A bird cawed.
“A raven,” Klaus hissed.
Her stomach knotted. “Where?” she choked out.
A streak of glossy black shot through the ruins and landed on a burnt roof. Undoubtedly a raven.
Klaus’s fingernails bit into her palm, and her hand trembled. Ravens were an omen of punishment, or so the Kňazer and Martka insisted.
Seeing one—especially after dark—was a warning. Seeing two, an omen. Three meant the threat was no longer coming. It had already arrived.
She ground her teeth and turned away from the bird. She had enough problems without adding the Kňazer’s silly superstitions.
Trouble was, she couldn’t shake her dread that her life was about to change.
Stasha would never risk taking their winnings back to the orphanage in Askavol. The Martka searched daily through her and the other orphans’ meager belongings for “vanities”—their word for pretty things. They claimed that anything pretty or frivolous was an affront to the two-faced god, and the person who owned it should be punished. Any money found would be heavily tithed. So she and Klaus stopped at the wool mill, where they stored their stash.
A wooden shutter hid a small window at the back of the building. It was too high up for her to climb into on her own.
Klaus squelched down in the mud, propped his injured leg up on a sodden woodpile, and offered her his clenched hands. His face blanched as she hopped on his palms and stretched to open the shutter.
Once, she’d argued with him to climb in first so he could use her as a step. He’d insisted on helping her up before him. It had been the only time he’d ever argued with her. She’d relented; it couldn’t be pleasant to always be helpless.
“Sorry, Klaus,” she murmured as she wrestled with the sash window. It always jammed in the rainy weather. Below her, Klaus trembled. She gritted her teeth and wrenched. A judder followed by a screech of swollen wood, and warmth poured out the window. She breathed in the musty, sickly sweet odor of damp woven wool and grimy sheepskins. Comfortable and rough.
“Stop enjoying the view. My arms are breaking.”
It wasn’t Klaus’s arms she worried about. Nevertheless, she said, “Then you should exercise more. Build up those puny muscles.”
She pulled herself up through the window and thudded onto the floorboards. In the pale light cast by the torches in the mill, she scrambled over to the bales of wool and fished out the frayed rope they kept hidden for just such eventualities. She tossed one end out the window and, holding the other end, braced herself for Klaus’s weight.
Klaus tugged on the rope first. Typical.
“Just climb before Blue Eyes catches you.”
He scowled up at her. “Not funny, Stasha.” He probably said that ten times a day.
“Then haul your skinny ass up here. I’m hungry.”
He pulled the rope taut. “Don’t drop me,” he growled.
“That was one time.” She flashed a fiendish grin. “It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.” He struggled for grip while his right leg dangled uselessly. She grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him inside. He collapsed on the floorboards in a cloud of dust.
She dropped to her knees next to him and fumbled for a familiar knot in the floorboards with numb, frozen fingers. Her fingernails slipped into it, and she prized the boards apart. A small hidey-hole gaped. Years ago, she and Tarik had carved it to hide their fighting-pit winnings.
Now, it was empty except for a single length of red ribbon. If the Martka found it, they’d toss it in the fire and her into lockup.
She would die fighting before that happened.
Tarik had given her that ribbon as a reminder to have hope. He’d also said while hope was vital, without action, it was wishful thinking. That’s why they fought in the pits, so they’d be free. Freedom brought choices, he’d said. Not to mention food for the belly and finery for the heart.
She hadn’t had much to hope for since his death.
His gift would definitely go with her when they ran. A constant reminder that she needed to have hope if she were to carve a better life for Klaus and her.
Careful not to crush the ribbon, she thrust the rope into the hole. She kissed the two shiny, warm silver coins before dropping them in too.
Klaus helped wedge the floorboards back into place. “What if that man is waiting for us at the orphanage?”
If Klaus had a failing, it was that he could never let things go.
If she had a failing, it was an abiding obsession to keep him from worrying so much.
