Quartz by Rabia Gale Read Free Book Online

platform covered with sand. Beyond that stage sat the Protector and the captured Oakhaven ambassador and Karzov the Shadow. Had Rafe already been found out? And was this just an elaborate set up, with the Blackstone authorities toying with him like a cat with a mouse? Or were the Blackstonians hoping to trick one of the Oakhaven party into identifying him?
    He couldn’t worry about that now. Tonight, he was a fire dancer.
    The dancers jogged in place, slapped each others’ hands, made circular motions on their chests, and kissed their palms to the sky. Someone touched Rafe's arm in camaraderie, and suddenly, he didn't feel as much of an outsider as he had. He twitched his shoulders, rolled his neck, loosening up his muscles.
    Burgess touched one end of his staff to a brazier. Fire blossomed; he touched the other tip to the flames, then the ends of his second staff. He held the flaming staffs aloft for one triumphant moment and leapt up on the stage. The crowds roared, and, behind him, so did the other performers. The lines moved swiftly, each man barely pausing by the brazier. Fires came alive, dancers leapt.
    Baton lit, heart pounding, drum beats throbbing through him, Rafe ran up the ramp. Red and orange and yellow flames emblazoned themselves into his eyeballs. The world was blurry with heat-shimmer, smoke-drift, fire-twist. Beyond the fires were hundreds of spectators, eyes and mouths open and hungry. Behind them were the raised boxes for high-ranking officials, but Rafe could make out no faces in the blur of light around him. Torchmen, solemn and still, lined up in rows on either side, ready with burlap and water barrels to quench stray flames.
    The world had been scorched once before. Selene’s twin in the sky, Salerus, gold to her silver, had come in the form of a dragon and nearly destroyed it. That they danced with fire on the last day of the month named for him suddenly seemed to be a reckless thing.
    The beat changed, went from calling for attention and haste, to something insidious, sneaking its way through the ground and into Rafe's feet. He stomped, jumped, kicked, baton now high, now spinning, now crisscrossing with another’s. He was always aware of its flaming head, the low hungry crackle that whispered in his ears. He barely noted what Burgess and the other performers did. It took all his focus to dance and flirt with his own flame.
    Rafe tossed up his baton. His heart leapt as he caught it, but his hand found leather grip instead of loose flame. Faster and faster now, the steps more exaggerated, the jumps higher. Hold the baton close, let the flames reach out like the fingers of a lover. Throw from hand to hand. Toss up into the air, jump, catch. Sweat beaded his brow, trickled down his scalp, and slithered under his vest.
    The drum worked up to the climax, loud and demanding, hammering at his skull. Rafe did the last spin, the last kick, then took a wide stance. He barely had time to think, to rub his tongue over dry lips, force the last bit of moisture into his mouth. Head back, mouth open, he pointed the flaming end of the baton towards his lips and blew. He touched the wick to his tongue, drew the baton into his mouth. His lips closed almost completely around the metal. Pain burned against his skin, grabbed his tongue, filled the inside of his mouth with fire.
    An instant of agony, then it was gone, leaving behind a dull throb. Shaken, barely hearing the oceanic roaring, Rafe stumbled after the other performers. He had the sense to lift his head up, stretch his stinging lips in a careless smile, and wave with his free hand. Then they clattered down the ramp, and Isabella snatched him out of the line and hustled him away with a pot of salve and a cool tonic.
     
    “I thought this was supposed to be easy,” Rafe said through numb lips and a mouth that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool. His words came out as “ah do di wa sop zee” but Burgess obviously understood pain-garbled speech for he