “You got something in mind, Nuri? You have the easy, confident air of a man with a plan.”
“I’ve always got a plan,” I assure him. I lift my hands up in the air and beckon the workers closer with a crook of my fingers, as though to invite their praise. “Watch and learn, my friends. I’m going to be the youngest Master of glass in Densmore’s history. One day, you’ll tell your great grandchildren that you were there when Nuri the Resplendent crafted his first masterwork. Their eyes will grow as big as saucers, even when you tell them the story for the hundredth time. Their jaws will hit the floor when you promise that Nuri earned the title before he even hit the First Threshold. How many twenty-year-olds can make that claim?”
“None, because most of them have already reached the First Threshold if they’re not low on Potential,” the [Gaffer] says, winking at me.
“I think my great-aunt makes a pill for getting in touch with your magical side, if you’re having some trouble,” Calix, the younger and more good-natured [Glass Worker] says, snickering.
With the utmost dignity and maturity, I stick out my tongue and make a rude noise in his general direction, which just sets him off chuckling all the harder. “I have more magical ability in my pinky than you’ve got in your entire body. Now get back to work!”
The old [Gaffer] claps Bijan on the shoulder before he can make a sour comment. “Very well, young master Nuri. Carry on.”
We share a look, then I clap my hands twice, just like Ember does, signaling for them to get started on the rest of the day’s projects. Idle hands are poor hands, after all.
“All right, friends, watch me make the glass sing.” I slip on woven-mesh gloves threaded with ceramic threads for heat resistance, crack my neck loudly, and stride toward the seething crucible. Theoretically, I could mitigate the sweltering buildup of heat by using my singular Skill, [Lesser Heat Manipulation]. The idea sends my gut churning in unease, though. The agony my parents went through before succumbing to the wasting mana plague is a stark deterrent. Even the thought of channeling mana at the moment makes me nauseated. A shiver runs through me despite the oppressive heat, but I force myself to keep moving.
I gather a clump of molten glass on the end of the metal rod, lifting it up and turning the blow pipe to ensure that the glass doesn’t clump or drip onto the floor in a gooey glob. Shining and lustrous, like amber-gold honey at sunset, the glass flows around the head of the pipe in slow, mesmerizing patterns. By the time I return to my workbench, I shrug off my momentary fears and put my confidence back on, like donning an old, comfortable coat.
With practiced ease, I place the long metal pipe across the top of the low table, resting it on metal yokes on either end to hold it in place. I place the bottom of my boot against the pipe and roll my foot back and forth so that it turns smoothly and evenly while leaving my hands free to work. I bite down on a thin, carved bone mouthpiece connected to a flexible tube that’s fastened to the back of the pipe. By blowing through the tube I can keep the glass expanding slowly while still watching what I’m doing. I prefer using this method as opposed to blowing directly through the end of the pipe, because then I can’t reach the glass to fashion and craft it at the same time.
In my left hand I grip a pair of jacks, and in my right hand I wield a graphite paddle for shaping the hot glass. The jacks snag the hot glass, and I pluck at the expanding globe, twisting and pulling the glass into the desired shape. With the paddle, I press the glass flat, reining in the wild curves of the molten, distended glass globe. All my work is in service of bringing order and structure to the free-flowing possibilities of my unruly medium.
Every few turns, I blink away the stinging sweat that drips into my eyes. The broiling heat on the furnace bathes the hot shop in sweltering, orange-white glory. I embrace the vicious heat, rising to the challenge of bending the elements to my command. Inch by inch, I turn and blow and expand and mold until a recognizable shape begins to emerge.
Long trunk lifted up in a curve, big flappy ears, and fearsome tusks—a glass elephant, the undisputed emperor of the glass plains. The fierce elephant is certainly more majestic than the hedgehog that I made the other day. For this commission, I’m crafting an entire menagerie of perfect glass animals, each so real that people will swear they can hear the sounds of wildlife emanating from the collected glass beasts. Before long, I’ve finished the elephant, and turn my attention to sketching the next fantastical creature on my list.
I keep one eye on the clock, monitoring the time as I draw and iterate. As soon as the clock hand clicks over the upright position, signaling noon, I blow the whistle to announce the lunch hour. The [Gaffer] gives me a salute and a wink before retiring to the break room to eat his customary rye bread with a slice of salami.
Idly, I wonder if Mikko can make the clockwork mechanism required to fit inside a sleek watch I can slip in my pocket. I'm moving up in the world, after all. A man ought to have a fancy timepiece, not just the huge, ungainly clock that sits on my desk at home. Portability is the wave of the future.
After a cursory glance around the shop to make sure everything is in order for the rest of the day’s activities, I snatch up my satchel and saunter out through the door. A creature of habit, I’ve taken to enjoying my meal under the shade of a large oak tree. There’s something charming about the way the golden sunlight filters through the leafy canopy.