She rose and made a show of brushing dried mud off her leggings. “Tell me; have you ever seen him around here before?”
Klaus’s brow knitted. “No.”
“Me neither. He’s a stranger. He has no idea who we are, or if we’re even from Askavol. For all he knows, we come from Drueya or Shoiland. Or any other village for miles around.”
Klaus’s scowl deepened.
“Come on, Klaus. I thought you were the smart one. Why haven’t you put this together?”
“He’s unlikely to be stupid enough to forget two silver coins.”
“It is a lot of money, isn’t it?” She beamed, trying to shake off the weight of the day and the challenges tomorrow would bring.
“I’m serious, Stasha.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed. “What else could I do? We didn’t have enough. I had to take the risk.”
Heavy footfalls echoed on the wood floor. Her head jerked up. The sound came from beyond the dark stone archway that led to the looms and spinning wheels.
Martka Gabika, judging from the stomping. She always walked like she was trying to bring down a mountain.
“Who’s down there?” Martka Gabika called.
“We need to leave tonight before they—” Klaus whispered urgently.
“Shh!” she snapped, giving him a warning look. Her mouth dried, but it was too late to leave now. Their only choice was to play ignorant. “It’s me, Martka Gabika. Stasha.”
Martka Gabika rounded the corner. The old woman was dressed in a black gown trimmed with perfect white embroidery depicting the cycles of the sun and moon. Back-lit from the torches in the mill, the artistically twisted veil covering her hair cast a shadow over the stark ritual scarification on both sides of her leathery face. On her left cheek, a knife had scored ugly stars that drooped into teardrops. These had been blackened with ink to create the illusion of a weeping, deathly black night. On her right cheek, the violent scars depicted the sun. The rays, cruel and ghostly, had been filled with chalk-white ink.
She honestly didn’t know which was uglier: the facial scarring or the black raven feathers tattooed on the Martka’s hands and arms. They were a constant reminder of what awaited the disobedient.
The same scars and tattoos would be carved into Stasha’s face and body if they trapped her in an acolyte’s rough robes.
Martka Gabika’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?” Spittle flying, she stormed down on them. “Stasha! Alone with a young man after dark?” Spit flecked Stasha’s nose. She grimaced and only just resisted the urge to wipe it away. “Martka Alyona has already chosen a husband for you. What will he think? Do you want him to call you a harlot?”
The plans had gone that far? She clawed at her leggings.
Better not to let the old woman know how terrified she was. She gritted her teeth. “We were just talking, Martka. We’re friends.”
Martka Gabika knew that. Everyone knew that.
“That doesn’t matter.” Martka Gabika grabbed them both by the arm and hauled them out into the silent mill. “You can’t be friends with a boy.”
Klaus winced and stumbled on his lame leg, but Martka Gabika ignored it.
It took all of Stasha’s self-control not to punch the woman. That would land her in lockup. Neither she nor Klaus would benefit from it.
“You know better than to be alone with a man who is not your husband,” the hateful woman c
ontinued.
Nothing about Blue Eyes?
That was good news. Also, Martka Gabika hadn’t seemed to have noticed their muddy, wet clothes.
For show—and because Martka Gabika would expect it—she kicked the closest loom. “Why am I the only one in trouble? He was alone with a girl.”
“Don’t talk back to me.” Martka Gabika let go of Klaus—who had regained his balance— and smacked Stasha on the side of her head. Her head jerked to the side. Pain sliced from her neck down her shoulder. Her amber pendant flicked out of her tunic. She slipped the pendant back under her clothing before Martka Gabika saw it.
Klaus threw her a scowl. A silent warning not to do anything foolish. He knew her well.
Martka Gabika dug her fingernails into Stasha’s arm and marched her through a row of looms to the main entrance. The great pine door, wide enough for a horse and cart to pass through, stood open to the icy night. A long, thick line of salt was drawn across the doorway. Salt supposedly kept fae, fairies, and other nasty creatures from crossing.
