White Sand and Shattered Glass

    The jingle of bells on his door signaled a customer entering. The glass he was working on having been well-molded, Rolind slipped into the front room, where his finished windows were displayed. He was the most famous glassworker in Brightvale, a land renowned for its art in the area, which was a top compliment. It was his skill that fueled the land's legend – his skill that buyers traveled for miles to behold. Even so, none could call Rolind arrogant in his art. He believed his fame simply a function of his hard work, and was delighted more for his country than himself that it attracted so many to Brightvale.

    This buyer in particular, from her exotic dress, looked to have traveled an especially long way. There was a noble air about the way the Aisha held her head, and her blue eyes, peering out from a face veiled with a mask of sapphire-encrusted white material, glinted enchantingly. Rolind found himself staring, and quickly thrust out a hand to distract her from his blush. His smile, without the menacing red glow of the workroom, was revealed in its true nature – hardy, frank, and sensible. “Welcome,” he said, not being one naturally prone to formalities. The simple word, though, seemed stark in the presence of such a lady.

    She accepted his hand in a grip that was velvet-soft. His own hands were as calloused as a blacksmith's for all of the hammering and handling of hot materials – he'd burned himself a good many times – but she did not wince or give any notice of disgust. Wiping them on his apron nervously, he said, “Er... if you don't mind me askin', miss, where are you from?”

    Her eyes were the only part of her face capable of revealing any emotion from behind the veil, but they crinkled in a way indicative of laughter. She nodded her head, and the gold circlet that adorned it flashed as if just polished. “I am Lasaoi,” she answered in a voice thick with accent, “a traveler from the Lost Desert, home of the White Sun-Sands and the Black Water-Mud that the waters leave behind.”

    Water-Mud aside, the mention of the Aisha's homeland sparked Rolind's attention. Few sands were as pure and as dazzling as the Lost Desert Sun-Sands. Could she be a seller, then – a merchant with bags full of the stuff? To the Draik, a bag of diamond-dust would have been of less worth. Though he imported the best that could be gotten, sands from so far away were often difficult to obtain, for either the Haunted Woods or miles of perilous water separated them, depending on the route.

     “I come with sands from my homeland,” she continued, as if reading into all of his hopes. “However, before selling them to you, I have one request. I would like a custom-made window, fashioned with the sands that I provide. You may keep the rest of it.”

    His heart leaping with delight, Rolind found himself nodding yes before even haggling prices. Catching himself, he asked, “How much... would I owe you?”

    The desert Aisha's eyes glinted again, flashing as if made of the same sapphires that decorated her veil. “I think that the window that you produce will be an even trade for the sand that I provide.”

    Rolind's eyebrows shot up his forehead. “My lady,” he began (for it seemed proper to address her so), “How much of this sand are you offering? None better can be found, and if you are leaving enough for more windows than that, I don't know if one window in return will be enough to cover the cost. Here in Brightvale sand of that quality is worth almost as much as what I can make with it, even high as prices are. I don't want you to get the short end of the stick, as it were.”

     “Do not fear that you are cheating me,” assured Lasaoi gently. “The window that you can produce for me is well worth the value of the sand. Is it a deal we have, then?”

    Rolind could do little but nod and, her eyes still crinkled into a smile, Lasaoi went to her caravan to fetch the Sun-Sands.

    * * * * *

    It was well past midnight before the Draik was finished. His sleepless eyes were bloodshot, and his empty stomach growled impatiently, but his body's needs had been completely beneath Rolind's notice as he worked. Only now, with three new-cast windows hardening in his shop, did he realize the time.

    He didn't mind being late, though. Working with such fine materials was a pleasure – so exquisite were the sands, so pure, that he could not have torn himself away from their fashioning if King Hagan himself had summoned him. Fat tallow candles burned low all around his workplace, and now that the last of the windows was cooling from its red-molten stage, the room seemed oddly still.

    As the Draik blew out the candles, he glanced proudly at his workmanship. Two of the windows portrayed beautiful scenes: one was Brightvale palace, surrounded by richly colored Brightvale fruits. Although the palace was not truly surrounded by fruits, only by scatterings of wildflowers and plain grasses, their colors added brilliance to the design – an easily excused artistic merit. The other picture featured a knighting: a young Zafara knelt beneath the sword of King Hagan, who tapped his shoulder.

