Emerald House Rising, page 18
“Goldsmiths are more … flexible?” More open to possibilities? She wondered if Master Rolly was an adept.
“If you like. You see, goldsmithing has always been the training ground for all the other artistic fields: sculpture, painting, architecture. A goldsmith who wants to be successful must always be open to new ideas.” He leaned back on his stool. “Besides, I have daughters of my own—although the Founders know they’ve never wanted to become goldsmiths.”
“So you’ll help me, then? Even if it might mean trouble?”
“If trouble comes, I think I’m equal to it. The cast can be done here, and I’ll give you a letter for the Guild certifying it was done under your supervision.”
“Thank you, Master Rolly!” Jena said with a rush of gratitude. “Oh—did Lord Duone ever settle on his commission? Will you have enough time to finish that if you’re helping me?”
“He ordered the mirror and the set of combs. I’ll be able to finish both projects easily before you go.”
“Good. Oh, and Master Rolly, I also have a stone I’d like to cut, if I may have permission to use some of your equipment?”
“Well, I could hardly begrudge you that, could I, now, what with the fine fee you’ll be giving me for the casting of that belt buckle, hmm?”
Chapter
Thirteen
Magic, Jena decided while preparing her belt buckle model for casting, could be very useful when making jewelry.
It also could be terribly distracting.
Since metal casting wasn’t Jena’s specialty, she had only practiced the minimal level to satisfy the general journeyman requirements, not nearly as much as a journeyman specializing in silver- or goldwork. On the rare occasions she had cast metal in the past, her work had usually turned out well, but once or twice in the learning process a cast had been ruined by bubbles in the slurry or by an incomplete pour. She had never known what the result would be until she cracked the mold and saw the cooled metal—until this time. Even as her new magical sensing helped her “see” the end result, she could also “see” potential disasters at each step in the process. Sorting out the difference took real concentration.
In the workshop, as Jena began setting the sprue rods on her model, Baldesar polished enseigne tokens and Master Rolly worked on polishing the mirror back for Lord Duone’s gift, both ostensibly ignoring her. That left only Kipp to sit by her side, watching, and she understood this was part of her evaluation, since a journeyman’s responsibilities included supervising and instructing apprentices. She could tell that Master Rolly, at least, seemed to be listening.
“Why’d you remove that sprue?” Kipp asked her as she worked. “Don’t you need it to feed gold to that section?”
“You’re right, I do, but I have to reset the angle,” Jena told him. “If the rod is set at a straight perpendicular, the gold won’t flow easily around the bend, and the metal might cool before filling the cavity completely.” She probably would have been satisfied with the first position of the sprue herself, but for the subtle warning the wax rod gave her under her fingers. Belatedly, she thought to put up a weak ward over herself and the model as she worked. This business of mingling magic with the practice of her craft was new territory, and she didn’t want to risk affecting Kipp in case the boy had any sensitivity to what she was doing.
When she had finished setting the sprues, Jena began painting the model with a coating of debubblizer. “How do you like working in a goldsmith’s shop?” she asked Kipp. “Do you want to switch to another specialty later on?”
“Goldsmithing’s fine with me. Better than playing with rocks, I think,” Kipp said with the cheerful scorn of the young. “And I like the master, too,” he added, lowering his voice. “He don’t beat me.”
Jena gave him a startled look as she dipped her brush into the pot. “Beat you?”
“Lots of masters do,” Kipp said stoutly. “Nothing strange about it, I s’pose. Even my father did. Didn’t yours?”
Jena shook her head.
“Course,” Kipp said after a moment’s reflection, “the master did throw a bucket of cold water over me in bed one morning when I overslept. So I know he wants what’s best for me.”
“How fortunate you have a master looking after your welfare,” said Jena, only a slight tremor of laughter in her voice betraying her.
“Uh-huh. I’ve only just started with the master this year, of course. He still says my sketches look like cat scratches. Do you want me to mix the slurry?”
Jena carefully set the model on the table to cool. “It’s my piece so I’m supposed to do it, but why don’t you show me where it’s kept?”
