were too intelligent, compared to the simpletons she had known. He had to be twenty if he were a day, yet he was huddled down like a child who expected a beating. She hadn’t given him enough of a shock to hurt him permanently. Something here wasn’t right, but clearly she would get nothing else from the fellow. “What about this dragon?” she wanted to know. “Do you claim it as yours? Will you be responsible for it?”
The glassblower shook his head vehemently.
Tris scowled at him. “Well, that’s of a piece with everything else I’ve noticed about you,” she said tartly. “If you won’t take responsibility for it, then I — Trisana Chandler, educated at Winding Circle Temple, take charge of this magical creation. Be sure I’ll mention that at the Mages’ Guild, too!”
Outside Tris fed the lightning in her hand into her pinned-down braids. With fingers that still trembled with anger she tucked the braid she’d pulled apart behind one ear. She would visit more shops and calm down. She wanted to talk to Niko about the dragon before she tracked down the local Mages’ Guild, and he wouldn’t be back until his conference ended late that afternoon. She might as well use her time profitably.
“Come on, Bear,” she ordered the dog. “Let’s find somewhere sane.”
Kethlun Warder, journeyman glassblower, didn’t know how much time passed before he found the courage to get to his feet. The hand and arm that held the tongs had gone from painful jerking to a pins-and-needles sensation. When he touched his good hand to his head, he found that his hair was nearly flat again, though it crackled still.
Slowly he closed the hand that had taken the lightning’s power. It was stiff, but it worked. He moved each finger, then his wrist, forearm, and at last the entire arm. Everything worked. The motion was slow, but at least he wasn’t paralysed a second time.
What about the rest? he thought as he tried to stand. Last year it had taken weeks, even months, to get all of his body working again.
On his feet he wavered, then dropped to his knees. Fear swamped him: had she paralysed him? After a moment’s thought he tried again. Carefully he stretched first one leg, then the other, leaning on his hands. Only when his knees responded as they should did he try to stand a second time.
His mind was functioning, he thought as he leaned on a worktable. But what of his mouth? He was scared to try, in case he learned that she had turned him back into a gobbling freak, but he was also scared not to try. His ability to speak had taken the longest to return, and he was still unable to talk quickly.
He drew himself upright, took a long breath and blew out, thrusting all emotion away. He emptied his lungs completely before he filled them again. Once he was calmer, he said, “My n-name is Keth-lun W-warder. I am-m a journeyman.” Heartened, he went on, “I come from — Dancruan in N-namorn. My family is in the glass tr-ade.”
Relief doused over him like cold water. Yes, the stammer was back, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. He could manage it by speaking slowly. His hands were steady enough. He was all right, or as much so as he’d been in the past year.
He’d heard his mother say that he was damaged, not incapable. As usual, she had hit the nail on the head. He was damaged, but he was getting better. He would be better. He just needed time.
A year ago he had not needed time.
Glassblowing had been natural to him. He expected to succeed every time he thrust a blowpipe into the furnace. He’d pitied apprentices who inhaled by accident, burning their tongues or throat with drops of the molten liquid. He’d smirked as they singed their eyebrows, burned their arms, or dropped half of the gather into the flames. The basic work had come easily, greased by his tiny drop of magic, but the artistry had been all his own. Whenever the subject of his lack of greater magic came up, he reminded his family that at least he had considerable talent.
Then he’d gone for a walk along the Syth one summer afternoon. The storm caught him in the dunes between the beach and the Imperial Highway, tearing at his clothes and hair, driving sand into his face. In a panic, he ran for shelter instead of dropping