Burning Bright (11 page)

"That is a good point," Krasny murmured, just as Sonya came striding through the dressing room, heels clicking on the marble tiles of the bathing chamber. She walked to the edge of the pool, planted her hands on her hips, and narrowed her eyes at Krasny. "I might have known you would slink off to sulk here, Kolya."

Krasny rolled his eyes. "I am not sulking, I am saving my own life. Arguing with that scorching imbecile has done nothing to improve my health. If not for the excessive amount of counter-magic powder I already take, then I think you would not have to wonder if I will bother to be around when Zarya dies. If you have come here to pick another fight, Sonya, then I am afraid you will only be arguing with yourself."

Standing up, Krasny climbed out of the pool—swaying slightly, but at the last moment catching himself. He walked around the pool, keeping close to the wall and avoiding Sonya, as he vanished into the dressing chamber.

Heaving a sigh, Sonya turned to go after him. Dym listened to them shouting, but blocked the words out, having no energy to spare, for once, for their perpetual squabbling. Letting his eyes fall shut and ignoring his head as best he was able, he tried to think. It was the first time in days he thought he could successfully manage the feat.

Where would the Vessels go? Probably for the first ship that would take them. It was the surest way—that they knew of—to avoid capture. Certainly, it would make catching them more difficult, though not as impossible as they probably hoped.

Dym opened his eyes, and then swam across the pool and climbed out on the side closest to his dressing chamber. Krasny and Sonya had wound down to looks and hissed words, though Sonya looked as though she might resort to violence at any moment. She must have gone to see Zarya, then; it was the only thing that put her in such a volatile state.

Ignoring them, Dym pulled on black breeches and stockings and sat down to pull on knee-high boots, already dreading the snow he would have to endure if they were pulled out into the country. Standing again, he rifled through his clothes until he found the long-sleeved dark gray undershirt he sought, over which he pulled a black thigh-length tunic that was split up the sides and embroidered with swirls of silvery smoke.

He attached his master keys to his belt and then moved to a chest on the opposite side of the chamber and pulled out a sword belt. At his left hip he affixed a sword; to the right he attached a whip. It wasn't something he used often—weapons in general were not something he preferred to be anywhere near—but it had its uses when blades simply would not suffice.

Finally, he pulled down a heavy winter cloak and swung it around his shoulders, securing it with a cloak pin made of gold and shaped like a fire feather. The hood was deep and lined with the same black fur that lined the rest of the cloak.

Leaving the dressing chamber and the pair still arguing, he went into his study to fetch coin and other necessities to tuck into the hidden pockets of his cloak. He turned to leave the study and stopped short when he saw Krasny standing in the doorway. "If you will give me an hour, I will join you. Do you have any idea where we are going?"

Dym shook his head. "No, I was going to fetch fire feathers, then go have a word with Zholty. He should be doing something if he will not go out into the field."

Krasny nodded. "Then I will find you when I am ready to leave."

"If I can make him cooperate, we will probably return here to the cathedral. Thank you."

Nodding again, Krasny departed. Dym half expected Sonya to burst in next and sighed softly when she never appeared. Leaving the study, he went quickly to his office in the cathedral and fetched the needed fire feathers. He could feel their power, but could not quite catch it—yet. Two day, at most, and he would have his magic back.

Then the Vessel hunt would resume in earnest, and the matter would be that much closer to concluding—finally.

Why does looking at you hurt?

Dym's breath caught, his chest twisting and aching, eyes stinging. Why had he dared to hope that it might be any different. That Eminence would understand what he had been trying to do, would forgive him his error, would ... stop being angry, would stop hating him.

Apparently it was not to be.

He wiped the tears on his cheeks away with the heels of his hands. He was still High Priest, and he had a duty. Whatever his own turmoil, he had to remember that. There was no time for wallowing in misery. The sacrifices must be made.

How many more times would he have to repeat those words?