After preparing the slurry, Jena placed the model in a metal cylinder and poured in the paste very slowly, so as to avoid air bubbles. When it was full she took a metal rod and began tapping the side. Kipp watched her do this for several minutes and then said impatiently, “That should be good enough. You’ve surely shaken out all the air by now.”
Jena placed her fingertips against the flask, closing her eyes. After a moment, she opened them. “No, I don’t think so,” she said with a small smile and began tapping again.
Eventually, though, she stopped and set the flask aside. “The furnace needs firing up,” she said. “We can do that as we wait for the plaster to dry.”
When the plaster had set, Jena carefully flipped the flask over and removed the tapered bottom, leaving a funnel-shaped depression in the plaster. The hole at the bottom of the funnel led, deep within the mold, to the convergence of the wax sprue rods.
She donned thick leather gloves and took the flask outside to the courtyard, where Kipp worked busily applying the bellows to the fire in the furnace. “Hot enough, I think,” he said cheerfully, stopping to rub his sleeve over his flushed forehead. “Ready to put it in?”
“Where are the tongs?”
“Oh, there. Hanging from a hook on the side.”
Opening the furnace door, Jena placed her flask into the interior on a trivet, with the hole facing down. A crucible had already been placed inside the furnace to preheat. She closed the door with a clank of the latch and stripped off the gloves as Kipp continued working the bellows. “Don’t pump it too hot, Kipp.”
“I won’t.”
Jena stared at the furnace until it seemed she could see through the door, into the very mold itself. Why had she never seen the beauty in metal casting before, in the fascination of empty space, waiting for her to fill as she chose? All that potential … She blinked, gave herself a little shake, and the exhilarating rush of magic ebbed. Better not keep lapsing into dreams like this, she told herself firmly, or you’ll end up burning yourself, or worse.
“I’m going in to get my poultice changed again,” she said. “Once the wax is all melted out, take the tongs and turn the flask on its side for the burnout—the fire has to be built up for that. I’ll be back to spell you on the bellows, as long as it doesn’t pull my stitches too much.”
After her cut had been tended, Jena returned to the courtyard to fetch the heated crucible. When she reached into the furnace with the tongs to pick it up, however, a sudden surge of warning magic almost made her drop it. Startled, she put it down and stepped back, fumbling with the tongs. “What’s the matter?” Kipp asked.
“Just clumsy.” Jena picked up the vessel with the tongs again, steeling herself against the wash of impressions flowing into her hands … the crucible shattering, pouring molten gold over her fingers, searing … She looked more closely. “Kipp, did you check this crucible before putting it in the furnace?”
The apprentice looked startled. “Why?”
“It has a hairline crack, see? Right at the base. It could break apart in the centrifuge and send liquid gold flying everywhere.”
Kipp came over to examine it and gave her a guilty look. “I thought I did. I know I’m supposed to.”
“Well, it might have cracked here in the furnace, too,” Jena said, although she knew quite well it hadn’t. “I’ll ask Master Rolly for another one.”
Inside the workshop, Master Rolly gave her a measured look at her explanation and reached up to a shelf for another crucible, handing it to her. Jena looked it over carefully. It felt cool and safe in her palm. She checked it against the centrifuge counterweights and then slid the meticulously pre-weighed piles of gold, silver and copper into it.
“Call me when you think the gold is read for the pour,” Master Rolly said as she carried the crucible out to the courtyard.
From her pouch Jena surreptitiously took a tiny button of gold knocked from the nugget in Morgan’s room. Who knows? Maybe it will help. As small as the fragment was, she could still faintly sense in it the longings that had permeated the nugget as a whole. Jena shook her head, dropping the bit of gold into the rest of the small heap of metal. Where are you, Morgan? We both need you, Lady Rhuddlan and I. She deposited the crucible inside the furnace and watched the gold in the dull red of the coals until the heat made her close the door. Who knows what the Guild will think, but I hope … I hope Lady Rhuddlan will like it. I really hope she will.
