Here is a preview of the first volume

in The Elementals Trilogy

THE ELEMENTALS

The city that housed fire was black, and the illumination of the fire’s surging brillianc

e did not extinguish the depth

of the shadows. Darkness, alive and threatening, swept across the valley and the worn stone walls of the fortress at its center. Its dark fingertips crept along the cliff and jagged rock of the mountain with its shadow towering over the city.

At the city’s core, the citadel was huddled among the crumbling buildings. Inside the citadel was a castle made of stone from the surrounding structures. The streets were dim-lit with the torches kept ablaze by the power of the city’s citizens. The mountains rose on the city’s northern and southern borders, and to the east was the cliff. Stones had fallen from the city walls and were left on the ground. Some were buried in the snow.

Stone houses were huddled across the valley. Many of the windows had no shutters and heavy blankets were draped over them to keep out the cold. The doors were of worn wood that needed to be replaced after every storm. Icicles hung from the houses so that their roofs wept frozen tears.

Through the mountain pass marched a group of soldiers. Two of them were dragging the body of a man. The arms of many of the men hung at their sides, and their steps were labored as they approached the dark city. A sentry signaled their approach by sending into the air a bright burst of flames. The guards below opened the gate, allowing the soldiers to pass through the walls of the citadel.

The tired feet of the soldiers met the stone steps of the castle as the heavy wooden door was slowly opened from the inside by two servants. The soldiers walked into the ante room and through the doorway to the central chamber.

Within the central chamber was a wide expanse of cracked stone floor, and at the end of the broken stone mass, their leader, Hephaestus, sat on a stone throne. He was staring at the men as they entered. He watched as the two soldiers in front dragged their prisoner.

The long body of the man on the throne was hunched forward so that his pale face jutted out while the rest of his body lay hidden in the black folds of his clothes which blended into the dark stone. His long red cloak draped down like a trail of blood. His arms spread to the arms of the throne, and his hands clutched them. His golden brown eyes were still fixed on the body of the man being dragged as the soldiers came closer.

By the side of the throne was Perditus. His pale face and black hair matched that of his leader, but his eyes were gray, like storm clouds or the smoke of a rising fire. He wasn’t yet fifteen years old. He would be in matter of days, but the hours were heavy in this place and time crept by slowly.

Perditus’ hands were clinched. His head was tilted to the floor, but raised just enough so his eyes straining upwards could see the men. He too focused on the man who they were dragging.

The man’s body was covered in sores and open wounds thinly frosted over. The assault on his body had been the result of the dragging. Perditus wondered if they had dragged him all the way from his home despite the cries of those around him who didn’t dare suffer the consequences of fighting back.

Perditus knew what the man was and knew why he had been brought here—so that Hephaestus could play with him as a cat does with a mouse.

A few of the soldiers stepped to the side to avoid the direct gaze of the man on the throne. The two soldiers dragging the man remained in the center. One of them kept his eyes averted, but the other stared straight into the eyes of his leader.

He stood there holding one arm of the prisoner. He was shorter in stature than the other soldiers, but his body was broad. He bore the partial weight of the other man with ease. He could have effortlessly held the man slung across his shoulders, but he wanted to drag him from the top of the mountain, across the cold snow, through the rough ground of the city, and the hard stone of the fortress floor.

In contrast to the pale face of his leader, this man’s skin was a reddish-brown. Right at the base of his jaw-bone, near the ear, he had a deep red birthmark.

The pale-faced leader’s eyes turned to the red-faced soldier.

“This is not what I asked you to do,” said Hephaestus.

The red-faced man did not avert his eyes.

“I understand that, sir. But our given task proved once again impossible,” he said. “Instead, we have brought this man. We found him near Lumina on Dustpath Road. He’s a Water Elemental.”

An offering, thought Perditus, so as to divert Hephaestus from thoughts of punishment.

Slowly Hephaestus’ shoulders relaxed, and his body curled back against the throne.

“Is that so? I thought we would have gotten them all by now. Is he alive?”

