Seize the Storm: The Stormfire Legacy, #2

Chapter One

The gently rolling waves caressed Quarie's long, slender limbs, and the setting sun glistened on her face as she floated in her lagoon, weightless and carefree. Crickets chirped from the shore, and the fish kissed her bare, wet toes. Somewhere nearby, their mother played with Quarie's little sister, Illista. Baby giggles danced across the water like the froth of a wave, playful and happy. Below the surface, the deep thrum of the surf mingled with every trill and echo of creatures near and far. The sounds embraced her, coursed through her, beating in time with her own heartbeat.

She would float there forever, if she could. In the rain, in the blazing sun, in the brisk chill of the ever-shorter days, if her parents didn't call her to help prepare dinner or mind the baby or mind her studies. If Quarie could choose to be anywhere, she chose the ocean.

Harsh scraping sounds rang out somewhere nearby, their dusty tones not bothering to echo across the water like it should. Quarie sputtered and sank her head down lower into the water, letting it cover her ears, concentrating on the warm thrumming from below. But when the clangs rang again, the broke through even that. The sound cut the water like dust, dissolving it into nothingness.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the dream to come back. Willing the scratchy sleeping mat to return to swirling seaweed, and the fading coals of the fire to rise back into the sky.

It was no use. The dream was gone.

The warmth that had filled her as she floated dissolved too. First it disintegrated into that gaping black spiral that threatened to suck her downward. She wanted to cry. To run away. To scream and thrash against whoever stole that precious life from her.

There was one last scrape and a rustle, and then Quarie felt the bedding shift as Illista slid under the covers.

Where did you go?

Illista threw one stumpy arm over her eyes and sighed audibly. To relieve myself. I'm sorry if I woke you up. I kicked one of the pots when I tried to hang my dress up.

Quarie sat up and looked around. Despite the dark of night, she could easily make out all of the shapes of the various objects strewn about their tent. There was precious little. A plate and a cup each. A spare set of clothes. The sleeping mat where they both lay. Her sister's dress, hanging from one of the support poles above the dented set of cooking pots. She glared at her sister. Lucky for both of us it wasn't the brazier. Why are you changing clothes this time of night anyway?

Illista sighed again. I didn't see it, okay. I got dust on my dress when I went outside and didn't want it in the bed. Go back to sleep. We have to be up early tomorrow. There's another big celebration, and there will be a lot more work for us.

And then we have to pack the whole caravan to travel to the next 'sacred puddle' for the next celebration. Quarie could not bring herself to call the small muddy ponds that passed for water sources lakes.

Exactly. And we will have to walk the whole way because none of the horses will ever pull a cart with the two of us in it. The other Waki won't talk to us. And it will be nothing but rocks and dust the whole way there. My feet already hurt. Another sigh.

Quarie laid back and took her sister's hand. She gave it a squeeze, and Illista squeezed back. Mine too. This isn't forever. And we are safe here.

I'm sorry I woke you up. Illista yawned.

Quarie gave her sister another squeeze. Good night.

She settled back in and listened to her sister's breathing steady. We are safe. We are safe. We are safe. She clung to that refrain, and used it to stuff the hole of despair that had threatened to overwhelm her earlier. She was safe. Illista was safe. The ocean held nothing but danger for them both.

THE TRICK TO ENTERTAINMENT was surprise. That wasn't the only element, of course. A show should engage all of the senses: beauty for the eyes, scents for the nose, music for the ears, the warm comfort of a fur or a satiny silk for touch, a spiced grol for the tongue. The Ken Segra and the Waki would provide their own furs and grol. The rest of the evening's celebration was up to Zuke.

He whistled as he lined up each of the small paper-wrapped packages in orderly rows and measured out each of the ingredients. Saltpeter and borax. Copper and sylvite. Minerals distilled from the morning mist off a lake, or from the dried moss of a particular tree. Shavings of a stone that is only found on the highest peak of a singular mountain range to the south. Some additives produced fabulous colors of flame, and others exploded loudly or with a slow burning hiss. The smoke of some packages would blanket the air with the soft aroma of roasted herbs. Each firestar was unique, each designed to stimulate a new reaction. Each a surprise.

Zuke loved the familiar challenge of arranging a firestar show. Choosing the colors, the timing, the variety. And tonight's performance offered a fresh dimension: danger.

The Ken Segra people, his friend Joral's mother's people, inhabited the high plains where grass and winters were long, and the weather was extreme. This year, the weather had been exceptionally terrible. The drought had been growing for years until its infamy had spread as far as Caleia and even to the Frozen Lands. The rains had been so miserly that deep furrows had begun opening in the hard packed soil and even the heartiest of grama had retreated to ring the few mud-holes that passed for water sources.

Zuke was intrigued by the problem.

When news had reached him that his childhood friend, Joral, had left Lord Ralein's principality to align with the Ken Segra, Zuke made swift plans to join him. Most communities welcomed a medicine man with open arms, for a short while at least. In Zuke's case, the welcome tended to end when his past caught up with him.

The Ken Segra had received Zuke coolly, with a hearty distrust of strangers. But their distrust had given Zuke plenty of time to study the weather and the terrain, as well as the people of the camp. He hoped to understand the drought, and perhaps gleaning some new knowledge from it.

And it gave him more than ample time to solve the immediate challenge of how to light the sky on fire for entertainment, without setting off a wildfire that would burn through the grizzled tinder that passed for grasslands and destroy what was left of the fragile landscape.

A cold wind raced through the tent, disturbing his carefully measured grains of saltpeter as the heavy silks at the entrance burst open.

Zuke swore without bothering to look up. Only one person in the entire camp would dare blunder his way into Zuke's tent in the middle of the night. He carefully closed the vial of raw materials in his hand and tried to count the grains in the remaining piles. Just a few specks too many, and the packet would explode too fast for any colors to appear.

Joral knocked into the stack of firewood, sending tinder skittering across the floor before dropping to his knees and letting out a loud belch.

You're nearly as graceful as a boar, but only half as eloquent, Zuke quipped as he quickly tied off the open packages. Clearly, the time for precision and delicacy was finished for the evening.

Sss...sorry, slurred Joral from somewhere near the fire. Tripped.

Zuke turned from the storage case, now tightly locked and moderately protected from danger. His friend lay sprawled on a fur near the fire brazier, looking both drunk and muddy. He tsked. In the grol again? What did you do, climb into the barrel to drink?

Joral snorted. Just the toasts. But I fell in the lake.

"Your engagement