“So, this is the right temperature, you think?” Master Rolly said. He had the crucible out of the furnace and was expertly swiveling it with the tongs to watch the viscosity of the molten gold against the sides of the vessel.
“Oh, yes,” Jena said eagerly. Master Rolly looked at her sharply, but she couldn’t help it, aroused as she was by the eager yearning of the gold. It feels so ready. I sensed it partly when I put the mold in the furnace. That was one possibility, waiting for fulfillment, but this gold holds so many! Why, it could be molded into a thousand different patterns. Well, she had the form prepared that would shape it now.
“We’ll see if you’re right,” Master Rolly said with a small half smile.
“I need an apron,” Jena said, trying to regain her composure.
“We all do. And eyeshields and gloves.”
“Kipp, run and get them,” Jena commanded, remembering belatedly that she was in charge. “And please ask Baldesar to come outside; I would like his help for the cast.”
Baldesar joined them, and Kipp brought out the protective leather gear and the wooden disks cut with narrow slits to shield their eyes. After they had garbed themselves, Jena said, “Baldesar, take those tongs and get the flask from the furnace—Kipp, open the door for him. Master Rolly, if you would be so kind as to bring the crucible?”
She led the small procession back inside to the centrifuge and quickly wound the casting arm into the cocked position. “Slip the mold in first, Baldesar. Quickly, now, but be careful.” The journeyman clamped the flask into position and then Master Rolly stepped forward, placing the crucible into the crucible shoe. He pushed the pouring lip up flush to the funnel formed in the plaster and closed the second clamp.
“Are they both secure?”
“They are. Let fly.”
“All right, then.” Jena had to fight to keep her voice calm. “Everyone step back.” She punched the release knob.
With a thunk, the spring released and the arm began spinning in a rush, too rapidly to allow them to see the gold flying from the crucible into the mold. But Jena could feel the jubilant surge of metal into the crevices left in the plaster, rushing from formlessness into embodiment, into this-is-what-is-meant-to-be!
Gradually the arm slowed. The other watchers, rapt as she, sighed and stirred. “You had it well balanced,” Master Rolly commented, removing his eye shields. “Not a single wobble.”
Jena removed her shields, too, and watched, blinking, as the centrifuge came to a halt. “Kipp, I need some water from the cistern.”
By the time Kipp returned, slopping water all over his feet from the bucket he lugged, the flask had had several minutes to cool. With the tongs, Jena unseated it from the clamps on the centrifuge arm and then plunged it into the water, which boiled with the force of the violent disintegration of the plaster. A dull bronze color gleamed up at her through plaster crumbs. She reached in with the small tongs and pulled it out—an intricate knot of unburnished gold, still caked with plaster, set on thin rods like a strange bouquet of flowers. She laughed aloud in triumph and held it up for the others to see.
“Ah,” said Master Rolly, his voice sounding pleased. “Scrub it clean, and then we’ll see what we have.”
A few minutes later, more details emerged from Jena’s scouring brush. “It’s all here,” she announced with satisfaction. “The pour was complete.”
“Let me see it,” said Master Rolly. He took the buckle to examine, pulling a lantern close for more light. “Only one or two air bubble nodules, and they’ll be easy enough to remove.” He rotated it, flicking away a fleck or so of plaster with his thumbnail. “No pitting except for this spot on the underside, and that can be rubbed out without any noticeable thinning of the gold. Eh, you’ve a fine cast here, Jena Gemcutter. Worthy of a journeyman stamp, at the very least!” He smiled and handed the buckle back to her. “And when you pickle it and saw the sprues off and polish it up, I’ll write a letter to the Guild for you telling them so. But of course, since your specialty is cutting, it will depend in the end on the stones with which you set it.”
“Trust me on that. It’s going to be beautiful. You’ll see.”
Late in the evening, after the household had gathered for supper and then retired for the night, Jena stayed alone in the workshop to cut the stone Morgan had given her.