“Yes.” The red-faced man kicked the man he had been dragging, causing him to issue forth a loud grunt of pain.

Hephaestus placed his hands firmly on the arms of the throne and used them to prop himself up. He stood in front of the man.

“Lift up your head.”

The man did so. Bruises colored the skin around his eyes and along his jaw. His eyes were so swollen, Perditus doubted he could see what was in front of him. But then again, he had seen worse off men find their way through the smoke.

The soldiers held the man so tightly, he could not wipe the dried blood from his lips. His finger moved ever so slightly. Then he begged, “Please, let me leave. I don’t know what this man is talking about. I’m not an Elemental at all.” Tears leaked from the slits surrounded by tortured flesh. “I have a family, a wife and a son. I have to go back to them.”

His eyes moved Perditus more than his words. He imagined that the man was found out when he took a drink from his hands absent any lake or stream. But Perditus didn’t want to help the man. His sorrow was too sweet and poetic, and Perditus wanted to see what would happen.

“Fero, hold out his hand,” Hephaestus demanded.

The red-faced man let the prisoner’s arm slump to the ground before roughly grasping his wrist in both hands and stretching his arm out to present his hand to his leader.

Hephaestus’ eyes focused on the hand of the prisoner, and suddenly, the flesh caught fire.

The prisoner screamed and tried to pull his hand away, but Fero held it tight. With his hand ablaze, the man closed his eyes and a mass of water, enough to fill three canteens, hung in the air above his hand and splashed down onto it, dousing the flames. The skin of his hand was pink, and some of it was burned away, leaving his palm raw and bloodied. There was sweat on his brow and tears mixing with the sweat running down his face.

“Please, stop,” he whimpered. His voice was pathetic and desperate. He was a man with everything to lose.

“Stand him up!” Hephaestus demanded.

Fero and Dirge lifted the Water Elemental to his feet.

The man stood unsteadily. He tried to touch his hand, thinking that might sooth it, but it only increased the pain. He flinched as his fingertips touched the burnt skin.

Hephaestus circled him slowly, eyeing him like a vulture considering its next meal. Then he stopped in front of him.

“Make Water dance for me,” he ordered.

“What?” the prisoner asked, confused by this request. He had been dragged all this way to be a source of entertainment. It was a cruel joke to be sure.

Hephaestus closed his eyes, and the prisoner’s arm began to tingle with heat.

“Wait! Stop! Please!” the prisoner screamed like a man whose body was already over the fire.

“You know the consequences,” Hephaestus said, his voice calm, even. “Now, make Water dance for me.”

The prisoner closed his eyes and immediately began to concentrate. Slowly, a string of water began to twirl in the air in the wide space between the prisoner and the pale-faced man. It was the narrowest stream, without a bank, its source unseen. It spun into an orb and continued to twist in the air. The tiny strings of water twined around each other as the prisoner focused.

He was an artist in that moment, painting a picture like only he could. He had the eyes of the entire room on the moving water. It was so exceptional and so stunning.

Only Fero was immune to its charms.

It was a perfect watery chrysalis. The prisoner moved his hands as if molding it, but his flesh never touched it.

Perditus didn’t know what he was thinking, but the prisoner had a smile on his face and tears in his eyes. They weren’t the tears of a man fighting for his life, but a deeper sorrow that had happiness at its core.

Hephaestus gazed at the display like he had found some rare and beautiful animal.

He reached out to touch the watery orb with a trembling hand.

“Sir!” Fero warned.

“Quiet!” Hephaestus hissed.

His hand inched closer, the water hitting the light of the torches and reflecting it onto his palm. He almost touched the watery orb, his fingers nearly grazed the cool water. But then he flinched away as if afraid to touch it.

Perditus thought he heard a tiny gasp of awe escape his lips.

Just then, the Water Elemental opened his eyes wider than before despite the swollen flesh surrounding them, and a powerful jet of water from the core of the orb shot toward Hephaestus with profound speed. Hephaestus turned it to steam before impact.