    Those were the two that Rolind had thought up; the third was the requested glass. Lasaoi had asked for a pane depicting herself, crowned with a beautiful headpiece of gold. A staff was in her grasp as she sat tall upon a throne, just as the Aisha had requested. It was a strange piece, to be sure, and quite a variance from his usual line of art, but he'd had the skill (and certainly the desire) to comply, and he'd managed well enough. She would come on the dawn tomorrow, she'd said, before departing back to her land, and he only hoped that she'd be satisfied with his work.

    As he blew the last candle out, yawning, Rolind looked forward to a good night's sleep. That, and waking up to see his finished pieces on the morrow.

    * * * **

    Dawn broke stunningly bright. Rubbing his eyes as if to banish the yellow glare that had burned them awake, Rolind dressed and spooned a few ladlefuls of porridge into a cup, sipping distractedly. It was now that his body felt the lack of sleep from the night before; the Draik's eyes felt heavy as he stacked the dishes in a tub of his Neohome. Yet he did not regret being awake – the windows would have hardened during the night, and would probably be about finished by now. They would be true masterpieces to behold, made of the finest Sun-Sands to be bought, and laying eyes on their beauty in bright morning sunlight would be well worth a little loss of sleep.

    As Rolind stepped into the warm afternoon, though, strange noises met his ears. Cries rang out, coming from the direction of the center of town – the direction of the palace. Rather than heading toward his shop, the Draik cut through the streets to see what was going on.

    As he approached, the sounds became clearer. Groups of Neopets clustered together, peering toward the direction of the Palace. Many waved flags, or brightly colored clothes, and Rolind realized that the cries he'd heard from a distance back were truly cheers.

    But why were they cheering? Excusing himself through the crowd, Rolind managed to slip into a gap between an old Kau and a Pteri. Frowning, he lifted his neck as far as it would go, craning upwards, and gasped at what he beheld.

    King Hagan himself stood upon the Brightvale steps, in a pose that was strikingly familiar. A sword extended outward form his hand, and a Neopet – a young Zafara – knelt at his feet, head bowed respectfully as the ruler of Brightvale brought the sword down on one shoulder, then the other.

    Rolind felt a heat of panic rise to his face. Just a coincidence, surely. Nothing more than that – just a lucky event. Neopets were knighted often, weren't they? And what was so strange about the subject happening to be a Zafara? It could easily occur, of course – that is why he'd drawn it! It was a scene all of Brightvale could relate to, one that marked the initiating of a new protector of the realm.

    It was then he saw the fruits.

    They grew all around the palace, layers of twining green, blossoming out in flowers and bulbs of all colors and sizes. Dewy apple trees bloomed with flowers of delicate green; red Sroom fruits dotted the once-plain lawns. Vines of ripe Passionberry climbed up the palace walls themselves, intertwining with other varieties that he had crafted but could not even name.

    The heat of his face turned icy-cold and settled down into his stomach. He could not deny it any longer; the windows that he had fashioned had become real scenes. Rolind stumbled back, shocked – he had to get back to his shop, and see for himself if it had all been just a dream!

    A pair of coal-black Unis shrilled loudly into the air from behind him, causing the crowd to scatter in their haste to part a path. A good number of the creatures ran directly toward him, blocking his flight away. “Make way!” the Unis called imperiously, hefting a tall gold liter on their backs. 'Make way for her Empress, Lady of the Realm!”

    Her Empress? With a shock Rolind remembered the last window he had created: the lady Aisha, crowned with gold. Did that crown make her a ruler? Had he suddenly dethroned his king?

     “Hail, Empress Lasaoi!” cried Hagan himself, bending the knee until it brushed the steps of the palace. “I humbly welcome you, as Steward of Brightvale.”

    Rolind almost choked on his own surprise. Hagan, the leader of Brightvale for the entire span of the Draik's life, brother of Skarl of Meridell, was now just a steward? A placeholder for the throne of this Lost Desert impostor? It could not be!

    And he, of all of them, had made it so. He wasn't sure how, or why, but it was undoubtedly his doing.

    He, then, must be the one to undo it.

    Rolind's stomach gave a flutter. Lady Lasaoi would know that he would try such a thing, surely. She would have guards out to snatch him, and lock him into the darkest recesses of the palace's bowels never again to see the light of sun. If he were silenced, her throne would be forever safe. No one else seemed to know what had happened, or that things were not as they should be – not even the king himself.