What had brought Martka Gabika here looking for them, if not Blue Eyes? Perhaps the hateful woman was leaving it to the Kňazer to deal with her. Martka Gabika pushed her out into the biting cold, as if to confirm it.
She shivered. The first snow flurries would be on them within days. Klaus was right; they needed warm clothing. That meant a trip to Drueya. Bigger than Askavol, it had the only shop for miles around that sold quality clothing.
The shop would be closed now, another reason to delay their departure until morning. Just as long as nothing happened during the night to upset their plans. She refused to even think about that raven.
“Go to the dinner hall. Both of you. It’s the Hiding of the Moon, so expect a feast.” Martka Gabika slapped their backs.
Feast! She snorted. The stale brown bread, gray stew and thimble of milk they received once a month on the Hiding of the Moon would do little to help them on their journey.
Still, it was something. For the rest of the month, meals at the orphanage had to be bought out of their earnings. Sadly, no one earned enough to buy a meal a day from the Martka. It seemed they and the two-faced god didn’t want orphans surviving into adulthood.
“Just because the moon goddess hides her face tonight doesn’t mean she can’t see your wickedness, Stasha.” Marka Gabika wagged her finger. “She sees all. You’re lucky the fae didn’t come for you too.”
Another reference to Tarik that she had to let slide. Her icy skin burned hot.
Legend said that, centuries before, on the Hiding of the Moon, the hated fae lord responsible for starting the war that still ravaged the continent of Zathryth, and which had left her and Klaus and so many others orphaned, had disappeared, never to be seen again. Once a month, the moon goddess covered her face, to allow humans to hide from the ravening fae in her shadow.
Stasha had never believed the stories, although she was grateful for the morsel of food they provided. All she knew for certain was that before the war, humans and fae had ruled side by side.
Now, humans were little more than prey in the game of war the four fae kingdoms waged against each other. Unable to fight against fae magic, human cities and towns had been turned into nothing but fae army camps and war bases. Her people had become loose ends in the conflict.
Martka Gabika slapped her. “Don’t let me catch you alone with Klaus again, or it will be lockup for you.”
Hips swinging provocatively—just the way Martka Gabika hated—she sauntered across the quad to the orphanage.
It was a decrepit building of three floors, roofed with wooden shingles and a rickety wooden onion-dome, nothing like what had once existed in Teagarta. It housed nearly two hundred orphans.
Like so many others, she had arrived at the orphanage as a baby. Unlike so many others, she had carried something with her—her teardrop-shaped amber pendant. For reasons she’d never fathomed, the Martka had not taken it from her. As long as she kept it hidden under her clothes, she seemed to have silent permission to wear it.
Strange, she’d always thought. But she wouldn’t risk losing it through questioning them.
As to the mysteries of where she’d come from or who her parents were, she had no answers. Like most of the waifs she shared her home with, she had no idea if her name had been given to her by her missing parents or by the Kňazer.
Her necklace gave her hope that her parents had named her.
Not that it really mattered. Tarik and Klaus were her real family—the only people in the world whom she loved. Whoever her parents had been, how much impact could they really have on her life? No one was alive to remember them. No one even knew where their bodies lay.
Probably in a mass war grave.
There were dozens of orphanages, just like hers, spread across Atria. They all had their mills or farms where orphans were given jobs with little or no pay and in return were expected to serve the two-faced god and their deities with unquestioning obedience.
The Kňazer never let them forget how much they owed. How little they gave. What burdens they were. How they should beseech the two-faced god for forgiveness for even being born.
Since Tarik’s death, Stasha had no time for such nonsense.
It was one of the reasons she could never accept an acolyte’s coarse robes. That, and the mutilation of her face and hands.
She and Klaus reached a pockmarked door—like everything else in the orphanage, it needed a lick of paint. A fresh line of salt lay across the threshold.
Klaus leaned in. “This is it,” he whispered. “If he’s here, we’ve had it.”