She suspected that if casting metal felt different now that she was in touch with her magic, cutting would be a revelation. Or was it merely that this was her talisman piece, the link with her partner? She didn’t know. She only knew that for the first time, she didn’t even need to dip the stone in oil and “cut a window” to see the angle of cleavage and check for imperfections inside. She already knew: there were no flaws—no inclusions, no bubbles, no feathers, no structure lines. She didn’t even think of her customary grumble that wasn’t it a pity the Glass Guild couldn’t grind lenses with greater magnification. She didn’t need to look at the stone the way she ordinarily did. She knew it.
Lady Kestrienne had said her stone should be shaped the same way Morgan’s stone was shaped: the brilliant cut. Jena turned the stone slowly in her fingers. Perhaps it’s not quite as simple as that. The talisman is supposed to form my link with my partner. Then … in a way, the way I shape this shapes that link. But it’s also the focus for my power. Will the cut also shape that? Perhaps I should think about this a little further rather than simply following what Morgan has already done. She held the stone up to the candle. There is more than one possibility here. Which is the best to choose?
Within the rough angular form of the stone, she shaped lines of light with her mind. It was simply a way of perceiving the gold flecks within as if strung like infinitesimal beads on beams of light, crisscrossing at facet angles. One of the table cuts, like the square? No, not a square. The angles at the girdle are like … someone turning a shoulder, refusing to listen. It makes you think you can only go at a limited number of angles, in a limited number of directions. I’ve had enough limits. She reangled the lines within the stone. A combination cut, like the heart? She held the form for a moment, and then the lines rescrambled themselves, as if uneasy at the very idea. Now, I know that’s wrong. Morgan’s heart belongs to someone else. I have a tie to him, yes, and it’s just as strong, but it’s different. Besides, I don’t want my magic limited only to matters of the heart. One of the round cuts, like the rose? Closer. Round would be good for scrying, I think … but the rose cut doesn’t let in enough light.
Well, what about the brilliant?
The lines dissolved again, and the flecks glittered like sand reflecting shifts of light as a clear wave rushed out over it. Jena took a deep breath and then, trustingly, plunged in. “The widest part of a facet-cut gem, the edge, is called the ‘girdle,’ Jena. The part above the girdle is called the ‘crown,’ and it includes the large flat facet on top, called the ‘table.’ Below the girdle is the ‘pavilion.’ Sometimes there’s a tiny facet at the tip of the pavilion, cut parallel to the table; that’s the ‘cutlet.’”
It was her father’s voice. She sat as a very young child in his lap as he held a knife in her chubby hands, carefully guiding her in carving a potato into the shape of a roughed-out gem.
“This is how you’ll start learning, Jena, when you’re an apprentice. My father taught me how to cut facets this way, and now I’m teaching you.” Mama objected, Jena remembered: “But she’s so young, she’ll cut herself!” Collas only laughed and ruffled Jena’s hair (he had laughed so much more before Mama died) and said they’d be very careful. Sometimes young children see things beyond their years: Jena understood that even if her parents took opposite sides on the question, they both cared for her and wanted what was best. Knowing that made her feel special, and loved—but she was still glad when her father won in the end.
“The brilliant cut has fifty-seven facets, Jena. Fifty-eight, if you include a cutlet. We cut the table first—a long flat slice. All the angles have to be just so when you’re doing the brilliant cut, to make the light reflect through correctly. You’ll learn about that when you’re older; right now we’re just practicing the shape.
“There are three rows of facets on top—that’s the crown, you’ll remember—and two rows below the girdle, on the pavilion. Every time you cut a facet, the next cut is on the opposite side. So we’ll start with the first facet from the girdle to the crown. Then the opposite side. That’s right. Now two more, one opposite the other. See the squared table? These first four facets are called the ‘bezel’ facets. The next four are the ‘corner’ facets, and that turns the table into an octagon. That means it has eight sides, now; can you count them? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.… All together, these first eight facets, the bezels and the corners, are called the ‘crown’ facets.”
How patient he had been! The potato juice oozed over her fingers and the knife, making them slippery, but she trusted him utterly; she knew he would never, never let the knife slip.
