The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  He nodded, but his eyes flickered to the bustle around them. “We need to move, or Martka Gabika will be on us like bugs in summer.”

  She grabbed his arm before he could scramble away. “Tomorrow, let’s go to Drueya after work, before the shop closes. We’ll get what we need and then head into the forest. No one will notice we’ve gone until morning.”

  Brown hair hanging in his tawny eyes, Klaus squeezed her hand. “Try keeping out of trouble until then.”

  After clutching his hand one last time, she climbed out from beneath the table and looked around.

  At least the walls and ceiling were still intact. That had been a mere shudder, as earthquakes went.

  One of the younger Martka knelt beneath the statue of the two-faced god. It stood in an alcove carved into the wall in the front of the room.

  Sadly, it too had survived.

  The two marble figures shared legs and hips but were separated at the torso into two distinct bodies. One wore a delicately carved cloak that draped like wet silk over the effigy’s pure-white skin. His hood hung over his shoulders, revealing a beaming face crowned with laurel leaves. The same sun tattoo the Martka wore was engraved into his forehead. He represented purity—the good, submissive worshipper.

  His face was patronizing.

  The second looked as though it had been dipped in black ink. The dark stone was rough like old wool. His hood was up, hiding his eyes and nose. Only his thin, frowning lips and the stars and tears tattooed into his neck were visible. A raven perched on his shoulder, claws digging in sharply. His downward pointing fingers were skeletal. Death. Disgrace. Chaos. A stupid threat for naughty children.

  More Martka knelt at the statue, their cloaks pooling out like dark water.

  Martka Gabika pulled handfuls of salt from the pouch tied to her waist and tossed them across the buckled floor. She muttered something unintelligible.

  Stasha’s stomach rumbled. Her bowl had also toppled onto the floor. She groaned and pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Another hungry night awaited.

  Wizened as a piece of sun-dried hide, Martka Alyona scrambled up a set of wrought-iron stairs to a small pulpit, used only by herself and the Kňazer. “Boys and girls,” she called from the top. “Come, lay yourselves before the two-faced god. Plead for protection and forgiveness.”

  As dumb as the notion was—surely they should evacuate the building in case of aftershocks?—the little children ran to obey. The older ones took a little longer to comply, some grumbling their reluctance.

  Darkness would swallow her before she’d deign to join them.

  “I’m going to bed.” She brushed Klaus’s shoulder with tender fingers. “Until tomorrow.” She shoved her way through the sea of children surging to the statue with pleas on their lips and eyes brimming with tears. Maybe she was as dumb as everyone else for staying inside, but it had been a long day, and she wanted to be alone in her dormitory for the last time.

  “What about dinner?” Klaus called after her. “Maybe they’ll give us some bread, if nothing else.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.” She didn’t look back to see the hunger in his eyes.

  Before she could push through the throng to the open hallway door, Acolyte Inna grabbed her arm. Just turned eighteen, Inna had once been beautiful. Now, engulfed in heavily twisted gray robes, and with her dark hair severely pulled back, it was impossible to tell. The scars on her face were freshly scabbed in unnatural colors. Newly mutilated.

  Inna stabbed a tattooed finger at Stasha’s pendant. “You shouldn’t be wearing that. It’s an affront to the two-faced god.” Inna wiggled her fingers, fluttering her raven’s feathers. “Hand it over.”

  Stasha palmed the stone and tucked it beneath her tunic. It must have fallen out as she’d climbed beneath the table. “The necklace stays with me. Everyone with a bit of authority around here knows that.”

  Inna’s eyes narrowed, and she winced; it must have pulled the skin on her face. “The two-faced god frowns on you for your arrogance and vanity.” Her obvious pain did nothing to soothe the harshness in her voice. “Forsake the necklace and be forgiven.” She jerked her hand again, fully expecting Stasha to submit.

  Glare unwavering, Stasha crossed her arms. “I dare you to try and take it.” She allowed a coy, challenging smile to twist her lips.

  Inna lunged for her throat.

  She sidestepped. Her fist swung up, but she stopped it an inch before connecting with the stupid acolyte’s chin.

