“We need you to mix the sand. The Stormdance glassmakers keep the percentages of the sand ingredients a secret. Job security, I suppose.” Sir shrugged.
“I don’t know the percentages.”
Sir released my arm and spun, slamming his fist into my solar plexus. I doubled over as the air in my lungs exploded frommy mouth. Pain radiated. I knelt on one knee, keeping my bent position and tried not to gasp for air. Unfortunately, I had experienced this sensation before when sparring with my sais at the Keep. When I could breathe without pain, I straightened.
“Don’t lie to me,” Sir said.
“I overheard Varun telling his brother you figured out the recipe of their precious sand,” Tal said.
Sir accepted my silence as agreement to Tal’s statement. I had estimated the percentages, but Varun hadn’t said how close I had been to the actual numbers. Even a small difference in the mix could affect the quality of the orb. I wasn’t about to tell Sir. He might decide my usefulness was over. Tricky’s comment about “after” was a more powerful threat than Sir’s sucker punch.
“Now that the introductions are over, why don’t we get started?” Sir grabbed my wrist and led me over to a line of four barrels.
While Tal pried the lids off, Ash brought an array of bowls and a spade.
“Tell Ash what the proper percentages are,” Sir instructed.
Secret recipes were secret for a reason. My father had taught us never to divulge his special recipes. They were our pride and our livelihood. What Sir wanted went against twenty years of habit. “No.”
Without warning, Tricky slapped me. The force sent me reeling back as pain stung my cheek. Sir pulled me forward. Tricky kicked me in the chest. This time Sir let me fall. My impact with the floor was a mere nuisance compared to the sharp pains emanating from my ribs. Each time I gasped for breath, fire flared.
Tricky placed his right boot on my throat and leaned, closing my windpipe. Panic overrode all other emotions and I clawed at his leg.
“Enough,” Sir said.
The pressure lifted and I gulped in lungfuls of air.
“What are the percentages?”
When I regained my composure enough to sit up, I said, “One hundred percent sand.”
“Magic this time, Tricky. Be creative.”
A half smile quirked before the amusement in his eyes died, replaced by an icy gleam.
I scooted away from him; hoping distance would lessen the magical attack. A black beetle, the size of a thumbprint crawled over my knuckles. I yanked my hand from the floor when I spotted a couple more beetles scurrying toward me.
A light tread ran down my pants. Four more of the bugs crisscrossed my legs. Pricks of movement climbed my back. In no time, beetles coated my body.
I yelped and swatted, but they clung with tenacious determination. They started to bite. Tearing holes in my clothes, they soon reached skin. A fiery pain burned with each bite. Blood welled and a beetle would drink, while his partner chewed hunks of my flesh. Two gnawed into my stomach, disappearing from my sight.
They were eating me alive. Horrified, I writhed on the floor trying to dislodge them, my motions frantic. I didn’t want to die.
One of the beetles ate through my cheek; I felt its hard body on my teeth before it clamped down on my tongue. The hot tang of blood filled my mouth.
“Do you want it to stop?” Sir’s voice asked.
Choking on beetles and blood, I tried to say yes, but a gurgle was all I could manage.
The attack stopped. No bugs. No pain besides my aching ribs and burning throat. My clothes were intact. I rubbed my hands over my skin just to make sure it wasn’t pockmarked with gaping wounds. My fingers slid over smooth skin.
Sir helped me to stand on trembling legs. “The percentages?”
I hesitated.
“If your sand mixture doesn’t match the sample Tal brought from the Stormdancers, Tricky’ll make sure you do better with your second try.”
The threat pulsed in my heart with a familiar ache. The controlling fear. To do as instructed because the alternative was unbearable.
“Tricky—”
“No. Give me a minute. I can’t think.” Was keeping silent about the Stormdance recipe worth the anguish? The beetle attack replayed in my mind as a shudder of revulsion ripped through my body. I wasn’t strong enough before; what made me believe I could endure this time?
I pushed the horror of the beetles from my mind. I needed to concentrate, to become a glassmaker.
Wrong numbers would cause my sand to look different. Even though they had a sample, they still needed me. A small portion wasn’t an accurate representation of the entire batch. During the Glass Wars, competing glassmakers tried to steal buckets of their rival’s sand to deduce the ingredients. It hadn’t worked. The coarser, heavier components tend to settle to the bottom of the pile.
Sir yanked on my arm, twisting my elbow. “We’re waiting.”
He released my wrist. I rubbed my left shoulder while I examined the contents of the barrels.
The lava flakes and red Bloodgood sand were easy to identify. I dipped my hand into one of the remaining barrels. White Krystal sand flowed through my fingers, powdery and light.
The second barrel contained sand from the Stormdancer’s beach. The coarse yellow and brown grains rasped when they poured from my palm. This, along with the Krystal sand made up eighty percent of the recipe. I would have to keep the red sand and lava flake numbers the same, but I could fudge the others.
In fact, the heavier granules would settle to the bottom of a stockpile over time, leaving the lighter particulates near the top. If Tal had been in a hurry when he stole the sample, he would have scooped from the top.