Leaving his office and locking the door behind him, he headed quickly for the palace and up the stairs to the royal library where he knew Zholty would be sulking. As expected, Zholty was in the farthest corner where floor to ceiling windows took up the entire corner, looking down upon the hedge maze and the fountain that displayed an image of the Dragons of the Three Storms in vivid ocean tones. "Your grace," he greeted.

"What do you want, High Priest?" Zholty asked, slowly looking up from the book he was reading. Dym noticed a distinct hand print on his left cheek and only practice enabled him to keep back his amusement.

Dym bowed his head politely and said, "I am sorry to disturb you, but I am afraid that I am still unable to use my magic. I need someone to cast for the Vessel so that I can resume the hunt."

Zholty scowled, but at least had sense enough not to refuse—magic, after all, was for hunting the Vessels. Sonya was not expected to help because she was the heir and too busy tending her brother. The rest were either too old, or Dym simply did not trust them. It was difficult, not having sufficient hunters, but in the end, he was happier it was largely just him and Krasny.

"If I must, though I think that given how careless and incompetent the two of you were in Ashes, looking the hard way is the least you deserve."

Dym said nothing.

Slamming his book shut, Zholty rose and pulled on his discarded jacket, twitching irritably at the lace that trimmed his cuffs and closing the mother of pearl buttons. "Let's get it over with, then. I have better things to do with my day than your job."

Letting him take the lead, Dym quietly followed him all the way back to the cathedral where he stopped short of following Zholty up to the altar. When Zholty began to fuss around with candles and other nonsense, Dym turned away and left him to it.

Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to wait while Krasny approached, boots almost soundless as he walked across the smooth wooden floor. He'd braided back his hair and like Dym, was dressed to travel hard in the cold. Dym handed him a small pouch of fire feathers, and they sat together in a pew while they watched Zholty work.

"I forgot he preferred all the pomp," Krasny murmured, low enough the words didn't echo.

Dym's mouth twitched. "Palace application, not practical. It has its own uses."

"I prefer to use the wood judiciously and get several fires, not throw it all into a wasteful bonfire."

"Even a bonfire has its place."

"Mostly celebrations where people get drunk and do things they regret the following morning."

Dym laughed, but caught himself—too late, as Zholty whipped around to regard them coldly. "I was not aware this was an amusing situation, High Priest."

"It is not. We spoke of something else," Dym said. "Please, continue." Zholty just continued to glare at him, but Dym simply stared back, refusing to apologize. The cathedral was his domain, and he would not be ordered around in it—not by the Minister of Magic, not by anyone.

Sneering, Zholty finally turned back around and resumed his spell work. Dym glanced at Krasny, who smirked faintly, and in silence, they waited for Zholty to at last finish.

Dym felt it as the spell was cast, could feel Zholty feeling, searching, hunting—and he felt when Zholty caught it. He was annoyed that was all he could do when normally he could have shared in the spell. Soon, he reminded himself.

On the altar, Zholty licked his thumb and finger and extinguished the candle he'd lit with a faint hiss. Turning around, the magic glow still slowly fading away in his eyes, he said, "A village far north of here, very close to the Jagged Mountains. I could barely feel him, but that's not surprising given that location.

Almost as one, Krasny and Dym sighed. They shared a look, and then laughed. Zholty sneered at them and stomped down the altar steps to stalk past them, slamming the door as he left.

"A village that close to the Jagged Mountains … " Krasny said thoughtfully. "Little Shadow is what they call it. History says it was once a popular way point for travelers between here and Schatten. Legend holds it's the only way to reach the path where you can still enter Schatten. Not that anyone actually can, but the myth persists."

Dym nodded. "That's not a tale I've heard in a long time. I did not know it was still around."

Krasny looked at him, amused. "Still around? You sound like the aging council, but you are not even as old as me. I think being High Priest ages you too quickly, Holiness."

"I think your position has done you no favors."

"True enough. I ordered horses and supplies readied; they should be waiting for us just outside the cathedral. Shall we depart before I manage to get into another bought of family bickering?"

"Yes, let's go find the Vessels," Dym said, ignoring the wash of emotion that struck him. Duty was all he had left when there was no hope of forgiveness. So he would do his duty, and then maybe ... well, one way or another, it was clearly long past time he found some sort of rest, if not the rest he most wanted.