She refused to indulge his fears. “Just relax. We’ll be fine.” But as she creaked the door open, she held her breath. Was the dark-haired stranger with the achingly blue eyes indeed waiting for her?
She scanned the long, narrow room with its scarred trestle tables and rows of buckled benches.
A dark-haired man stood with his back to her at the head of the room. He was talking to Martka Alyona, who listened intently with turned-down lips.
Icy dread chilled her to the core. Maybe Klaus had been right, and she shouldn’t have stolen the coin. There was nothing left but to face her accuser. She swallowed the nausea rising in her throat and prepared for the worst.
Stasha’s stomach churned, and her chest locked up. The man shifted to face her. Boring brown eyes stared blankly at her. A new male acolyte. She huffed out a breath, and a knot of tension vanished from her shoulders.
She nudged Klaus. “See, all that energy spent worrying—wasted.”
He snorted and stepped into the hall.
She followed. The familiar reek of kitchen grease, sweat, old pine, and firewood stung her icy nose. She rubbed her hands together, blowing on them to warm her numb fingers as she weaved through the lines of tables to their favorite seats near the fire. Its limited warmth was welcoming.
The table was already crammed with people desperate to get some hot food before the long month of fighting for scraps began after the feast. That made it impossible to discuss her plans with Klaus.
She flopped down onto an unforgiving bench and grabbed a bowl of stew. Gray and unidentifiable, at least it was warm. She slurped a spoonful of the greasy saltiness—and earned a disapproving look from Klaus, probably for forgetting to thank the two-faced god.
“Eat your food, or I’ll have to pour it down your throat,” she joked as he bowed his head and prayed. She dug her spoon into the glutinous mess, ready to ladle another mouthful.
He shoved her arm. “Gratitude is never misplaced.” He smiled. “And I don’t inhale food like you do.”
She rolled her eyes and scarfed the mouthful. She’d barely finished swallowing when the floor rocked beneath her feet. The table rattled. Even though earth tremors were commonplace, the younger kids still screamed as dust rained down from the low wooden ceiling.
“Earthquake drill!” one of the Martka yelled.
Almost as one, Stasha, Klaus, and the othe
r orphans clambered under the tables.
They were well practiced.
Stasha’s long limbs splayed out awkwardly in the small space. Klaus wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close while wooden bowls tumbled onto the floor, and milk splattered. His hot breath warmed her ear.
She clamped a sweaty hand on his arm as his grip tightened around her. It wasn’t all fear that made him clutch her—he had her back just the way she had his.
The quake moved on, cascading down the valley like a wave. The ground shuddered one last time and then stilled. A few of the younger children whimpered in the sudden calm. Food and milk dribbled from the tabletops onto the cracked flagstones. Someone was praying, reciting an old verse she’d heard a million times over in a tongue she’d never deigned to learn.
“The quakes are probably caused by fae,” Klaus whispered. “The Pyreack are coming for us here in Atria. Not even the moon goddess can save us.”
“Been reading the Kňazer’s newspaper again?” she whispered. Klaus had taught himself to read years before from a book he’d saved from one of the Martka’s many pyres. He’d insisted on teaching her and Tarik their letters. If she took it slow and concentrated really hard, she could have read the newspaper too. She left that kind of thing to Klaus.
He leaned in close. “I saw it today. I should have told you.…” He sighed. “Too much else going on. According to the paper, it isn’t enough that the fae kingdoms have stolen all the territory in Zathryth—Pyreack wants more. Everything.”
People were moving, and it would seem odd if she and Klaus stayed under the table, but she had to know more. “Then not even Ruepa will be safe. What are we supposed to do? Where should we go?”
“The Kňazer said the answer is to pray.” Even Klaus sounded dry.
She snorted. No doubt when Pyreack had conquered Ocea, Atria’s easterly neighboring kingdom, all the humans who had been ripped to shreds had been praying too. It hadn’t done them much good. “All the more reason for us to leave. We can decide what to do once we’re on the road.”
The Fire Thief Page 3