“If you like. You see, goldsmithing has always been the training ground for all the other artistic fields: sculpture, painting, architecture. A goldsmith who wants to be successful must always be open to new ideas.” He leaned back on his stool. “Besides, I have daughters of my own—although the Founders know they’ve never wanted to become goldsmiths.”
“So you’ll help me, then? Even if it might mean trouble?”
“If trouble comes, I think I’m equal to it. The cast can be done here, and I’ll give you a letter for the Guild certifying it was done under your supervision.”
“Thank you, Master Rolly!” Jena said with a rush of gratitude. “Oh—did Lord Duone ever settle on his commission? Will you have enough time to finish that if you’re helping me?”
“He ordered the mirror and the set of combs. I’ll be able to finish both projects easily before you go.”
“Good. Oh, and Master Rolly, I also have a stone I’d like to cut, if I may have permission to use some of your equipment?”
“Well, I could hardly begrudge you that, could I, now, what with the fine fee you’ll be giving me for the casting of that belt buckle, hmm?”
Chapter
Thirteen
Magic, Jena decided while preparing her belt buckle model for casting, could be very useful when making jewelry.
It also could be terribly distracting.
Since metal casting wasn’t Jena’s specialty, she had only practiced the minimal level to satisfy the general journeyman requirements, not nearly as much as a journeyman specializing in silver- or goldwork. On the rare occasions she had cast metal in the past, her work had usually turned out well, but once or twice in the learning process a cast had been ruined by bubbles in the slurry or by an incomplete pour. She had never known what the result would be until she cracked the mold and saw the cooled metal—until this time. Even as her new magical sensing helped her “see” the end result, she could also “see” potential disasters at each step in the process. Sorting out the difference took real concentration.
In the workshop, as Jena began setting the sprue rods on her model, Baldesar polished enseigne tokens and Master Rolly worked on polishing the mirror back for Lord Duone’s gift, both ostensibly ignoring her. That left only Kipp to sit by her side, watching, and she understood this was part of her evaluation, since a journeyman’s responsibilities included supervising and instructing apprentices. She could tell that Master Rolly, at least, seemed to be listening.
“Why’d you remove that sprue?” Kipp asked her as she worked. “Don’t you need it to feed gold to that section?”
“You’re right, I do, but I have to reset the angle,” Jena told him. “If the rod is set at a straight perpendicular, the gold won’t flow easily around the bend, and the metal might cool before filling the cavity completely.” She probably would have been satisfied with the first position of the sprue herself, but for the subtle warning the wax rod gave her under her fingers. Belatedly, she thought to put up a weak ward over herself and the model as she worked. This business of mingling magic with the practice of her craft was new territory, and she didn’t want to risk affecting Kipp in case the boy had any sensitivity to what she was doing.
When she had finished setting the sprues, Jena began painting the model with a coating of debubblizer. “How do you like working in a goldsmith’s shop?” she asked Kipp. “Do you want to switch to another specialty later on?”
“Goldsmithing’s fine with me. Better than playing with rocks, I think,” Kipp said with the cheerful scorn of the young. “And I like the master, too,” he added, lowering his voice. “He don’t beat me.”
Jena gave him a startled look as she dipped her brush into the pot. “Beat you?”
“Lots of masters do,” Kipp said stoutly. “Nothing strange about it, I s’pose. Even my father did. Didn’t yours?”
Jena shook her head.
“Course,” Kipp said after a moment’s reflection, “the master did throw a bucket of cold water over me in bed one morning when I overslept. So I know he wants what’s best for me.”
“How fortunate you have a master looking after your welfare,” said Jena, only a slight tremor of laughter in her voice betraying her.
“Uh-huh. I’ve only just started with the master this year, of course. He still says my sketches look like cat scratches. Do you want me to mix the slurry?”
Jena carefully set the model on the table to cool. “It’s my piece so I’m supposed to do it, but why don’t you show me where it’s kept?”