  Inna gaped but didn’t try that stunt again. “Forsake the necklace and your ungodly vanity,” she wailed, “which has wrought such calamity.” She pulled out her salt pouch and tossed a handful at Stasha. “Forsake it all,” she moaned as Stasha darted away to avoid being pelted. “Or spend the night in lockup.”

  Stasha’s spine stiffened, and her lip curled back. “Go speak to Martka Gabika or Martka Alyona.” Her voice was thin. Sour. “They’ll tell you that this necklace is mine.”

  Inna looked around. No doubt unsure how to deal with disobedience.

  Stasha pushed past her, but Inna grabbed her arm. The acolyte’s gaze darkened. “The two-faced god frowns upon you, girl.” Her voice dropped to a rasp that sent a shiver up Stasha’s spine. “Allow yourself to open the sacred doors to meet the two-faced god.”

  Stasha froze.

  “Accept what gave you life and purpose.” Drool collected at the corner of Inna’s mouth. “Put away things of vanity and pride. Cast aside your ungodly selfishness.” Her voice spiked with fervor. “Accept the keys of his majesty, and he will forgive and protect you.”

  Stasha yanked her arm back. This time, Inna didn’t try to stop her. Clearly touched in the head, the acolyte stumbled away and sagged to the floor amid the spilled food.

  Stasha’s lip curled as she turned away. If her supposed groom rejected her for being a harlot, they wanted her to become one of those.

  Never in a fae lifetime.

  She stomped to her dormitory.

  It was deserted. Red coals flickering in the potbellied stove in the long, narrow room gave off the only light as she weaved past the other girls’ beds to her straw pallet in the alcove off the main room. She sighed with relief as she plunked down on her gnarly mattress and pulled off her worn boots. She plunged a finger through a hole in the sole. It had leaked water, drenching her foot. As Klaus had observed, new boots were a necessity.

  The calf-high, bright-red boots in the shop window in Drueya were fabulous.

  And red was her favorite color, mainly because the Martka and Kňazer had outlawed it for its rampant frivolity. If priced the same as the boring brown boots, she’d snag them. She grinned, her icy rage at Inna melting away as she tossed the broken boot to the floor.

  The small stove wasn’t enough to prevent the cold from pricking her skin as she wriggled out of her tunic and leggings. Everyone’s nightgowns had been shaken off their hooks on the wall and lay in a tangle on the floor. She scrambled through them until she found hers. Quickly, she pulled it over her head, balled her damp clothes for a pillow, and dove onto her pallet with them. Snuggled down under her blanket, she rolled the glowing amber between her thumb and forefinger.

  Had one of her parents given it to her? They must have. The Martka and Kňazer would never do such a thing. Did that mean she had been loved, however briefly?

  She let the stone drop against her chest. None of that mattered. Tomorrow she and Klaus would be free. With nothing behind them and everything ahead of them, they could re-carve their lives into what they wanted them to be.

  Pity she had no real idea of what that was.

  Footsteps clattered into the room. The person stopped and tsked disapprovingly. It sounded like Hathrine. The youngest, quietest girl in the dorm, Hathrine never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, she was painfully shy.

  What had upset her?

  Stasha pulled her head out from under her blanket.

  Hathrine stood in the doorway, a
candlestick in hand. She glanced at Stasha, placed the candlestick on the windowsill and then began straightening up the other girls’ beds.

  Stasha’s cheeks flushed. How had she not noticed that the earthquake had shifted all the beds?

  Hathrine even shook off the blankets Stasha had traipsed hard-caked mud over.

  She was getting up to help set the room right—

  “Lenka died that day too,” Hathrine said.

  The blood drained from Stasha’s face, and she slumped back onto her bed.

  There was no doubt about what day Hathrine referred to. It was on everyone’s lips. She vaguely recalled seeing Hathrine in Teagarten that morning. Hathrine had held someone in her arms. It had to have been Lenka, the pretty girl with the curly chocolate-colored hair and smooth dark skin. Lenka and Hathrine had been inseparable.

  After wallowing in her own grief and fury over Tarik’s killing, a whole year had passed without her noticing that Lenka was gone.