The prisoner had only meant to distract, not to harm. He knew he couldn’t hurt this man. He turned to run, but Fero’s auburn hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back.

The man was on his knees again, struggling beneath the weight of Fero’s hand.

Suddenly, the prisoner felt his insides burning, cooking inside him. Smoke was issuing from his mouth.

Fero’s eyes widened. A look of despair lighted upon his face. “No,” he shouted. “We need him!”

But it was too late. The man slumped to the ground, the smoke trailing from his lips like a serpent.

Fero was still holding the man’s limp arm, looking at his leader desperately.

“What do you mean we need him?”

Fero was still looking at the dead man with a gaze that made Perditus think that he could stare at the corpse forever.

Hephaestus made a wide circle around the man as if death was a disease he could catch. He sat back upon his throne.

“Why would I need him?”

Fero didn’t look up from the man, but he responded to his leader’s question. “The sphere sanctums…we have yet to see a Protector.” At this, Fero looked up into the eyes of Hephaestus.

The light glanced off his golden eyes, making fire dance there.

“Fear in my men?” Hephaestus leaned forward in his seat, like a python striking out at its prey.

Fero did not flinch at his leader’s swift gesture. “Not fear, sir, but a barrier that we cannot break, not without a balance of the elements. The doors to the sanctums won’t open for us. There is a strange haze over them.”

“Then tear them down.”

“We can’t. My men have tried everything. I exhausted my element trying to burn the doors down. Something is keeping us out.”

“What?”

“Above the sanctum doors are the symbols for the elements, all of the elements.”

Silence hung in the air.

“Go,” Hephaestus demanded of the other soldiers.

They left, taking with them the body of the man who had seen his death.

Only Fero and Perditus remained with their leader.

Even after the other soldiers had gone, Hephaestus didn’t speak for a long time. Time had never crept slower even in Omega Ray.

When he open his mouth to speak it was like the flames had grown in his eyes.

“So, you are telling me I need a Water Elemental?”

“That’s what I’m saying, sir.”

“What about that man’s family.”

Fero shook his head.

Hephaestus put his head in his hands.

After years of taking Water Elementals to their graves, he needed one. The thought made Perditus smirk.

But Fero couldn’t maintain the quiet moment. Perditus wondered if it was one of the few things too heavy for him to bare.

“The boy,” Fero said, “he was taken to Element.”

Perditus was angry that Fero had changed the subject. What right did he have to meddle in his joy?

But Hephaestus showed interest.

“Are you sure it is him? It’s been years since he’s been missing.”

“Yes, sir. He is the reflection of his father. Should I bring him back?”

Perditus cringed.

“No,” Hephaestus answered.

At this, Perditus grinned. His smile was hidden by his down-turned face.

“He could be useful there,” Hephaestus said, “He is a brat, but he was always strong in his element. I’ll have my men keep in touch with him. He can be my eyes in that place.”

“You want me to arrange for that?”

“Yes, and soon. I don’t want him getting too comfortable, thinking he has escaped me. There’s nothing worse in a man than the thought of ease. It halts progress and self-improvement.”

Perditus wondered if Hephaestus had ever suffered an hour of ease in his life. Maybe when he was a baby in his mother’s arms, but Perditus could never imagine him as an innocent or vulnerable child.

He assumed that his cold, pale skin was hard as marble all his life and that the fire had always lived inside him, keeping his rage alive.

He didn’t think of Hephaestus as a person, but as a monument. Something that could not be reasoned with and had no reason to be soothed.

“What about the sanctums? What do you need us to do?” Fero stood there with his hands behind his back.

Perditus lifted his head, but neither Fero nor Hephaestus paid him a glance. He was like a shadow, warranting no consideration.

“Tell the men to search Mirmina for Water Elementals. I must have left at least one alive.”

