Lindin crystal.

She didn’t care how hard she had to work or what small luxuries she had to give up to make sure she had enough of the costly silver sand. She didn’t care how long it took to perfect the incant. What was time? Just another tool.

Settled at her small workbench, she dropped a pinchful of silver sand into a waiting crucible. The promise of success burned bright in her blood.

This incant is only the beginning. Before I am done I’ll be the best artisan mage Dorana has ever seen.

A day and a half after she’d completed Lord Traint’s journey clock, Artisan Master Arndel gave her a new commission, a nursery clock for one Lady Ancilla Grie. Clearly he resented passing her the task, but with no other artisan free or skilled enough and his own time swallowed by an established patron he couldn’t afford to offend, he had no choice.

“And let me remind you there can be no deviation from the requested design,” the Artisan Master said, scowling. “Lady Grie is a mage of great reputation and influence. Next to Lord Bren, the greatest in these eastern districts. Nothing is more important than pleasing her.”

Or more disastrous than earning her ire. So had their rival artisanry in the Seventh district township of Valdere learned, to its dismay, when its Artisan Master made the mistake of countermanding Lady Grie’s specifications.

“Tympanne has all but ruined herself,” said Arndel, thrusting his face close. “Where Ancilla Grie leads, many lords and ladies follow. Her patronage, added to Lord Bren’s, could be the making of this artisanry. Put that in jeopardy, Mage Lindin, and you will rue the day you first drew breath.”

Unmoved by his lip-spittled fervour, Barl nodded. “I will give Lady Grie no cause for complaint.”

“See that you don’t,” Arndel hissed, finger jabbing. “For you’ll not be the only Lindin to suffer from a misstep.”

Remmie. The old mole would dare to threaten blameless Remmie? She felt her blood turn molten. You scabrous toad. Biting back fury, she bowed her head, showing Arndel only what he wanted to see, an obedient underling.

“Yes, Artisan Master,” she murmured. “I understand.”

Nearly six days it took her to complete the nursery clock… and to her surprise, the work was a pleasure. The artisanry’s new patron was no Artur Traint. Lady Grie’s design was charming, full of whimsical grace, and challenging enough to keep her mind off dark thoughts of the upcoming trip to Elvado.

For if I go, it will hurt me. And if I don’t go, I’ll hurt Remmie. No matter what I do, it seems someone always ends up hurt.

Those six days were the happiest she’d spent in Arndel’s employ, even though she had to attempt the clock’s crystal housing twice. The first time she misjudged the crucial balance between the superfine Brantish blue sand and the heavier grey sand from Trindek’s Istafarn desert. Moments after coalescence the crystal collapsed into blobs of grainy, useless glass. Shocked speechless, Barl could only stare and nod as Arndel berated her for wasting her time and his jealously guarded supplies.