    But first, he told himself, they'd have to find him. For the good of his land, for Brightvale's welfare, he could not allow that to happen.

    Where would they look? They'd be at his house, surely, and at his shop, as he'd first thought. They might haunt the markets, and the main streets, and even the outskirts of town. Lasaoi must surely guess he'd try to escape, and she would have them ready.

    Where would she never think to find him? Where would be the one place that he'd have to be insane to go?

    As he looked at the scene before him, with Hagan humbly bent and a lawn filled with overnight fruits, Rolind's answer came to him: he must go to the palace itself. It was the only place that Lasaoi would never think him foolish enough to go, right into the thickest of the guards – and the only place where he might be able to make a difference, if he managed not to get caught.

    He'd have to have some sort of cover. Surely wandering streetwalkers were not allowed to waltz into the palace walls. He must have a story, a purpose of some sort, and a convincing one at that. Unless...

    Guards were stationed all along the crowd, holding it back. They wore simple green-and-white capes, with arm bands of gold. More of them than he could could lined the streets, following the curves of the crowd – and toward the alleyways. Surely there were too many guards for each to recognize another; their uniform was all he needed.

    Slipping through the gaps in the crowd, careful to keep his head directed away from any searching faces, Rolind headed toward the edges of the street. Sure enough, a shadow Krawk guard stood a little bit apart from the others, waving some Neopets through. There was a narrow alley winding nearby, well shut out from the goings-on of the rest of the street. It was perfect, Rolind realized. But how to tempt the guard over?

    An idea came to him like a flash of lightning, brightening his eyes. He had seen a merchant do it once, and the guard had shot away as if chased by a stream of fire. Hopefully it would work again – and Rolind would not be recognized. Running to the Krawk, the Draik pointed a claw to the alley and cried out, “Shoplifter!”

    It worked. The guard hesitated not half a heartbeat, shooting down the alleyway with a claw reaching for the sword at his belt. Rolind ran after, through the narrow loops, urging the guard to hurry on, before they came up short at a dead end.

    The guard turned toward him, confused. “I don't know where he could have gone,” the Krawk breathed, catching his breath. “I'm sorry...”

     “No,” said Rolind softly, “it is I who am sorry.” Before the guard could so much as bring up his sword, the Draik crashed a claw down on his head, knocking him out cold. Rolind knelt over his motionless form, gently removing the cloak and armpiece. “It was for the good of the kingdom,” he explained, as if the Krawk could hear him. “You may have a headache tomorrow, but at least you'll have your king as well.”

    Slipping into the guard's attire, Rolind squared his shoulders and prepared to enter a deathtrap.

    * * * * *

    He slipped right into the palace without so much as a second glance from the guards. Act naturally, he told himself. Pretend that I belong, and I just might fool them.

    Down the hall he strode, his cape billowing behind him, appearing for all the world as if he knew exactly where he was going. Truly, though, Rolind's mind was a haze of confusion. He might be safe here for a time, but surely someone would spot him out soon. And how exactly could he change what had been done to Brightvale? What could he possibly to do get his king back? He might try talking to Hagan, yes, but the steward would surely name him a liar and probably report him to Lasaoi on top of it. Was Brightvale's fate truly sealed?

    A noise startled him. Footsteps rang down the hall, a good many of them. Then he heard a voice, calling out in commanding tones, “How have you not found him yet? I want him before me now, before he commits any more treason!”

    Rolind's heart gave a leap. Lasaoi herself was coming down the hall, flanked by a team of guards, searching for him – surely it was he she had named a traitor. The punishment for treason, Rolind knew, was not one he was eager to endure.

    Before the Aisha could recognize him, the Draik darted into a side room, away from the main hall. Pressed up against the wall, he held his breath as they marched by, standing still as the stone of the pillars until the sound of their steps faded.

    The Draik let out a sigh of relief, then gasped. There were two more pillars across from him, made of beautiful pink marble engraved richly with designs. But it was what had been set into the pillars that caught his attention – on one was a glass depicting Brightvale castle, surrounded by colored fruits, and on the other was a kneeling Zafara being knighted by the steward Hagan.

    Whipping around, Rolind looked at the glass in the pillar he'd been leaning on. Lady Lasaoi's image stared back at him, crowned with gold.

