After pounding the lumps of clay and pulling out the largest bits of roots and detritus, Toff placed an empty, wooden box beneath the large screen before dipping out handfuls of dried clay. He then began to shake and rub it back and forth, allowing the clay to fall through while the screen kept tiny rocks, roots and other stray bits out. Preparing the clay for use was a painstaking process and Toff couldn't decide which he hated more—digging up the clay or sifting it afterward.
Once it was sifted through the smallest screen, he would add water to it, allowing any stray bits of organic material to float to the surface. He could pour that off and begin working the lumps out of what was left. Then he would lay the clay in a thick layer on top of porous stone and allow the excess moisture to dry out of it. The clay would then be wedged by pounding it and rolling it slightly with the heels of his hands to get the lumps and air bubbles out. As a result, Toff went home with sore muscles on most days.
A natural rain was falling outside when Mother Fern let him go and Toff shivered as the cold drops hit him in the face on the way home. Finer weather had greeted him that morning, so he'd only taken his light jacket. Now, covered in clay dust and muck, Toff didn't want to put the jacket on if he could help it—it would have to be washed, just like his clothing if he did so. Instead, Toff held the jacket over his head in an attempt to keep the rain off. The wind was whipping some of it in his face anyway, making the long walk home a miserable one.
Temperatures were falling, too; Toff could see his breath blowing out before he reached the back door to the cottage. His shoes had to be removed before stepping inside and his shoulders slumped at the amount of mud and bits of clay that clung to them. He'd be forced to give them a thorough cleaning. Thunder rumbled overhead as he poured water into the wash pan to clean his hands and face. He could clean his shoes after dinner.
* * *
"Laral's uncle suffered a brain hemorrhage," Corent said, taking his seat at the dinner table. He'd come home later than usual while Redbird and Toff waited patiently for him to appear.
"Will he be all right?" Toff asked. A brain hemorrhage often meant death; Mother Rose couldn't fix something if it were damaged badly enough.
"I don't think so, son. He hasn't wakened since he collapsed after chasing after one of Willow's heifers." Toff stared at Corent, his eyes wide. He couldn't help thinking that he could have chased after Father Willow's heifers just fine.
"He was old and this is his time—he had no power," Redbird said callously, dipping peas onto her plate. "He was one of the Vionnu and in his fifties when he joined us." Toff jerked his head around to stare at Redbird, but she hadn't realized what she'd allowed to slip out—that there were others of Toff's race right there in the village.
She'd never told him that before—he thought he was the only one. Now, Laral's uncle Barthe was dying and Toff wouldn't be able to ask questions. Then something else hit him. If Barthe was Laral's uncle, then Laral was part Vionnu. Toff knew for sure that Laral wasn't missing any important body parts—he'd seen that for himself.
"Do you think he will wake at all?" Toff turned back to Corent.
"I doubt it, son. When it is this bad, sometimes that's for the best."
* * *
"Nissa, I expected better from you." Nissa hung her head as she sat in one of the chairs that Great-Grampa Glendes had in front of his desk. She hated coming into his study—every time she'd been there she felt as if she were in trouble over something, or was being scrutinized by the Eldest of Grey House. She was never allowed to talk or laugh with her great-grandfather. Nissa felt, and not for the first time, as if she were under a microscope. Great-Grampa was frowning at her now, as if he were terribly disappointed. She knew why—it took her too long on the daggers. A First-Tier Wizard had been forced to help her finish the last two—she didn't get to them in time.
"I'm sorry, Great-Grampa." Nissa didn't want to look at Glendes of Grey House, so she kept her eyes down, staring at the rug on the floor instead. Thick and beautifully crafted, the Serendaan carpet was worth much. Nissa had no idea how old it was and couldn't put a true value to it, either. Everything in Great-Grampa's study was expensive, though, and Nissa knew the rug wasn't any different.
"Calebert is upset that he had to pull one of his First-Tiers off another project to help you finish. We could have lost the commission if they'd been returned late."
"I know, Great-Grampa." Nissa toed a pattern in the rug with a rubber-soled shoe.
"We're putting you with Killien for the next month or two. You'll be cleaning paint off brushes," Glendes said. Nissa raised her eyes to her great-grandfather, then. Glendes showed no emotion as Nissa almost broke down in front of him.
Removing old paint from paintbrushes was what they started the six-year-olds on in the Art Department. Killien was a Master Artist and his workshop turned out paintings, sculptures and worked gold leaf for plaster columns and other architectural elements. Nissa couldn't speak—knew that she'd weep if she tried. She nodded and lowered her eyes again as Glendes excused her. She was halfway to her father's suite before the sobs came. She began to run as she wept.
* * *
"Nissa?" Shadow called out after hanging his blue vest on the peg just inside the door. There was no answer. "Nissa?" He called louder the second time.
Nissa heard her father, both times. She was huddled on a corner of her bed, wedged as it was against the wall. Her room was windowless—Grey House had been hollowed out of a mountain and only the Master Wizards and a few First-Tiers had windows allowing a view of the mountainside. "Nissa." Her father stood in the doorway to Nissa's room, staring at her. "Why didn't you answer me?" he demanded.
"I don't feel good, Daddy."
"You're not sick—I know your great-grandfather is sending you to Killien until you sharpen your skills and cut down on the time it takes to do simple tasks. This is for your own good, sweetheart. You're better than this." Shadow Grey raked a hand through thick, black hair. Nissa didn't give her father a reply. "Did you have dinner?" he asked. Nissa didn't answer that question, either.
"I want to see Mom," she muttered instead.
"You cannot run to your mother every time something doesn't go your way," Shadow snapped. Nissa's lower lip trembled.
* * *
"Take this." Gren handed the knife to Laral. Laral's eyes grew wide as the handle was placed in his hand. Clover, standing nearby, gulped as a similar weapon was handed to him.