Fero looked at him without expression. He hadn’t delivered that man all the way from Dustpath to serve as his leader’s plaything. He sought out that man. It wasn’t his cruelty alone that made him drag him here. He was angry that he had made himself so difficult to find. Fero didn’t know that Hephaestus would dismantle his cargo without granting him a mere moment to explain its purpose. Fero had journeyed for years to decipher the secrets of the Sphere Sanctums. How many of those years were dedicated to finding that Water Elemental?

Perditus knew Fero would calm his rage on someone else. He couldn’t challenge Hephaestus. He couldn’t blame him for his rash act.

Hephaestus twined his fingers together.

Perditus lowered his head. He watched Hephaestus’ shadow upon the floor, and from that shadow came words.

“One day, I will get the spheres, and I will out balance everything.”

---

Sara curled her legs up so that her feet could stay warm beneath the small blanket. She was a thoughtful child. She was born of her mother’s strong spirit, but tempered by her father’s cool head. She had learned to live a very different life in a home for girls without guardians. Her bed creaked as she turned. Her eyes searched the room. The other girls were not yet in a deep sleep. Some of them were still tossing and turning in an effort to get warm. Sara waited and listened to the rain outside. Drops were hitting her window in steady rhythm.

The rain reminded her of fear, smoke, tears, and that singular night. She tried to overcome the rain’s hypnotic power, but her eyes were drooping, and her mind was pulling her away.

 

The room was replete with smoke, and the water in Sara’s eyes was blurring her vision. The warm arms of her mother lifted her up. Her father was in the back room. Glass shattered as he smashed the back window with his elbow. Her mother quickly put Sara through the small window. She told Sara to run. Afraid and crying, Sara ran from the house. She hid in the overgrowth near the forest and watched as the smoke became heavier and the fire surrounded the little cottage. The rain began to fall.

Thunder woke Sara. She sat up startled and just in time to see the lightning flash, lighting up the room. Her eyes searched the space to find that the other girls were asleep. The thunder had not awoken them, and their tossing had ceased.

Sara tried to get out of bed as quietly as she could, but the bed still squealed as she stepped down. Once on the floor, she poked her head under the bed and retrieved a small pot full of water. She sat down on the floor and pulled the pot towards her. Her eyes focused on the water.

“Please, please, please,” she whispered.

The lightning flashed again, and for a moment, her face was reflected in the water. She liked to believe that she looked like her mother, but the orphanage had no mirrors.

She again concentrated on the water.

“Come on, come on.”

But the water didn’t move. It didn’t even ripple.

Sara closed her eyes for a moment. Her mother had hazel eyes and light brown hair. Her skin was ivory white. Her voice was even and soft. Her father’s eyes were green, and his smile made her feel at ease. Sara held their images in her mind’s eye for a long moment. She didn’t want to forget them.

Opening her eyes, she turned her attention back to the water. The lightning flashed, distracting her for a moment.

Drop. Splash.

Some of the water came up over the sides of the pot as ripples drifted from the center to the edges.

Sara focused more closely, hoping to send the water spilling again. But as she focused, a small drop of water landed into the pot, causing the water to ripple and spill over the edge.

She turned her head up. Another drop of water dislodged from the ceiling and dropped down into the pot.

Sara sighed. She pushed the pot back under the bed. She got her blanket and used it to mop up the water that had spilled. It was no use. The water continued to leak from the ceiling. She thought about using the pot to catch the drops, but that would only make the water in the pot splash, causing more of a mess. What’s more, it might mean that Madam Froe would take the pot back to the kitchen and punish Sara for taking it.

So, she crawled back into bed, carrying the wet blanket with her. She spread the blanket over the end of the bed to allow it to dry. Then, she reached under the mattress and retrieved a necklace. The necklace had a blue gemstone in the shape of a raindrop hanging from a delicate woven cord. She clinched the gemstone in her hand and, colder than before, she tried to go back to sleep.

Sara awoke to the sound of blankets rustling against sheets. The other girls were making their beds. She got up quickly to make her own. Taking the still damp blanket from the end of the bed, she placed it over the sheets and smoothed out the dank wrinkles. As she bent over the bed, patting down the blanket, she caught the faint scent of the rain that hung in the air.