  Hathrine picked up an armful of nightgowns. “I know what you feel, Stasha. The pain. The anger. The sorrow that never goes away. But I think it’s better not to give in to it.”

  Was Hathrine making excuses for Stasha’s lack of awareness? If so, Hathrine was kind and too generous. She should have thought about the other girls and tidied the room before diving into bed. She was the eldest, after all. Why was she so blind that she could only think of herself or Klaus? She leaned across her pallet and snatched the nightgowns from Hathrine. “I’ll hang them up. You get ready for bed.”

  Hathrine hesitated.

  The doubt did nothing for Stasha’s self-esteem. She shoved the girl aside, clambered out of bed and gathered the nightgowns.

  Hathrine moved to the window and retrieved her candle. Her startled intake of breath snagged Stasha’s attention.

  Eyes wide, face pale, Hathrine couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d seen a fae.

  Or a dark-haired stranger with chilling blue eyes.

  Stasha dropped the nightgowns and loped to the window.

  Only mist swirled in the quad below.

  Still, her skin crawled with frightening presentiment. She swallowed and forced a smile. “Seeing ghosts now?”

  Hathrine shook her head. “I—I’m not sure what I saw, but he was—” She shivered. “He’s gone now.” A last look out the window, then Hathrine turned to pick up the discarded clothing. But even the mundane task of hanging the nightgowns could not lift her pallor.

  Stasha frowned, searching for whatever had frightened the girl. Nothing moved below her window. She was about to give up when she spotted a raven perched on a stunted tree at the end of the quad.

  A second raven.

  She hissed and balled her fists.

  The bird cawed as if it heard her. Impossible. Yet it fluffed its wings, discomposed.

  She tsked at herself for her foolishness. It wasn’t an omen. It was just a bird. She forced herself away from the window, ignoring the persistent voice in her head that insisted she run now.

  It’s just a bird. Nothing more.

  Still, hand trembling, she took the nightgowns from Hathrine and placed them on their hooks. Grateful to hide, she climbed back into bed and pulled her blanket over her head.

  If Hathrine had seen the stranger, why hadn’t he come to the door looking for her? Why stand under her window like he knew she lived in this dorm? And if he didn’t want his money, what did he want?

  She closed her eyes tight, channeling Klaus with all this worrying. As soon as their work was done, she and Klaus would get their supplies and flee. But that didn’t stop an unwelcome thought pressing on her mind: It’s too late to run. Too late. Far, far too late.

  She scowled into the darkness until she fell into a restless sleep.

  She dreamed of raven’s wings.

  Orphanage rags left in a heap in her dorm, Stasha strode along the cobbled road to Drueya. She was dressed in a set of well-worn, slightly too-small fighting leathers Feral Fox had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Tarik’s red ribbon, tied in her braid, flew proudly in the cutting wind.

  Klaus, hobbling next to her, had no other clothing other than his orphanage uniform. That would change when they got to the shop in Drueya.

  Work had dragged like an eternity. She’d messed up her spinning at least a dozen times daydreaming about freedom. The Martka in charge of her section had finally shooed her out before she could mess up yet another order. She’d been only too glad to escape and had even enjoyed the challenge of collecting her ribbon, their winnings, and the bit of frayed rope undetected. She’d also filled a knapsack with steaming-hot brown bread, hard cheese, a foot-long salami, and a dozen apples stolen from the Martka’s private kitchen. It would last them a week, maybe two if they were careful.

  Klaus also toted a knapsack jammed with a blanket, which they’d share. It wouldn’t offer much protection from the cold, but it would have to do.

  And speaking of cold.…

  Late-afternoon ice nipped at her, a warning that the shop would soon close. She ticked off a list of prices in her head for new boots and a warm cloak for her, and a pair of thick leggings, a tunic, and a heavy coat for Klaus. Never before had she imagined buying so many things at once. It would eat into one of the silver coins tucked into her pocket. It couldn’t be helped. Keeping warm was a top priority. She smiled, strangely glad to be parting with the money if it fed her hope.

  Klaus frowned. “You make me nervous when you smile like that.”

