Anything? Once you make a working that lives, you have to treat it like you would a human child. Youre not allowed to destroy a living creation.
The dragon knew a champion when it saw one. Voicing a cry like the sound of a knife striking a
glass, it flew to Tris and perched on her shoulder, wrapping itself around her neck.
Thats fine,she reassured it, stroking the creature where it crossed her neck. Calm down.She kept her eyes on the glassblower, who now huddled in the corner furthest from her, clutching the hand shed shocked. His face was ash-grey; his hair stood on end. s your teacher?Tris demanded.
Dont have one,he replied, his speech agonizingly slow.
You may as well tell me. Ill find out,she said. ll have your master s name before the weeks done.
The man shook his head.
if your teacher said you were fit to practise magic and turned you loose on the world, I m reporting you both to the Mages Guild,Tris snapped. Was something wrong with him? she wondered, puzzled. Was he slow of mind? He spoke as if he were, though his eyes 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 hadnt 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. about this dragon?she wanted to know. you claim it as yours? Will you be responsible for it?
The glassblower shook his head vehemently.
Tris scowled at him. thats of a piece with
everything else Ive noticed about you,she said tartly. you won t take responsibility for it, then I - Trisana Chandler, educated at Winding Circle Temple, take charge of this magical creation. Be sure Ill mention that at the Mages Guild, too!
Outside Tris fed the ligh tning 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.
On, Bear,she ordered the dog. s find somewhere sane.
Kethlun Warder, journeyman glassblower, didnt kn ow 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 jerk ing 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 lightnings 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 w orktable. 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, n-name is Keth-lun W-warder. I am-m a journeyman. Heartened, he went on, 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 hed been in the past year.
Hed 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 blow pipe into the furnace. Hed 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 g reater magic came up, he reminded his family that at least he had considerable talent.
Then hed 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 h air, driving sand into his face. In a panic, he ran for shelter instead of dropping into a dip between the dunes and lying flat on the ground. The lightning bolt caught him as he scrambled over the last dune between him and shelter. The only warning he d had was the eerie sensation of all of his body hair standing straight up, before his old life ended in a flash of white heat.
That he d survived was a miracle. The discovery that he was half-paralysed and unable to speak made his survival a mockery.
But his youthful conceit had a tough core to it. He fought the living tomb of his body. He forced a finger to move, then a toe, then two fingers, two toes. Hour after hour, day after day, he reclaimed his own flesh. When his family saw that his mind