After preparing the slurry, Jena placed the model in a metal cylinder and poured in the paste very slowly, so as to avoid air bubbles. When it was full she took a metal rod and began tapping the side. Kipp watched her do this for several minutes and then said impatiently, “That should be good enough. You’ve surely shaken out all the air by now.”
Jena placed her fingertips against the flask, closing her eyes. After a moment, she opened them. “No, I don’t think so,” she said with a small smile and began tapping again.
Eventually, though, she stopped and set the flask aside. “The furnace needs firing up,” she said. “We can do that as we wait for the plaster to dry.”
When the plaster had set, Jena carefully flipped the flask over and removed the tapered bottom, leaving a funnel-shaped depression in the plaster. The hole at the bottom of the funnel led, deep within the mold, to the convergence of the wax sprue rods.
She donned thick leather gloves and took the flask outside to the courtyard, where Kipp worked busily applying the bellows to the fire in the furnace. “Hot enough, I think,” he said cheerfully, stopping to rub his sleeve over his flushed forehead. “Ready to put it in?”
“Where are the tongs?”
“Oh, there. Hanging from a hook on the side.”
Opening the furnace door, Jena placed her flask into the interior on a trivet, with the hole facing down. A crucible had already been placed inside the furnace to preheat. She closed the door with a clank of the latch and stripped off the gloves as Kipp continued working the bellows. “Don’t pump it too hot, Kipp.”
“I won’t.”
Jena stared at the furnace until it seemed she could see through the door, into the very mold itself. Why had she never seen the beauty in metal casting before, in the fascination of empty space, waiting for her to fill as she chose? All that potential … She blinked, gave herself a little shake, and the exhilarating rush of magic ebbed. Better not keep lapsing into dreams like this, she told herself firmly, or you’ll end up burning yourself, or worse.
“I’m going in to get my poultice changed again,” she said. “Once the wax is all melted out, take the tongs and turn the flask on its side for the burnout—the fire has to be built up for that. I’ll be back to spell you on the bellows, as long as it doesn’t pull my stitches too much.”
After her cut had been tended, Jena returned to the courtyard to fetch the heated crucible. When she reached into the furnace with the tongs to pick it up, however, a sudden surge of warning magic almost made her drop it. Startled, she put it down and stepped back, fumbling with the tongs. “What’s the matter?” Kipp asked.
“Just clumsy.” Jena picked up the vessel with the tongs again, steeling herself against the wash of impressions flowing into her hands … the crucible shattering, pouring molten gold over her fingers, searing … She looked more closely. “Kipp, did you check this crucible before putting it in the furnace?”
The apprentice looked startled. “Why?”
“It has a hairline crack, see? Right at the base. It could break apart in the centrifuge and send liquid gold flying everywhere.”
Kipp came over to examine it and gave her a guilty look. “I thought I did. I know I’m supposed to.”
“Well, it might have cracked here in the furnace, too,” Jena said, although she knew quite well it hadn’t. “I’ll ask Master Rolly for another one.”
Inside the workshop, Master Rolly gave her a measured look at her explanation and reached up to a shelf for another crucible, handing it to her. Jena looked it over carefully. It felt cool and safe in her palm. She checked it against the centrifuge counterweights and then slid the meticulously pre-weighed piles of gold, silver and copper into it.
“Call me when you think the gold is read for the pour,” Master Rolly said as she carried the crucible out to the courtyard.
From her pouch Jena surreptitiously took a tiny button of gold knocked from the nugget in Morgan’s room. Who knows? Maybe it will help. As small as the fragment was, she could still faintly sense in it the longings that had permeated the nugget as a whole. Jena shook her head, dropping the bit of gold into the rest of the small heap of metal. Where are you, Morgan? We both need you, Lady Rhuddlan and I. She deposited the crucible inside the furnace and watched the gold in the dull red of the coals until the heat made her close the door. Who knows what the Guild will think, but I hope … I hope Lady Rhuddlan will like it. I really hope she will.