Her mind drifted to years ago when she had overheard a conversation between her father and mother. It was the last time she heard them have a serious talk. Leaning from behind the paneled wall, Sara observed her parents. Her mother was sitting at the small wooden dinner table, and her father was standing across from her. He was too anxious and nervous to sit.

“I should go with you,” she said. “I know I can reason with him.”

“No, Sara needs you to stay, and I have to protect both of you. He won’t stop until he’s killed us all.”

Sara’s mother looked puzzled. “I just don’t understand.”

“No one can understand the mind of a madman.”

“Sara?”

Sara hadn’t realized it, but she had been leaning over the bed for several minutes in a daze. Another young girl named Miranda had brought her back from the memory.

Miranda was raking through her long hair with an old comb. The teeth of the comb were missing in places. “It’s time for breakfast. You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“No, I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

Sara sighed as she smoothed down the hem of her blanket and turned to take her dress out of the small drawer beside her bed.

“My mother. I don’t want to forget her face.”

Miranda sighed. “I don’t remember my mother’s face. But she had long hair. I used to brush it for her and curl up in it at night. This was her comb.” She held it up for Sara to see.

Every girl in the orphanage had chores. The older girls often helped in the kitchen and laundered the clothes and sheets, while the younger girls cleaned the floors and washed the dishes. Sara was to go to the market once a week. Miranda was allowed to accompany her because it was a long walk into town.

The market was in the center of Elementa. The town was aptly named because in it was the school of Element where Elementals went to train. Elementals were those with the ability to manipulate and call the elements. Sara hoped to be an Elemental and to harness the power her parents had.

In the market, were various stands selling everything from incense to eggs. The stands were covered with woven cloths to block the sun. Many smells accosted busy shoppers, but the most prominent smell was the smell of dust and feathers.

Elementals were standing between stands performing tricks for watchful audiences. A huge crowd was standing around the Wind Elementals, who played with the autumn leaves, making them swirl and dance. A Fire Elemental was sending rings of flame into the air. He was in his middle years and had a scar going from under his ear, along his jaw, and down his neck. People made wide circles around him, giving him suspicious side-ways glances as they passed.

Sara had noticed him before, many times when she went to the market. In that mysterious way that people can feel the eyes of others on them, she felt like he was looking at her when her back was turned to him. She bit her lip.

“Sara, there he is again,” Miranda said, “Do you think he works for Hephaestus?”

“I don’t know,” Sara said, looking back at him.

“He sure looks scary enough.”

Sara turned away from the Fire Elemental. Her attention was on one of the stands where the merchant was selling paper and charcoal. Sara jingled the money in her dress pocket as she stared at the paper.

Reluctantly, she turned away from the stand where paper was sold and went to the stand that sold eggs and chickens. In the back of the stand, the chickens were frantic in their cages, causing loose feathers to fly into the air as they moved. The uproarious clucking of the distraught chickens fighting in vain to be free of their cages made this stand the loudest in the market. The merchant smiled at Sara as she approached. He was a calm man among chaos, with a pleasant smile on his face as the feathers of the chickens rested on his shoulders. Sara tried not to look at the struggling chickens.

“Half a dozen eggs, please.” She held out the money. She had memorized exactly how much coin she needed.

“Aren’t you the little girl from the orphanage? Half a dozen doesn’t seem like enough to feed all of you.”

“Madam Froe likes eggs in the mornings.”

Sara’s eyes drifted to the paper and charcoal.

“I see you’re always staring at that paper,” he said with a wink.

“I’m saving up for it.”

“I didn’t know you were given an allowance?”

Sara looked away guiltily.

On the way back to the orphanage, Sara took one coin from her pocket, knelt down, and slipped the coin into her shoe. She did this so quickly that Miranda hadn’t even noticed.

The girls returned to the orphanage with the items. Outside the house, Mary, one of the older girls, was crying. A maid was trying to comfort her. “Don’t worry, dear, you will see your father again. He’s waiting among the Aethers in the heavens.”

