Glass Collection: Storm Glass / Sea Glass / Spy Glass. Maria V. Snyder

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      I waited, sensing he had more to say.

      “She was the strongest Stormdancer, and therefore in charge of us. She made the final decisions.” He smiled at a memory. “She was a year younger than me, but she bossed me around since we were toddlers.” He laughed. “My parents knew what they were doing when they named her. Kaya means ‘my older little sister.’”

      “And I thought that bossy quality was reserved for annoying younger brothers,” I said. “Mine thinks he knows everything and will argue about it even when I prove him wrong.” Funny how I could miss having him around.

      “I would have liked to have a brother, but all I had was Kaya. Do you have any other siblings?”

      “Two older sisters, but—”

      “Do they all work with glass?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do they have magical abilities?”

      “So far, I’m the only one. Ahir has just reached puberty. The Keep magicians will test him when he visits me this year.”

      “Kaya and I could both call the wind,” Kade said.

      “Very fortunate and very unusual, considering neither of my parents has that ability.”

      “Who is the strongest Stormdancer now?”

      “I am. Although I shouldn’t be. When Kaya died, my powers doubled.”

      Our early-morning conversation woke Zitora. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Since you’re awake,” she said drily, “you can feed and saddle the horses.”

      I was happy to oblige. Another minute on the hard shale ground and I would have a stiff back. Not pleasant, considering I had run out of Barbasco yams.

      Kade helped with the horses while Zitora roused Varun. In no time we were on horseback, eating a cold breakfast of beef jerky. Yesterday’s awkwardness between Kade and me was gone, but my skin still tingled where our bodies touched.

      Just past the edge of The Flats, we dropped Varun off at the stockpiles. Mounds of sand littered the clearing. Soda ash and lime had been heaped inside small buildings to protect them from the rain. A log building housed an office and modest living area. The building was used by the glassmakers before the season started to make sure the proper goods were delivered from the other clans.

      We left Varun a few provisions and Kade promised to bring back more. I collected samples from each stockpile before we headed east.

      We soon reached Thunder Valley. The main core of the city was only a few blocks long, about half the size of my hometown of Booruby. However, Thunder Valley wasn’t the capital for the Stormdance Clan.

      Kade explained the town grew around the market. “The market was located here so it would be equidistant from all the towns in our lands. It’s also along the main north-south road.”

      People hustled through the streets. Most carried packages while others pulled wagons. The heavy scent of fresh bread floated in the air. The buildings, made of wood or stone or a combination of the two, leaned together in an odd collection of sizes and shapes.

      We stopped at the town’s square. Zitora pointed to an official-looking building that was three times as wide as its neighbors and had been constructed with large white stones. Iron bars covered the windows along the ground floor of the structure.

      “I’ll talk to the authorities about our ambushers. To save time, why don’t you buy our supplies and I’ll meet you at the market.” She recited a list of items to purchase.

      Kade slid off the saddle to join Zitora and I was left to take care of the horses. Without the Stormdancer behind me, the cool air on my back gave me a chill. I couldn’t help feeling left out even though I knew Zitora was right. We shouldn’t linger too long since we had another five days before we reached Booruby.

      I found the market by following the scent of spiced beef sizzling over an open flame. Tying the horses to a nearby hitching post, I wandered through the market’s stalls. The open wooden stands had roofs tiled with shale shingles and all had bamboo shades to protect them from the wind and rain. On a clear day like this morning, the shades were rolled up and tied to the roof.

      I bought a loaf of bread, a hunk of cow cheese and a handful of pork jerky. After I finished shopping, I packed the supplies in our saddlebags. With my chore done, I strolled through the market again. This time I purchased a spiced beef stick to eat for lunch and lingered to examine the glasswares for sale.

      A stall filled with decorative pieces drew my attention. I stopped to appreciate the craftsmanship of a delicate vase. The clear glass had a swirl of green bubbles spiraling around the tall flute. Sometimes bubbles or seeds meant a mistake, but the effect was stunning. The vase didn’t sing, but faint pops throbbed in my fingertips.

      “Ten silvers for the vase,” the stand owner said. She was an older woman with gray strands streaking her faded black hair. Her lined face looked as if she had weathered one too many storms.

      “Did you make this?” I asked.

      “No. Imported from Ixia.”

      “Ixia?” The few pieces I’ve seen from Ixia had all been thick and practical. No popping. She wanted to inflate the price.

      “Nine silvers, but not a copper less.” She waggled a slender finger.

      “Do you know who made the vase?”

      “I’m not telling you! You’ll go right to the glassmaker, undercut my business. Eight and a half silvers. Final offer.”

      “Six,” I countered.

      “Seven.”

      “Deal.”

      The woman muttered under her breath as she wrapped the vase and snatched my money. I hoped to find the artist and the best way would be to show the vase around to see if anyone knew who made it.

      The woman handed me the package. I could no longer feel the pops through the thick wrapping. Even so, I felt certain the glassmaker was in the market. I hurried toward the east side positive I would find him.

      A column of gray smoke rising in the distance must be from a kiln, I decided. The hot smell of molten glass drew me on until I passed through the market and followed a narrow cobblestone street. Convinced I would find the artist working in one of these abandoned warehouses, I peered through all the windows.

      One of the buildings had collapsed and covered the road, creating a dead end. When I reached the rubble, all signs of a kiln disappeared. And my conviction fled. The air smelled of excrement and garbage.

      I turned to go back.

      A man blocked my way.

      He held a sword.

      Blue Eyes.

      8

      Blue СКАЧАТЬ