Marc paused in mixing the raw ingredients of a new batch of glass as Torisen wearily mounted the stairs to the High Council chamber.
“You look a proper mess, lad.”
“So do the fields.”
Torisen sank into his chair. More brown with mud than white, Yce trotted into the High Council chamber after him and took refuge under the ebony table.
“I should be glad that they didn’t wash away altogether. Most of the ash did. We can’t even think about planting again until things dry out some.”
“There’s time yet,” said Marc soothingly. “Anyway, you have funds now to tide us over if the summer harvest fails.”
“So everyone keeps reminding me.”
To distract himself from that unpleasant thought, he looked up at the map. Marc had fitted the gaping, stone embrasure with a gridwork of horizontal iron bars. Slotted into the uppermost was as much of the Riverland as he had so far been able to assemble. Shot incongruously with ruby to indicate gold dust, the Silver looped downward with luminous glass clusters on either side to indicate most of the Riverland keeps. Each section was made out of materials native to that particular region plus cullets from the old window to augment it. Oddly, glass fragments representing contiguous geological areas easily fused together without heat, seam, or the need of lead jointure. The result so far looked like a twisting vine shooting off lumpy fruit in a dozen glowing hues at more or less regular intervals.
“That melded glass is surprisingly strong,” said Marc, contemplating his handiwork. “I think I could hammer a nail with it. Perhaps, when the map is complete, it won’t need a brace at all.”
“D’you think it ever will be—complete, that is?”
The big Kendar shrugged and cast a discontented look at the vacant Western Lands. The Eastern were nearly as bare, with many gaps in between. “There’s a lot of space left to fill with these little pieces, much of it country which we Kencyr have never seen. Mother Ragga has supplied materials for some of it and your agents bring more home every day from wherever our reach extends.” He laughed. “Quite a common effort, it’s become almost a competition. Not all the bits fit together so far, though.”
He indicated the ebony table on which a crude map was drawn in chalk. Small sacks and fragments of cast glass dotted it like random pieces of a puzzle not yet attached to the whole.
“I suppose,” he said, scratching his bristly chin, “that I could fill in the blanks solely with recast cullets from the original window and with local material, all held together with lead strips. That would be the normal way of things.”
However, Torisen heard the reluctance in his voice, a master craftsman hesitant to compromise.
“No,” Tori said, “go on with whatever comes in, mixed with old glass to stretch it out as you’ve been doing. This may be the work of several lifetimes, but it’s a good start.”
Marc shot Torisen a look under his shaggy, singed eyebrows. “Something else I’ve noticed. Travelers report that the recent floods have changed the course of the Silver yet again, especially between Shadow Rock and Wilden. See here: there used to be several meander-loops in the river, but now water has cut across the neck of the largest.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. So that was what Holly was talking about. I got a letter from him this morning complaining that the Randir were encroaching on his land where the river boundary had changed. Of course he would be upset: that loop contains the richest bottomland in his domain.”
Holly tended to scrawl when excited. The map made clear what his hasty words had failed to convey.
“I take it that the Randir have claimed everything on their side of the river,” said Marc. “Is that going to cause trouble?”
“How could it not? The Randir squeeze in wherever they can, and the Danior are too small to fight back properly. I’ll need to see to this”—and hope that I have authority enough to make them listen. “But look here,” he continued, puzzled. “These changes just took place. How did you know to include them in the map?”
Marc shrugged. “I didn’t. They just appeared.”
“You mean that the finished glass flowed again? How is that possible?”
“Blessed if I know. There’s something magical about the whole project, if you ask me. I mean, how does one go from a handful of sand, soda, and lime even to simple glass, much less to something like this?” He indicated the growing expanse of glass, subtly aglow in the afterlight of dusk. “There may be possibilities here that we’ve never dreamt of. Have you tried yet to scry with it?”
Torisen shook his head, exasperated. “All it gives me are bad dreams. I look at the Southern Host’s camp and what do I see? Harn, wearing a pink dress. I ask you!”
“Hoy, Tori!”
The cry came up the stairwell, closely followed by the hairy, grinning face of the wolver Grimly. From under the table came a rumbling growl. Yce shot out to tackle the newcomer at the head of the steps. Both tumbled back down with a yelp.
Torisen plunged after them.
Below in the death banner hall, gray and white fur rolled about the flagstones, snarling and snapping. Grimly retained half his human form to hold the young fury at arms’ length. The pup seemed to have grown rudimentary hands of her own with which she tried to grab and pull him into her powerful jaws.
“I come all the way from the Holt and this is how you greet me? Ouch!”
“Yce, stop it!” Torisen circled them, unsure how to break up the battle.
“One side, lad.” It was Marc with a bucket of cold water which he dashed over the combatants.
They broke apart, sputtering. Tori wrapped his arms around the pup and lugged her back. Liquefied mud made her slippery, as did her furious squirming. She snapped at him, ripping his sleeves but not his skin. Her yammering had the cadence, almost the form, of swear words.
“I said, stop!”
All of his force went into the command, and the pup subsided in his grasp, panting.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what got into her.”
Grimly rose and shook himself, one limb at a time as if to make sure that all were still attached. “I do, in part. That’s a common greeting between Deep Weald wolvers, to establish dominance. We of the Holt pick our leaders for their singing. Our wild cousins trust only strength. And did you see those hands? She’s starting to change. With adolescence she’ll be able to shift more and more into human form. Given her attraction to you, Tori, I’d watch out.”
The keep door opened and Burr walked in, bearing a covered tray. He stopped, regarded the assembled company, and thrust his burden into Marc’s hands.
“I’ll bring more food.”
Soon afterward Torisen and Grimly were established in the High Council chamber at the empty end of the table with bowls of venison stew, fresh bread, and tart cider. At their urging, Marc joined them while Burr remained in obdurate attendance. Yce retreated under the boards to gnaw on marrow bones.
“Burr thinks I won’t eat if he doesn’t watch me,” remarked Torisen, spearing a baked apple.
The wolver eyed his friend’s thin face. “There’s something in that. You Knorth. So hard to keep alive, yet so much harder to kill. What’s put you off your feed this time?”
“Nothing. Don’t fret me, Grimly.”
“Like that, is it? All right, all right. Marc, here are some odds and ends from the edge of the Deep Weald to add to your masterpiece.”
The Kendar accepted the offered leather sack with thanks. “Any chance of material from farther in?” he asked rather wistfully.
“Perhaps. We Holt dwellers don’t mix much with the Weald, as you know. I did hear a curious story when I was collecting this lot, though. The King of the Wood has sent out scouts for news of an offspring missing since last summer. White with blue eyes, they say. A rare combination.”
Under the table, Yce cracked a bone.
“D’you think our pup is the stray?”