    The windows had not merely changed the present, Rolind realized. They had changed the past as well – the fruits around the palace must have been planted decades ago, and the Zafara must have been a squire for years. Everyone in Brightvale recognized Lasaoi as rightful Queen, so her father and grandfather could well have ruled before her, and the pillars of Brightvale palace could not have been erected overnight.

    Here, in the windows that he had created, were three terrible testaments to the new Brightvale, and the power of whatever evil magics that Lasaoi had invoked. With three stained glass windows she had changed the history of his land, and made the mighty Hagan a mere steward while she, a virtual stranger from a faraway land, was now its Queen. The Brightvale he had always known was gone, thanks to these three works of art.

    With budding realization, the Draik knew what he had to do. He must destroy them.

    Even as he thought it, though, a terrible reluctance blossomed up inside him. These windows were the most magnificent of his works, drying in such flawless perfection as to dwarf the glory of the windows of any he had made – he, the most talented master in Brightvale. To destroy them would be a crime against the art that was the devotion of his life. He knew he could never create their like again.

    And yet, his country was also his life's devotion. He had never thought he'd have to choose between the two – always before his art had served his country, boosting its fame and drawing travelers from all over – but now the two conflicted.

    With a heavy heart, he knew his choice was made.

    Crunch! The sound of the blow brought tears to Rolind's eyes; outside hundreds of twisting fruits blackened and died. The beautiful pillar was a ruin of fragments of glass, its noble sides showing nothing an empty, gaping hole.

    He brought the other fist down on the second pillar. Tears ran freely down the Draik's face as somewhere a Zafara cried out. Bits of glass rained down from their ruined altar; sobbing, Rolind raised his claw for the final blow.

     “Stop!”

    The Draik paused, turning. He met two earnest blue eyes, glistening from behind a white veil of sapphires. “Lasaoi,” he growled in recognition.

     “What are you doing?” she asked in a voice full of mourning. “Was it not enough to betray my country? Must you now also vandalize my palace?”

     “What do you mean, 'betray?'” demanded Rolind. “I am the one who made these windows. You are the traitor!”

     “Liar!” The word was made of scorn. “These windows have stood for decades. You have destroyed the others, but if you have any scrap of mercy in you, leave the third! It was the last request of my father, before his death, to have a likeness made of me. Please, leave it!”

    Rolind hesitated. Could she be right? Perhaps he was a madman, driven by insanity, who had committed countless crimes to his nation. Perhaps he was not a skilled glassmaker at all, and his vision of Brightvale as ruled by King Hagan was nothing but a crazed delusion. His insanity was more probable than strange Sun-Sands that had held magical powers over the past and the future. Would he destroy the last of the great works if all for nothing? It was so beautiful...

    But he had made his decision. He could not spend his years in the palace dungeons, always wondering – biting back a surge of tears, Rolind smashed his claw through the glass Aisha's face.

    He felt a lurching of his stomach, as if moving at an impossible speed, and his last vision was a sea of shattered glass.

    * * * * *

    Knock, knock.

    Frowning, Rolind tried to ignore the annoying noise, but it continued incessantly. Knock, knock, knock.

    The Draik stood groggily, rubbing soreness from his temples. He was in his shop, he realized dimly as he stumbled to the door. Opening it, he saw the very same guard that he'd left unconscious in the alleyway.

    Rolind jumped back, thinking he was to be arrested, but the guard only smiled politely, showing no hint of recognition. “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir,” he said. “But I am here on behalf of King Hagan, who requests that the master glassmaker of Brightvale have the honor of creating a new pane for the palace. It is to depict His Majesty.”

    The Draik paused. He wasn't even sure what had been a dream anymore, but he wasn't about to take any chances. “I will, on one condition,” he said at last.

     “What's that?” asked the guard. “If you need extra payment, or any supplies...”

     “No,” replied Rolind, shaking his head. “That's not it. I will make the window, but on this I insist: I am using only my own sand. And if any Aisha is taking part in this, then I want nothing to do with it.”

     If the Krawk thought this request strange, he gave no hint of it as he bowed, heading back toward the palace to relay Rolind's message. Rolind himself went into the back room, already starting to feel foolish for saying such things. What if word got out that he was anti-Aisha?

    But as the Draik entered his back room, he frowned as a few fragments caught his eye. On the floor was a sprinkling of white sand grains, and beside them a small pile of dust, as if from shattered glass.

The End