I flop down under the majestic tree and withdraw my most prized possessions: a stack of books I purchased on credit from Camdyn, the local [Book Seller]. He keeps me well supplied with fantastical stories and exciting new releases. My favorites are the classics, though, most of which are about the legendary Heroes of Densmore.
I pull up my treasured, scarlet-painted, hardbound book, admiring the hand-done gilt lettering. With a goofy grin, I hold it up to my nose and inhale deeply to get a good sniff of the new book smell. Unlike the musty old books in Ember’s bookshelf, which she keeps in the upper room above the glass studio, this book smells pristine—fresh from the alchemical printers, with crisp lettering and no ink smudges on the page. Today, I’m about to read my favorite tale for what’s probably the tenth time, even though I just got the book. I’m reading about a local hero, a great man born and bred in the Silaraon region.
I crack open the book and find my bookmark, anticipation building. Ahh, the adventures of Tem Cytekin, [Expert Scout] and rogue mage-killer.
=+=
Lord Garman’s [Chamberlain] is waiting for me in the front of the studio when I return from lunch break. He straightens his robe, looks down his long nose with a sigh, and gestures for me to take a scroll from him.
I unroll the scroll and pore over the designs of what appears to be a replica of a seaside port town, full of colorful houses perched on a sheer cliffside.
“Well? Can you do it?” He coughs into his fist, interrupting my thoughts. Skepticism rolls off him, so thick it’s almost smothering.
“I have a counter-proposal,” I say, caught up in a riptide of inspiration. Excitement makes me trip over my words in my rush to explain the vision in my head. “Have you ever heard of the Grotto of the [Guardians]?”
The [Chamberlain] nods, stroking his beard in thought. He rolls his wrist, gesturing for me to continue, which I take as a good sign. Lord Garman—and, by extension, his house staff—is notoriously difficult to please.
“What if I make a diorama of sorts. A cutaway of a cave, just like the Grotto, sparkling with various colors of glass that look like stalactites and stalagmites. In the center of the cave, I will install a special feature: a long-burning candle for illumination that will sparkle and glint off the various glass spikes. I’ll make it as tall as your waist. Imagine that on a pedestal. You can’t beat that as a display piece.”
“It certainly sounds . . . flashy,” the [Chamberlain] says, hesitation writ large on his face. “I’m not sure it’s quite the right piece to show the decorum and discriminating taste that the Lord is so well known for.”
“Come. I have something to show you,” I reply, beckoning for him to join me in the back room. I grit my teeth and force a drop of mana into a small mage lamp ensconced halfway up the wall, instantly brightening up the dim storage space. While I wait for the [Chamberlain] to join me, since he’s far too dignified to rush, I locate what I’m looking for, uncap a thick paper cylinder, and withdraw a rolled-up poster sheet from within the container.
“Take a look at this. It’s a light painting captured by an [Image Mage].” The detailed, luminescent picture depicts a massive grotto by the sea, filled with a thousand stalactites and stalagmites that look like the needlepoint teeth of a giant monster. The stone shimmers in the sun, shifting between periwinkle and vermillion.
“Beautiful,” the [Chamberlain] murmurs, this time reverently. He reaches out his hand, not quite touching the poster, and traces the shape of the Grotto with his index finger. “I may have been overly hasty to dismiss such a sight. We expect a preliminary model by the end of next week. Do not disappoint, young glass smith, or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I assure him, and I mean it. Few things fire me up like earning respect and making a name for myself. I thrive in the face of challenges. That’s why I have my eye on the All-Densmore glass competition. This commission only serves to whet my appetite for the chance to prove myself.
The old [Gaffer] sees our esteemed guest out the door, and we get back to work. For the rest of the afternoon, all hands are on deck for the prototype project. Our first, rough-hewn iteration comes together quickly, and soon I’ve finished my work for the day. A quick check with the studio clock shows that I’m half an hour early, so I take the last few moments of my work day to make a mold for Ifran that will help him make simple objects. Next week, if I have time after we present the prototype to Lord Garman, I’ll teach Ifran how to roll a bit of hot glass across the mold to create repeatable shapes, like little knobs for drawers or cabinets.
For now, it’s time to head home and catch up on sleep. I swagger the whole way back to my cabin. I can’t help myself. Life is going well. I’ve tentatively landed the biggest commission of my short career. Even my uncompromising master will be impressed by my progress when I go back to my normal work the next day. For once, the thought of slipping back into the daily grind doesn’t faze me. The start of each work week may be my favorite since I’m in charge, but it’s also nice to be among friends and experts who can teach me.
I whistle while I walk, admiring the sunset casting its golden glow across the rich, fertile fields of my homeland. Yep, I may as well be king.