Raz couldn't sleep. Hadn't slept for days, in fact. He tried, but every time he closed his eyes all he saw was that handsome face turning pale, filling with pain.  Opening his eyes, he turned away from the dirty, smudgy window through which he'd been watching the moon and the falling snow and watched Pechal.

Pechal was fast asleep, though mostly because of the sleep powder that Shinju had slipped into his ale. He lay curled on his side, face half-buried in a lumpy pillow, blankets tangled around him. 

He looked far too young to be thrown into a fire—not that anyone was ever old enough for that, but it seemed especially cruel to sacrifice someone so young. Raz sighed and stood up and moved to the bed to carefully untangle the blankets and settle them more comfortably around Pechal. He sat on the edge of the bed, combed his fingers through Pechal's hair to smooth it out, and then bent and pressed their foreheads together, eyes stinging with the tears he could barely hold back.

Why did it have to be Pechal? The only person who understood him, who saw him as more than a thief and a street rat. His best friend. They'd been planning to make enough to go straight and retire to a little village. Get a little house, a garden.

Raz pulled away, fetched his cloak, and left the room. He crept out of the inn and walked toward the forest that surrounded the village. The moonlight shone down, granting the night more light than it normally would have, reflecting off the snow and giving everything the feel of a dream.

In the woods, he walked along the footpath that wound through the trees, vaguely aware he shouldn't be so reckless, but not really opposed to a fight. Anything to get rid of all the energy that burned hotter and hotter but had no way out.

Of course, the last time he had let out energy ... He could not believe the things that Shio and Shinju had told him about the Cathedral of Ashes. How could he have done that?

But he remembered those moments when everything had gone wrong. That apparently he had overextended himself magically. He remembered the High Priest and the agony on his face when Raz had spoken.

He wasn't entirely stupid. He knew exactly who would be going to the Sacred Fire after Pechal. Raz just wished they could skip Pechal. Was it really necessary to kill the Vessels to prevent a god's resurrection? Why couldn't they just live and die—

It was pointless to wonder, however, because he knew the answer. If the Vessels were not permanently destroyed, there was always a chance that Holy Zhar Ptitsa would find a way to return, and when he did, he would finish the job of razing Pozhar.

Raz shook his head, trying to dislodge the ponderous thoughts. They were thieves—poor, homeless, uneducated, harmless thieves. But he supposed everyone who stood to lose a loved one to the Fires thought they didn't deserve it. No one deserved it. That sort of pain should never be inflicted on the ordinary children of Pozhar.

Sighing, wishing he could banish his strange mood, Raz increased his pace and tried to put his mind on the work he needed to do. First, he needed money. No ship would take them without sufficient funds, and passage to anywhere wasn't cheap. They also needed the money to start a new life  wherever they landed. He might have been able to get away with agreeing to work for passage for himself, but that still left Pechal.

Would Pechal always be so weak, so ... not Pechal? The thought was depressing, but not as depressing as the idea of his being cast into the Fires. No, if they could get away there was always a chance that Pechal would return to normal—or at least get much closer to normal.

Raz sighed again, stomach churning at the thought of what he must do:  return to the Heart. It was the only place he would be able to find work and a ship willing to take them. Fire and ash, it was the only place he already had a job lined up, assuming Ivan and his men had been able to find the comb that Raz was supposed to steal.

That job would pay for their passage and a new life. Hopefully they could find a ship to Piedre. No one would ask questions there. Piedre had enough problems without worrying about the runaway reincarnations of other countries.

He just had to hope that he could keep Pechal hidden long enough to get the job done, and then get Pechal back to the Heart and onto a ship. It seemed insurmountable, but what was else he supposed to do? Surrender without a fight? He just wouldn't.  There had to—

Raz stopped as something seemed to wash over him. Bumps rose on his skin, ice shot down his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He wanted to run away and run forward all at once. What was causing it? He looked around and froze as his gaze landed on a spot almost immediately to his right. Nothing but trees, and yet ...