The dogs lay under a wagon out there, probably to guard the glassworks. Talen knew that sand was a part of glass-making. And a fiery furnace. This land had once been covered with trees, but they’d chopped down at least a square mile of the wood and fed it to the furnace. A glassmaker needed wood to make charcoal to burn in his ovens. And so there was heat involved. He knew they used lime. He’d heard the dark blues were made with cobalt. But how it all was put together and blown into shape, he’d never know. Nor would anyone outside the glass guild. It was a rare art, and the secrets were guarded with oaths and penalties of death.
A grove of willow grew all up and down a creek. The willow branches were used to weave about some of the glass to keep them from breaking. Three women sat at the side of the glasshouse weaving willow sticks around large glass jugs.
Talen heard laughter and looked over at the house. Women busied themselves in a back room. Was Atra among them? He hoped not.
But even if she were, he would simply ask for the master.
His thirst was such that he thought about going straight to the well, but that would be rude. He was still wet from dumping water over his head, and he supposed proper young men did not come begging favors in soggy clothes, but what else could he do?
There was no one outside, so Talen would have to strike their bell.
He smoothed back his hair the best he could. Then wiped his wet hands on his tunic and walked up to the door.
A brass bell hung to the side of the doorpost. The artificer had engraved delightful scenes of bears and deer on the bell. He’d engraved the symbols for health and welcome upon the striker. The bell and striker were beautiful.
Talen’s family could never afford such things. When people came visiting his home, they simply said, “Hoy,” and waited for someone to respond.
He struck the bell twice.
He heard footsteps as someone came to the door. He hoped it was not Atra. Then the door opened and Talen saw a serving girl of maybe twelve years.
“Good day,” said Talen. “I need to talk to the glass master.”
“You’re Horse’s son, aren’t you.”
Talen nodded. Da had earned a new name a few years back. They did not have Iron Boy then. On a wager, Da had altered his harness, hooked the plow to himself, then told Ke to keep the lines straight. They had plowed their whole field that way. Not as deeply as a horse might, but deep enough. So he had earned the name Horse.
“I’ll take your request back to the mistress. You can go on around to the well to water your mule.”
As Talen walked back off the step, he got a feeling someone was looking at him. He turned and he saw a curtain slide back into place. Talen could just see the outline of someone through the curtain. Could that be Atra?
Talen smiled, then the person moved the curtain slightly, very slightly and stared at him.
It was Elan. Mad Elan, Atra’s older half-wit sister, hiding where she obviously thought Talen could not see her. She had a mole on her face from which long hairs grew and an awful habit of chasing boys and giving them huge slobbery kisses. As a child he’d been terrified of her. She had caught him once, and he’d had to scream bloody murder to escape. She still put him on edge.
Some had suggested the glass master sacrifice her. It was common for the lame, blind, or maimed to give themselves up to the Divines. When a war is being waged and you cannot see, you can still give Fire to those who can. If you cannot lift a sword, you can give Fire that will allow a man to wield his sword with incredible might. In fact, the glass master had offered her up once for the war weaves a few years back. Or so it was said. But they hadn’t needed her or hadn’t the time to draw her. And so Elan was still with them.
He hoped Elan had learned to keep her affections to herself. Him being chased around the glass master’s yard simply would not do.
He motioned Nettle to take the wagon around to the trough. He could smell the smoke from the glassworks, but he could also smell the cold well