Sara and Miranda walked inside. Sara looked back at Mary as she walked through the doorway.

Madam Froe stood in the parlor gazing upon the decorative box that rested upon the mantel. Some of the girls believed that the ashes of Madam Froe’s late father were kept in that box.

Sara gave the remaining money in her pocket back to Madame Froe. Madam Froe stood tall, her shoulders back and eyes at a constant downward tilt. Her dress was freshly ironed, the white collar pressed firmly down. Sara’s skin tingled as Madame Froe counted the coins.

“Prices are still up, I see.”

While the other girls were about their chores, Sara returned to the bedroom. She took the coin from her shoe and opened her drawer. Inside, under an old handkerchief, was another coin. She placed the second coin under the handkerchief and closed the drawer.

That night, the wind beat against the window above Sara’s bed. She couldn’t help but think about the poor girl who had lost her father. She wondered what had happened to him, if he had died like her parents. She waited with her hands up to her chin clinching the raindrop necklace until she heard the gentle snoring of the other girls and felt confident that they were asleep. Then, she quietly got up, placed the necklace back under the mattress, and pulled the little pot of water from under the bed.

She stared into the water until her eyes began to hurt and clouds started to cover the dim light of the moon. Too dark to see, Sara replaced the pot and climbed back into bed. She once again retrieved the necklace, and holding it, went to sleep.

Her mother had woken her up in the dead of the night. There was panic written all over her face. There was a strange and surprisingly loud sound outside, a crackling that roared. The fire surrounded the house on all sides. Her father was trying desperately to put out the flames that began to fill the cottage. He kept drenching the flames with water flowing from his fingertips, but they would not go out.

“We have to get her out of here!” her father shouted.

Her mother carried her to the back of the cottage. Her father broke the glass of a small window where the fire was not as fierce. Quickly, her mother gave her the necklace with the teardrop gem.

“Always keep it close, my love.”

Her father extinguished the flames outside the window, and her mother placing her quickly through, told her to run to the woods and hide.

Sara ran a little ways and looked back; she had expected her parents to climb through the window after her, but it was too small for them. They were still in the burning cottage.

Sara felt warm tears rushing from her eyes aided by grief and smoke. A laugh resounded in the distance, and the fire rose from the cottage as the tears blurred Sara’s vision. She did as her mother said and hid behind a wild bush not far from her home.

The smoke rose, twisting in the night air. A cold, stiff rain started to fall, quickly and suddenly, putting out the fire, but it was too late. The smoke had smothered Sara’s parents before the fire ever reached them.

Strong hands lifted her from among the leaves.

At breakfast the next morning, the girl who had been crying the day before was not there. Because Sara wouldn’t have to visit the market again until next week, she was to clean the dishes in the kitchen after breakfast.

She rolled up the sleeves of her dress and dipped the first plate into the basin of water. Then she took the bar of hard soap and rubbed it between the palms of her hands. The soap would not lather. Sara stopped and put down the worthless soap.

Faint sobs were coming from the back of the kitchen.

She turned and looked to the back where the sobs were coming from. She dried her hands on the worn old dish rag and walked in the direction of the sobbing. Behind the large pots on the floor was Mary.

Sara knelt down, took a small cloth from her dress pocket, and gave it to Mary.

Mary looked up. Her sobs quieted. Embarrassment overcame her sadness for a moment. She took the cloth from Sara and wiped the tears off her cheeks.

“Thank you.”

Sara got up to return to the dishes and to leave her some more time to herself.

“Wait. Stay with me for a little while.”

Sara knelt back down beside Mary. “Do you want some breakfast?” Sara asked. “I think there’s still some soup left over from this morning.”

Mary shook her head, her hand loosely gripping the worn cloth.

Silence hung in the air for some time.

Sara struggled for words as if the silence would destroy them both had she not found them.

“What happened to your father?”

Mary glared at her.

Sara looked down at her hands.