“So, this is the right temperature, you think?” Master Rolly said. He had the crucible out of the furnace and was expertly swiveling it with the tongs to watch the viscosity of the molten gold against the sides of the vessel.
“Oh, yes,” Jena said eagerly. Master Rolly looked at her sharply, but she couldn’t help it, aroused as she was by the eager yearning of the gold. It feels so ready. I sensed it partly when I put the mold in the furnace. That was one possibility, waiting for fulfillment, but this gold holds so many! Why, it could be molded into a thousand different patterns. Well, she had the form prepared that would shape it now.
“We’ll see if you’re right,” Master Rolly said with a small half smile.
“I need an apron,” Jena said, trying to regain her composure.
“We all do. And eyeshields and gloves.”
“Kipp, run and get them,” Jena commanded, remembering belatedly that she was in charge. “And please ask Baldesar to come outside; I would like his help for the cast.”
Baldesar joined them, and Kipp brought out the protective leather gear and the wooden disks cut with narrow slits to shield their eyes. After they had garbed themselves, Jena said, “Baldesar, take those tongs and get the flask from the furnace—Kipp, open the door for him. Master Rolly, if you would be so kind as to bring the crucible?”
She led the small procession back inside to the centrifuge and quickly wound the casting arm into the cocked position. “Slip the mold in first, Baldesar. Quickly, now, but be careful.” The journeyman clamped the flask into position and then Master Rolly stepped forward, placing the crucible into the crucible shoe. He pushed the pouring lip up flush to the funnel formed in the plaster and closed the second clamp.
“Are they both secure?”
“They are. Let fly.”
“All right, then.” Jena had to fight to keep her voice calm. “Everyone step back.” She punched the release knob.
With a thunk, the spring released and the arm began spinning in a rush, too rapidly to allow them to see the gold flying from the crucible into the mold. But Jena could feel the jubilant surge of metal into the crevices left in the plaster, rushing from formlessness into embodiment, into this-is-what-is-meant-to-be!
Gradually the arm slowed. The other watchers, rapt as she, sighed and stirred. “You had it well balanced,” Master Rolly commented, removing his eye shields. “Not a single wobble.”
Jena removed her shields, too, and watched, blinking, as the centrifuge came to a halt. “Kipp, I need some water from the cistern.”
By the time Kipp returned, slopping water all over his feet from the bucket he lugged, the flask had had several minutes to cool. With the tongs, Jena unseated it from the clamps on the centrifuge arm and then plunged it into the water, which boiled with the force of the violent disintegration of the plaster. A dull bronze color gleamed up at her through plaster crumbs. She reached in with the small tongs and pulled it out—an intricate knot of unburnished gold, still caked with plaster, set on thin rods like a strange bouquet of flowers. She laughed aloud in triumph and held it up for the others to see.
“Ah,” said Master Rolly, his voice sounding pleased. “Scrub it clean, and then we’ll see what we have.”
A few minutes later, more details emerged from Jena’s scouring brush. “It’s all here,” she announced with satisfaction. “The pour was complete.”
“Let me see it,” said Master Rolly. He took the buckle to examine, pulling a lantern close for more light. “Only one or two air bubble nodules, and they’ll be easy enough to remove.” He rotated it, flicking away a fleck or so of plaster with his thumbnail. “No pitting except for this spot on the underside, and that can be rubbed out without any noticeable thinning of the gold. Eh, you’ve a fine cast here, Jena Gemcutter. Worthy of a journeyman stamp, at the very least!” He smiled and handed the buckle back to her. “And when you pickle it and saw the sprues off and polish it up, I’ll write a letter to the Guild for you telling them so. But of course, since your specialty is cutting, it will depend in the end on the stones with which you set it.”
“Trust me on that. It’s going to be beautiful. You’ll see.”
Late in the evening, after the household had gathered for supper and then retired for the night, Jena stayed alone in the workshop to cut the stone Morgan had given her.
