"How did you get pointed down the wrong path?" Morwin looked ready to tap a point-toed boot.
"You asked us to write on the economic impact on the Alliance after Trell was destroyed. I got sidetracked on Cloudsong, and I'm afraid I wrote about the economic impact on that world more than the other." Tory had indeed gotten sidetracked. Cloudsong was now destitute, with none willing to bail it out.
"So, you found the insect in the sugar cake, did you?" Morwin's lengthy eyebrows were wiggling again. "Cloudsong ensured its ruin when it attempted to reinterpret its laws to perform extortion. Does your report include that, young prince?"
"Yes." Tory nodded, still not looking at his tutor. "I listed the laws and how they were bent so Cloudsong could exact retribution from uninvolved parties."
"And how is Cloudsong faring now, young prince?"
"Not well at all, instructor. They are on the verge of destitution and their people are starving. I learned that several factions have attempted to take over, but even they have not been able to oust the existing monarchy."
"And what have you learned from all this?"
"That the laws are in place for a reason and when you bend or break them to suit your purposes at times, it can adversely affect your world." Tory looked up at Morwin, now. Morwin seemed extremely interested in what Tory had to say, when it was normally Ry who had the better papers and deeper insight. "The Alliance refused their membership application and no other worlds were interested in working with or for Cloudsong after they saw how things went in this case. Cloudsong effectively isolated itself in that way and since they had no self-sustaining manufacturing or anything else to lure business to their world, their current situation is the result of their shortsightedness and greed."
"I agree with Tory," Ry offered. "It was a lesson to the worlds in the Alliance, too—what happened on Cloudsong. The ones that didn't diversify now looked to do so. Twylec was one of the first, with several others following. I have a list of those in my report." Ry nodded to the comp-vid that Morwin held in his hand.
"Very good," Morwin nodded to Ry. "Did you research the taxes from those worlds—before and after the diversification?"
"No, tutor Morwin. But I can—that sounds interesting."
"Why don't you both do that—five pages, due next week?" Morwin was almost grinning.
Toff only picked at his dinner. Gren had given him dark looks during classes all morning, didn't say anything to him as he trudged off to dig more clay afterward and had Laral taunt him as he was coming home after working all afternoon. Corent misinterpreted Toff's gloominess.
"Son, she won't have you digging clay forever—you're the newest and therefore you have to start at the bottom. You've only been digging for a short time."
Toff didn't even spare a glance at Corent. Redbird was eating and watching both Toff and Corent but declined to say anything. Toff decided that a noncommittal nod was the best way to go as he pushed squash and lentils around his plate.
"Can't you see he's miserable?" Corent asked Redbird later, when he was sure Toff was in bed. "We should have let him go with Willow—at least he might be eating instead of playing with his food. Fern doesn't like him and you know it."
"This is the best thing for him; father said so." Redbird was adamant as she stood defensively with fists on hips. Corent couldn't argue with her when she was like this—Tiearan was her father and head of their clan. He couldn't expect either of them to listen when he was worried about Toff. "Besides," Redbird went on, "even Fern will have to teach him something after a while. She's obligated, since she accepted him as an apprentice."
"But what will she teach him?" Corent knew the argument was useless. Toff would likely receive substandard instruction. He knew why none of the others would stand up for the boy. None except Willow, anyway. Willow had taken a liking to Toff, since Toff was good with Willow's animals.
"I suggest you take this up with my father." Mentioning Tiearan was Redbird's way of having the final word more often than not. Corent had learned to dislike that statement very much, indeed. Even his mother wouldn't speak to him on this matter, although Rain held sway with Tiearan on many things. She wouldn't take any part that meant Toff might benefit. Corent wanted to grab his hair (which was now turning a dark purple) and pull it out by the roots. "Where are you going?" Redbird called after him as he stalked out of the bedroom.
"Out," was Corent's one-word answer, and Redbird heard the front door to their cottage slam only a moment or two later.
Toff played with his protection jewel and thought about Nissa—the girl who'd given it to him. He wondered if he'd ever see her again. He was careful, not pulling it out while others might see, including his adoptive parents. Things had seemed so much better when he was younger—the adults more amenable, the children willing to talk to him. Now, things were so much different. When he'd hit the age of sixteen, things started going downhill. As if the adults were all waiting for something awful to happen, only he didn't know what that might be. Nobody ever spoke to him and there wasn't any way he could comfortably ask questions. More than likely, his questions wouldn't be answered and Redbird would place another mind restraint. He'd heard Corent go out the door earlier and wondered where his foster-father was going. Toff sighed. He wasn't likely to find out, he figured, tucking the gray jewel inside his loose pajama top.
"I need all that pounded and finely sifted," Mother Fern pointed to the box filled with dried lumps of clay. Toff watched little puffs of clay dust rise around his boots as he walked across the multicolored flagstone floor to the shelves where the mallet and the sifting screens were. He would start out pounding dried clay with a wooden mallet and a folded cloth, then use the largest sifting screen and gradually work his way through to the one with the smallest holes.
The clay dried his hands when he worked with it this way, but he was afraid to ask Redbird or Corent to approach Mother Rose for some of the lotion she made. He imagined that Mother Fern had some somewhere, but it hadn't been offered to him and he couldn't bring himself to ask.
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.