“My father,” Mary started. Her voice was softer than her glare. “My father died.” More tears leaked from her eyes. “He was a soldier for the Resistance. Hephaestus’ men killed him. I just got the letter yesterday.”

Sara was aware that Hephaestus was the Fire Elemental that everyone in Mirmina feared, but she knew very little about what he had done. Her parents had sheltered her from it.

“The messenger who announced his death gave me this,” she continued. She held up a silver band for Sara to see. The band was large enough to be worn around the arm. “When he was alive, my father wore this as a symbol of his allegiance to the Resistance and to the protection of Mirmina.”

“Was your father an Elemental?”

“No,” she sobbed. “He was just a man, but Hephaestus killed him like a beast.”

A week later, Sara and Miranda made the trip to the market again. This time Sara had put the two coins into her shoe. They slid back and forth as she walked.

“What was your mother like?” Miranda asked as they walked to the market.

Sara walked with her head down. “She was beautiful. She had hazel eyes, and her hair was light brown. Her skin was white like cream. She was always warm, and she cared about me.”

Miranda took her comb out of her pocket. She stopped walking. Sara stopped too and looked back at her. Miranda was looking down at the comb. “This wasn’t my mother’s. When I was five years old, one of the older girls gave it to me before she left. I don’t even remember my mother. She left me outside of the chapel when I was born.”

Miranda began to cry, and Sara rubbed her arm soothingly. Miranda wiped her tears.

Sara offered to hold the basket, and Miranda gave it to her.

Once in the market, Miranda’s tears had dried. Sara suggested that they split up this time to make fast work of their task and impress Madame Froe. She gave the basket to Miranda and told her to get the bread, while she would get the potatoes and beans. She handed Miranda a coin for the bread and hurried off to the stand that sold the paper.

“I want three sheets of paper and a stick of charcoal, please,” she told the vendor.

“That’ll be three sparklings.”

Sara took off her shoe and dumped the two coins into her palm. Then she retrieved one more coin from her pocket. As she felt for the coin in her pocket her fingers grazed the smooth surface of the teardrop gem of her mother’s necklace.

The vendor grinned at this curious display.

He looked down at the coins in her hand.

“You live in the orphanage, don’t you?”

Sara nodded.

“Those aren’t your coins.”

Sara pressed her lips together and shook her downturned head.

“You shouldn’t steal, not even from a bitter, old woman.”

Without taking her coins, the vendor offered her a few sheets of paper and a stick of charcoal.

Sara looked at it tentatively.

“Go on, take it,” he said gently. “When everyone in Mirmina wants one of your drawings, you can sign one for me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sara regrettably folded the sheets twice so that they would fit into her pocket. She hurried to buy the potatoes and beans and met Miranda at the fountain. Sara put the small sack of potatoes and the jar of beans into the basket at Miranda’s feet. Miranda seemed to be mesmerized by the dancing of the Wind Elementals, who were making leaves and ribbons twirl in the breeze around them as they danced.

“I wonder what it would be like to be an Elemental.”

The Fire Elemental with the scar was watching them from a distance.

“It’s time to leave,” Sara said.

“Wait, I have an idea.” Miranda took off her shoes and got up on the ledge of the fountain.

“What are you doing?”

“Take off your shoes.”

Miranda reached down to give Sara a hand. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Sara sighed, but she took off her shoes and took Miranda’s hand.

Once they were both on the fountain’s ledge, Miranda began to twirl and dance like the Wind Elementals in the square.

Sara looked down into the clear water of the fountain. Closing her eyes, she remembered the face of her mother. She started to dance, imagining that she could call Water to swirl around her. She moved her feet along the warm gritty stone of the fountain’s ledge. Then she felt a cool, light feeling on the underside of her feet.

The marketplace became very quiet.

Sara opened her eyes. The eyes of everyone in the market were on her. Miranda had gotten down from the fountain’s ledge, and she too was staring at Sara. Looking down, Sara’s feet were no longer touching the grainy stone of the ledge. Beneath her feet, the water glistened in the sun.

---

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