She suspected that if casting metal felt different now that she was in touch with her magic, cutting would be a revelation. Or was it merely that this was her talisman piece, the link with her partner? She didn’t know. She only knew that for the first time, she didn’t even need to dip the stone in oil and “cut a window” to see the angle of cleavage and check for imperfections inside. She already knew: there were no flaws—no inclusions, no bubbles, no feathers, no structure lines. She didn’t even think of her customary grumble that wasn’t it a pity the Glass Guild couldn’t grind lenses with greater magnification. She didn’t need to look at the stone the way she ordinarily did. She knew it.
Lady Kestrienne had said her stone should be shaped the same way Morgan’s stone was shaped: the brilliant cut. Jena turned the stone slowly in her fingers. Perhaps it’s not quite as simple as that. The talisman is supposed to form my link with my partner. Then … in a way, the way I shape this shapes that link. But it’s also the focus for my power. Will the cut also shape that? Perhaps I should think about this a little further rather than simply following what Morgan has already done. She held the stone up to the candle. There is more than one possibility here. Which is the best to choose?
Within the rough angular form of the stone, she shaped lines of light with her mind. It was simply a way of perceiving the gold flecks within as if strung like infinitesimal beads on beams of light, crisscrossing at facet angles. One of the table cuts, like the square? No, not a square. The angles at the girdle are like … someone turning a shoulder, refusing to listen. It makes you think you can only go at a limited number of angles, in a limited number of directions. I’ve had enough limits. She reangled the lines within the stone. A combination cut, like the heart? She held the form for a moment, and then the lines rescrambled themselves, as if uneasy at the very idea. Now, I know that’s wrong. Morgan’s heart belongs to someone else. I have a tie to him, yes, and it’s just as strong, but it’s different. Besides, I don’t want my magic limited only to matters of the heart. One of the round cuts, like the rose? Closer. Round would be good for scrying, I think … but the rose cut doesn’t let in enough light.
Well, what about the brilliant?
The lines dissolved again, and the flecks glittered like sand reflecting shifts of light as a clear wave rushed out over it. Jena took a deep breath and then, trustingly, plunged in. “The widest part of a facet-cut gem, the edge, is called the ‘girdle,’ Jena. The part above the girdle is called the ‘crown,’ and it includes the large flat facet on top, called the ‘table.’ Below the girdle is the ‘pavilion.’ Sometimes there’s a tiny facet at the tip of the pavilion, cut parallel to the table; that’s the ‘cutlet.’”
It was her father’s voice. She sat as a very young child in his lap as he held a knife in her chubby hands, carefully guiding her in carving a potato into the shape of a roughed-out gem.
“This is how you’ll start learning, Jena, when you’re an apprentice. My father taught me how to cut facets this way, and now I’m teaching you.” Mama objected, Jena remembered: “But she’s so young, she’ll cut herself!” Collas only laughed and ruffled Jena’s hair (he had laughed so much more before Mama died) and said they’d be very careful. Sometimes young children see things beyond their years: Jena understood that even if her parents took opposite sides on the question, they both cared for her and wanted what was best. Knowing that made her feel special, and loved—but she was still glad when her father won in the end.
“The brilliant cut has fifty-seven facets, Jena. Fifty-eight, if you include a cutlet. We cut the table first—a long flat slice. All the angles have to be just so when you’re doing the brilliant cut, to make the light reflect through correctly. You’ll learn about that when you’re older; right now we’re just practicing the shape.
“There are three rows of facets on top—that’s the crown, you’ll remember—and two rows below the girdle, on the pavilion. Every time you cut a facet, the next cut is on the opposite side. So we’ll start with the first facet from the girdle to the crown. Then the opposite side. That’s right. Now two more, one opposite the other. See the squared table? These first four facets are called the ‘bezel’ facets. The next four are the ‘corner’ facets, and that turns the table into an octagon. That means it has eight sides, now; can you count them? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.… All together, these first eight facets, the bezels and the corners, are called the ‘crown’ facets.”
How patient he had been! The potato juice oozed over her fingers and the knife, making them slippery, but she trusted him utterly; she knew he would never, never let the knife slip.