  She huffed a laugh. “Everything makes you nervous. How long do you think it will take us to get to Ruepa?” They’d decided to continue on that course, regardless of what Klaus had read.

  His brows crumpled. “A month. Maybe more.”

  Trust Klaus to know that. “Do you think we’ll need transport?” She glanced down at his mangled leg. It was always worse in the winter.

  Another thoughtful sideways glance from him. “Only horses around here.”

  She sympathized with his concern—orphans weren’t taught to ride—but she brushed it away with a wave of her hand. “How hard can it be?” Her chin tilted defiantly. “You sit on it, hold tight, and dangle a carrot in front of its nose.”

  Klaus snorted. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.” No mention of how difficult it would be for him to stay on a horse with his leg. Maybe he wanted to cultivate hope too.

  “We’ll figure something out. The important thing is, we’re finally escaping.

  He cracked a wan smile. “And we’ll be together.”

  “Exactly.”

  The gray stone wall surrounding Drueya rose ahead of them. They sped up as the open gate drew near. She skipped through it into the market town. Eyes watchful, she led Klaus down the main street until they reached the dried-up fountain in the center of the weed-ridden and decaying town square. It was just the way things were in Drueya and all the surrounding villages.

  A flash of inky wings flapped in the corner of her vision.

  Her stomach looped painfully.

  A raven swept through the buildings and perched on the fountain. It cawed, claws scraping the gray stone as it stared at her.

  A third raven.

  She turned away, refusing to acknowledge that disaster had arrived.

  A woman and her child crossing the square must also have seen the raven. They both cried out and backed away from the bird.

  Refusing to be intimidated, Stasha set her mouth into a hard line and grabbed Klaus’s hand. “Through here.”

  They scurried through a crumbling archway to a line of sagging buildings, housing a variety of shops. Gone was the black lettering that proclaimed this was the clothing store. In its stead, shadowy imprints stained the cracked blue door. She tugged the handle, and the door squealed loudly as it swung open.

  Given the lateness in the day, the store was empty of customers. An old crone sat at a cluttered table at the back. She squinted at her sewing, not even bothering to look up as they entered.

 
; Stasha shoved Klaus toward a rack of coats and leggings. “Can I trust you to pick your own?”

  He glared at her. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

  “No, just a clumsy brute.” She shot him a tender smile. “Choose warm things.”

  Her fingers trailed along shelves crammed with tunics and leggings in all colors, bright coils of ribbon, cards of lace, and jars of pearly buttons as she made her way to the rack of boring, sensible brown leather boots. Meanwhile, the startlingly red boots in the window shouted hope.

  She turned on a heel and strode to the red boots before she could change her mind. She’d eyed them often enough to know they’d fit her. And even if they didn’t, she’d put up with her feet rattling around in them or the leather squeezing her toes.

  She snatched them up. Every stitch was perfect. Even better, the cobbler had threaded strong leather laces up the front. Her hand dipped into one of them, and she cooed. It was lined with thick, warm sheepskin. Ideal for the coming winter. And much, much nicer than any other boot she’d ever seen. She flicked over the price tag and hissed. Two coppers more expensive than the brown boots.

  They could spare the coin.

  Well, not really, but she was going to indulge anyway.

  Eyes twinkling, she waved the boots at Klaus. He was trying on a very plain gray coat. “Look how pretty they are.”

  Klaus huffed a laugh and shook his head. “You’ll stand out like a fae’s ears in those.” His hand drifted to the schorl blade strapped to his belt—something he always did at the mention of fae.

  She ran an eye up the gray coat he’d selected and shook her head. “Not that one. You need pockets.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He looked lovingly at a fine, ankle-length black coat with two big pockets, then sighed. He tugged the lapels of the boring one. “This was cheapest.”

  She leaned in. “Let’s do this right,” she whispered. “Don’t scrimp.”

  He shuffled to the black coat. Leaving him to enjoy his shopping, she turned to three wooden mannequins. Each was draped with a wildly different cloak. Almost drooling, she fingered a red one first. Velvet as soft as lamb’s fleece slid between her fingers. If Klaus thought her red boots conspicuous, he’d have a seizure if she bought this. Or the bright-blue satin draped next to it.