Free Storm Glass by Maria V. Snyder

into glass.”
      “Before I met you, I thought glass was just a container. No personality. I didn’t realize what could be done with it.”
      “What do you mean?”
      A grunt of frustration. “It’s like paint.”
      “Paint?”
      “Yes, paint. I can dip a brush and smooth paint on a canvas, but all I end up with is a smear of paint. While another can use that same paint and create a masterpiece.”
      “I would hardly call my animals masterpieces.”
      “Can anyone else do it?”
      “Not that I know of.”
      “Then they are truly unique and you should be proud of them.”
      I squirmed at the thought. I was proud of what they could do, but Tula’s glass creations were crafted better. More lifelike in detail and sought after by collectors, especially since there would be no more. A flare of grief burned in my throat. I swallowed it down and changed the subject.
      “Why do you keep the orb?” I asked.
      His grip on my waist tightened for a moment before he relaxed. “I was filling the orb when my sister died. Kaya worked on another outcrop two hundred feet away during a sullen storm. I knew the instant her orb shattered. By the time I reached her, she had lost too much blood.”
      I wanted to express my regret, but, after what had happened in his cave, I kept quiet.
      “I keep the orb because it…comforts me. I don’t expect you to understand, but it reminds me of Kaya. She could be sullen and moody, yet when she smiled, all was forgiven.”
      I understood all too well. Siblings fight. They hate each other and love each other, and there are times when one emotion is a heartbeat away from the other.
      “Perhaps that’s why the orb sings her name,” I said.
      “Perhaps.” A long pause, then he whispered, “But I don’t hear her name.”

      Zitora finally stopped when the moon reached its zenith. We made a fire from the driftwood we had packed. After sitting on the ground for a few minutes, I wished we had taken a couple chairs, too.
      “We’ll have to buy fresh supplies,” Zitora said. “How far are your stockpiles from the market?”
      “Not far. The market is an hour’s ride east,” Varun answered.
      I thought about the location of their stockpiles. “How do you get the glass ingredients down to the beach?” I asked Varun. “Wagons won’t fit on The Cliff’s trail.”
      “There is another way to the beach. If you head northwest through the Krystal Clan’s lands, there’s a wide slope down to the coast. Then you go straight south to reach The Cliffs. It’s the long way. When we’re in a hurry, we take the loads over The Flats and lower them with ropes. An unpleasant task.”
      He launched into a story about losing a whole load of lime when a rope broke. “It looked like it snowed on The Cliffs” He chuckled. Then he added-with a touch of sourness-“Being the youngest, I was assigned the task of scraping lime off the rocks and picking out impurities before my father and sister could put it into the glass mix.”
      “Why make the orbs on-site? Why not make them in Thunder Valley and transport them to The Cliffs?” I asked. “It would be easier.”
      “I asked my father the same thing.” Varun squirmed into a more comfortable position. “He quoted me three reasons. Tradition, secrecy and convenience in case more orbs are needed during the storm seasons. Although having to wait twelve hours for an orb seems long to me.”
      “Better than two days,” Kade said. “And it could be the difference between life and death.”
      Varun and I talked for a while about glassmaking in general.
      At one point, Varun shook his head. “I don’t feel the same…enthusiasm you do about working with glass,” he said. “To me, it’s a job to get done so I can go do other things.”
      “You have time for other activities?” I asked.
      “Sure. We work for four weeks making orbs, wait out each season just in