No. I would not think about him.
I concentrated on Tula. My ordeal was nothing compared to hers. When I had finally been freed, I learned Ferde strangled her to death and stole her soul. Two weeks gone before I even knew about it. Two weeks a captive for nothing. She died anyway.
“Opal, are you done? The table won’t set itself,” my mother’s voice called.
I wiped tears from my cheeks as I hurried to wash and change. My thoughts turned to Kade’s grief over his sister, and I remembered thinking about how time would dull his pain. Which was true, but I had forgotten about the occasional knife of grief that stabbed you without warning.
I was mortified during most of dinner. Ahir and my mother were intent on telling embarrassing stories about me to Zitora. The Magician seemed to enjoy them and laughed, but I wanted to hide under the table.
“…naked and soapy from a bath, Opal goes streaking toward the factory, intent on telling her father about her toy duck. Well…” Mother paused for maximum impact. “She crashes right into him and he spills a bowlful of sand on her head! I cleaned sand from every nook and cranny in her body. For months!”
I cut through the peals of laughter. “Do you think I should check on Father? Won’t his dinner get cold?”
“Leave your father alone for now. You know how he gets when he’s working in his lab. Dinner will keep.”
I sighed. One avenue of escape thwarted.
Before my mother could launch into another humiliating story, I asked Zitora about her family.
Her humor faded. “I don’t remember my parents. My older sister raised me. We are ten years apart.”
Mara made sympathetic noises. “Sisters are great. I wish I saw mine more often.” She gave me a pointed stare.
Perhaps I would tell her about Aydan’s glass factory in the Citadel.
“Sometimes I wish mine would get lost,” Ahir joked.
“Mine is lost,” Zitora said in a quiet voice.
“What do you mean?” Mother asked.
“When the magicians came, they said I had strong magical powers and should be Keep trained. She escorted me to the Keep and left. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”
Gasps of horror ringed the table. Zitora shook her head through the barrage of questions from my mother and sister, and waved away Ahir’s apology.
“I searched for years,” Zitora said. “Chased every possible lead, visited every infirmary in Sitia, and viewed every unidentified corpse. Either she doesn’t want to be found or she’s dead and buried.” The Magician said the words with a flat tone as if she could no longer produce any emotions about her sister’s fate. Or she had exhausted her emotions.
“Why wouldn’t she want to be found?” Mother asked.
“Perhaps she wanted to start a new life,” Mara said. She rose from her seat and cleared the table.
“Perhaps someone is holding her against her will.” I suppressed a shudder; better to be dead and buried.
“Perhaps she was jealous of me. I don’t know anymore. I’ve thought about it for the last ten years and nothing feels right.” Zitora stood. Her chair scraped along the floor with a loud squeal. “Here.” She grabbed the dirty plates from Mara. “I’ll wash.”
Mother jumped from her seat with amazing speed. “Oh, no you don’t.” She hurried after Zitora, disappearing into the kitchen.
Mara, Ahir and I looked at each other.
“Who do you think will win?” Mara asked. “A Master Magician or Mother?”
I considered. “If you could call washing dishes winning, I’d bet money on Mother.”
“As much as it pains me to say this, I’d have to agree with Opal.” Ahir wrinkled his nose in mock distaste.
Sure enough Zitora returned from the kitchen. “Your mother—”
“A force of nature. We know,” Ahir said. “Come on, Mara, let’s go help her while Opal entertains her guest.”
My father woke me in the middle of the night. The bright glow from his lantern seared my eyes. Already awake, Zitora sat on the edge of her bed—my bed, actually. I had slept in Tula’s bed under her flag.
His words finally sank into my sleep-fogged mind.
“…found the cause of the weak glass,” he said. “Come.”
Chapter 9
I GRABBED MY cloak and hurried after my father. The sky glittered with stars and the half-moon cast a weak light over our compound. Father led Zitora and me to his lab.
Torches blazed and crackled. The air smelled of camphor and honey. Bowls filled with sand and water rested on the countertops along with opened jars and spilled ingredients. It was the first time I’d seen his lab messy.
“I had forgotten all about it,” he said, picking up a small porcelain bowl. “Hoped never to see the cursed substance again.” He thrust the container at Zitora.
Confused, she handed it to me. The contents appeared to be lime. I grabbed a pinch, and rubbed the white substance between my fingertips. Lime.
“Jaymes, what are you talking about?” she asked.
“What’s wrong with the lime, Father?”
He drew in a deep breath and settled into his chair.
“Thirty years ago, well before the Commander’s takeover of Ixia, we used to import sand and other glass compounds from the north. There were a number of glass factories in Booruby back then—twice as many as today—and competition was fierce.” My father’s gaze was unfocused as he stared into the past.
“I only had two kilns then, but my wares were different and I was new. Business boomed and I ordered another two kilns.”
Zitora opened her mouth, but I placed my hand on her shoulder, warning her to keep quiet with a slight shake of my head. He would get to the point of his story eventually, interrupting or hurrying him would only prolong the tale. We sat in the other two chairs and listened.
“Unfortunately my rivals took exception to my newfound success and plotted ways to discredit me. They started what’s now known as the Glass Wars. My factory was hit first. They contaminated my lime with Brittle Talc. It looks like lime, feels like lime, but if it gets into your molten mix, the talc affects the quality of your piece.”
“Makes it less dense?” I asked.
“Exactly. Drove me crazy, wondering why my glass broke so easily. Almost drove me out of business, too. Soon only a few glass factories remained. We suspected sabotage, but had no proof. I discovered the contaminant by accident. While shoveling my lime into bags to sell to the farmers because I was desperate for money, I spilled a bucket of water onto the pile. The lime turned purple.”
“Purple?” Zitora asked.
“Purple,” my father repeated. “The water reacted to the Brittle Talc, changing color. We didn’t know the name then, but when I made glass with lime that didn’t turn purple, it didn’t break. I was just happy to be back in business, but the other glassmakers who had been hit by the Brittle Talc decided to retaliate.”
“The Glass Wars,” I said, remembering my father’s stories. “You never told us about the Brittle Talc before.”
“I didn’t want you to know about it. Eventually, the man responsible for bringing the talc to Booruby was caught and the factory owners who started the whole mess were arrested. The factories that had survived the