rubbed my forearm, massaging the thick muscles and tracing my burn scars with a finger. One benefit of working with glass, strong arms, but they limited my flexibility when fighting. By the end of my first year, the Weapons Master had decided that, even though I could heft and move a staff of wood like a pontil iron, I was too slow. He made the same assessment of me with a sword and a spear.
I found the sais by accident when I helped clean up after a practice session. They resembled strange short swords, but instead of a flat blade, the weapon’s main shaft was thick—about half an inch wide near the hilt and a quarter of an inch at the tip—and rounded yet with eight flat sides. Octagonal, the Weapons Master had called it. Only the tip of the shaft was sharp. He was thrilled I had discovered them, claiming they were the perfect weapon for me as they needed arm strength and hand dexterity.
“Here, try these. If they’re too heavy, I’ll find you a lighter pair.” The Weapons Master handed me two sais, one for each hand. The silver metal shone as if recently polished. The U-shaped guard pointed toward the tip of the weapon so the sais resembled a three-pronged pitchfork with a very long center tine.
I executed a few blocks and strikes to get the feel of the weapons.
“These are heavier than the practice ones,” I said.
“Too heavy? I started to add weight to your practice pair, but the Masters are in a rush. That’s always the way.” He tsked.
“They’re fine.”
“Practice as often as you can. You might want to cut bigger slits in your cloak so you can grab them quicker.” He hurried over to a large chest in the corner of the armory. Lifting the lid, he sorted through the contents and removed a belt with two short scabbards. “Wear this when you carry them. Horses don’t like to be poked with the pointy ends. Not good for your legs, neither.”
I thanked him and ran toward the stables. The weight of the weapons hanging from my waist seemed heavier. Would I need to use them? Could I defend myself? This whole mission felt as if I’d been wrenched from a kiln before I could reach the perfect temperature.
In the stables, Zitora helped the Stable Master saddle Quartz. The Stable Master muttered and fussed to no one in particular as he yanked straps and adjusted the reins. In the weak lantern light, Quartz’s reddish-brown areas appeared black and the white parts looked gray. She nickered at me in greeting and I stroked her nose. Her face was brown except for a white patch between her eyes.
Already saddled, Sudi, Zitora’s roan-colored mare shuffled with impatience.
When the Stable Master handed me Quartz’s reins, he said, “You’re going to be sore tomorrow and in outright pain by the next day. Stop often to stretch your muscles and rest your back.”
“There won’t be time,” Zitora said as she mounted Sudi.
“Why am I not surprised? Dashing off before she’s properly trained is becoming standard procedure around here.” The Stable Master shook his head and ranted under his breath. He ambled past the horse stalls, checking water buckets.
“Do you have a Barbasco yam?” Zitora asked. “That’ll help with the pain.”
“I don’t need it. How bad can it be?”
It was bad. And not just regular bad. After three days, the pain was back-wrenching, legs-burning, mind-numbing bad.
Zitora set a killer pace. We only stopped for food, to rest and care for the horses, and to sleep a few hours. Not long enough to wring out the exhaustion soaked into my bones.
Memories of a similar trip threatened my sleep and nagged at me. The night Master Jewelrose had startled me from a deep slumber and hustled me onto her horse before I knew what was happening. I’d clung to her as we bolted for the Citadel. All I had known during that frantic five-day trip, was my sister needed me. Enough knowledge to ignore the pain.
I focused on the Stormdancers’ troubles to distract myself. We had left the Citadel through the south gate, headed southwest for a day to reach the border of the Stormdance lands, then turned west. Zitora hoped to arrive at the coast in another three days.
At various times throughout the trip, my worries over the mission had flared, and doubts jabbed my thoughts. If magic was involved, I wouldn’t be able to solve the problem and precious time would be wasted.
On the night of our fourth day, we stopped at a market in Thunder Valley. Zitora bought a Barbasco yam for me and managed to hand it over without any gloating. Impressive. My brother would have done an “I told you so” dance for weeks.
The market buzzed with activity. Vendors sold the usual fruits, vegetables and meats, but a strange shrub was heaped on a couple of tables. About three feet tall, the plant’s leaves were hairy and separated into leaflets.
“That’s indigo,” Zitora said when I asked. “It’s used to make ink, one of the Stormdance industries. They also make metal goods like those sais you carry.”
And they harvested storms. Busy clan.
I chewed on the yam as we hurried through our shopping. I would have enjoyed lingering over the glasswares, but suppressed my disappointment. No sense complaining when exhaustion lined Zitora’s heart-shaped face, reminding me this wasn’t a pleasure trip. Perhaps we could stop on the way home.
After we secured our fresh supplies to the saddles, we mounted. I braced for the now-familiar jolt of protest from my abused muscles, but was surprised when none came. The yam worked fast.
Amusement lit her pale yellow eyes.
“Thanks for the yam, Zit … er … Master Cowan.”
Her humor faded and I berated myself for my slip of the tongue. She had been adamant about the students calling her Master Cowan. We all knew her frustration caused by everyone’s casual attitude toward her. But she was so sweet. When she noticed me and remembered details about my life, I wanted to confide in her and become her best friend.
She sighed. “Call me Zitora. I shouldn’t expect respect if I haven’t earned it.”
“That’s not it.”
“What do you mean?”
Feeling as though I’d melted more glass than I could handle, I cast about for the right words. “You’ll always be Zitora to the students. You’re not … intimidating enough. You don’t have the stern demeanor of Master Jewelrose or the walking textbook wisdom of Master Bloodgood. You can require us to call you Master, but we don’t feel the title in our hearts.” Her annoyance deepened toward anger, so I hurried on. “But you’re … approachable. You’re someone to confide in, to go to when in trouble. I think if all the Masters were unapproachable, the campus environment would be stilted. Uncomfortable.”
When she didn’t say anything, I added, “But that’s my impression. I could be wrong.” I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut. The One-Trick Wonder telling a Master Magician about how she was perceived was as ill-advised as the Masters sending me to the Stormdance Clan to fix their orbs.
Without a word, Zitora spurred Sudi into a gallop. See? She was too nice to chastise me. Master Jewelrose would have sent me to scrub the kitchen floors for a week.
But, when we finally stopped to sleep
