The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  No guards waited at this side of her tent. Where were they all?

  The Tiyanak strode quickly toward the woods. As she trotted after it, her eyes widened. Four fae, Suren included, stood in a circle with their backs to her official tent flap. Weapons drawn, they focused on the fighting in the forest. Hopefully Suren wouldn’t be punished when Radomir returned and found her gone.

  The Tiyanak snapped its fingers. She almost tripped. Grimacing at her carelessness, she followed the Tiyanak into the forest farthest from the sounds of battle.

  “The little fae must follow her nose,” the Tiyanak whispered. “A horse awaits her. But the little fae must run. Run like the wind.”

  More riding? Argh! But she wasn’t going to argue.

  She mouthed a thank-you and bolted deeper into the woods.

  “Until next time, little fae,” the Tiyanak hissed after her. “Until next time. And then the Tiyanak will finally get what the Tiyanak wants.”

  Follow her nose, the Tiyanak had said. Easier said than done. Stasha’s breath whistled painfully in her chest as she sprinted between the trees. Legs pumping, she jumped over a fallen log and stumbled into a gully. At least there was moonlight to see by. A fact both good and bad, given that, by now, Suren would probably have discovered she’d gone. He and his Pyreack fae would see her as easily as she saw the snagging brambles and snakeweed.

  She sped up, not daring to stop to check the wind for a horsey smell. She just had to trust—hope—that the Tiyanak had pointed her in the right direction.

  An island of brambles in a clearing made her swerve—right into the reek of horse sweat. Low branches choked with vines blocked her path. She scrambled through them into another clearing and skidded to a stop.

  Tied to a low-hanging branch by its reins, a horse paced. The firebird crest on the saddle suggested it had been stolen from the Pyreack camp. Eyes frenzied, it bucked its head as she slunk up to it. Panting hard, she untied its reins and grabbed the saddle. It was much taller than her earlier mount. Her biceps flexed as she pulled herself up, swung a leg over, and slid her unsteady feet into the stirrups.

  Without the chain tethering her to Suren, she had to ride and command the animal. She whispered, “Work with me. Please.”

  It didn’t get the horse moving. Desperate, she kneed its sides; it whinnied and turned in a circle. She tugged on the reins to pull its head toward the west, away from the Pyreack camp.

  Again, the horse circled.

  Tears of frustration brimming, she kicked it with her heel. It darted off, almost tossing her from the saddle. She grabbed the pommel with one hand, the reins with the other. At least it was going in the direction she wanted.

  But ears flat against its head, the horse broke into a gallop. Teeth chattering, body bouncing like corn in a skillet, she closed her eyes and begged it to slow. It ignored her. She clung on until her thigh muscles ached. The stupid nag’s thundering hooves would likely wake every sleeping monster. Ivan’s words, uttered so long ago in another world, came back to her: A nice snack for traveling fae soldiers.

  A fae roar bellowed from the camp.

  They knew she’d gone.

  Something screamed through the air and whizzed past her head before embedding in a nearby tree. She only had a moment to look before her horse sped past.

  An arrow.

  They couldn’t have tracked her that fast.

  Heart galloping harder and faster than the horse’s hooves, she risked a glance back and yelped.

  An archer stood in the trees through which she’d just sped. A second arrow strained against a large bow clenched in the archer’s fist.

  Stasha tugged the horse’s reins. He whinnied angrily but veered just as the arrow fired. They leaped over a log and through thick, thorny scrub that tore at her face.

  A dark form plunged toward her, illuminated in the moonlight. Unbelievably, it ran along the tree line, keeping perfect pace with her horse.

  Only a fae had that much speed.

  “Go! Go faster,” she pleaded to her horse.

  A twang, and the beast stumbled. It shrieked, reared on its hind legs, and buckled over. She was thrown from the saddle. The horse’s legs rolled over her. All air fled her lungs as the terrified creature kicked and whinnied. Fingers clawing the dirt, she groaned as she wriggled out from under it. A flailing hoof nicked the back of her calf. She cried out and stumbled before finding her balance.

  “Try to run, and I’ll put this arrow through you.”

  Not daring to breathe, she pivoted toward the archer.

  Dressed in black fighting leathers with no insignia, it was impossible to determine where the fae female came from.

  At least she wasn’t Pyreack. That had to count for something.

  Stasha opened her mouth to speak but stopped when the archer jerked the bow up to aim the arrow at her heart. Even in the dark, she recognized the tang of schorl.

  Not a friend, then.

  Her bleeding calf tingled with fae healing, but not fast enough if she were to run. Even if she could outrun an arrow shot from a fae bow.

  A second fae archer appeared, then a third and fourth, all pointing schorl arrows at her.

  She flushed hot and cold and lifted her hands to ward them off. A plume of wild, red flames shot from her fingers.

  The fae who had spoken barked a warning at her companions and jumped back. The others swore. Someone fired, but the arrow went wide.

  Stasha broke into a run, a river of fire trailing from her fingertips. It leaped from tree to tree and rushed along the ground, igniting the dry undergrowth between her and the archers.

  Embers floated past as she sprinted faster than she’d ever thought possible. Ash coated her teeth, her tongue. She ignored the foul taste, running on tireless legs as her fire spread like a flood through the forest behind her.

  Smoke blanketed everything, thick, gray, and cloying. Fiery sparks touched her skin but left no mark. No pain.

  A lover’s caress.

  A gurgling brook finally stopped her. She slumped down on her hands and knees. Her fire snuffed on contact with the ground. Lungs rasping, she massaged a stitch in her side

  “Well, well. Look who we have here,” a familiar voice said from the shadows. “Having fun, pit princess?”

  She jumped up, raising her hands to summon more fire as a warning. Not even a flicker responded. That left her nothing but her attitude with which to defend herself. She dropped her hands to her hips. “Averin.”

  “You don’t sound repulsed by the sound of my name. I suppose that’s progress.” Averin pushed off a tree weeping into the brook. Hands tucked lazily in his pockets, he sauntered closer, then stopped. “You’ve sure been busy since I last saw you.” His blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

  How had she not noticed before how beautiful they were? Right, she had—until he’d turned into a fae. Worse, turned her into a fae too. If that was what he’d done.

  But not all of her silence was driven by Blue Eyes’ pretty orbs. She still wasn’t entirely sure whose side he was on. Was he also seeking her as a weapon to manipulate and control?

  It seemed likely.

  During the attack on her village, Averin and his two companions had fought against the Pyreack fae. Clearly, he wanted her. Did he also have a king on whose errand he worked?

  All the more reason to be cautious.

  “Nothing to say for yourself, pit princess? That has to be a first.”

  She sought for a sharp comeback, but nothing popped out of her mouth.

  Also, she didn’t know how to move her suddenly awkward limbs. She settled for a canted head and a cocky smile.

  Averin smiled back at her. “How’s that underdog thing working for you?”

  Now she knew what to say. “Shut up, you idiot.”

  Averin barked a laugh. But even as he teased her, his muscles were tense and his eyes watchful. Clearly not as carefree as he’d been just two days before. Having his “weapon” ripped from his hand by Pyre
ack fae must have ticked him off.

  Something to remember.

  Then again, Averin had tried to help her, both during the earthquake and when he’d freed her from the pyre.

  The question was whether she should trust him. But with no other options, and enemies all around, who else could she turn to? As long as she kept her wits about her, trusting him would be the safest route … for now.

  “We need to get out of here,” she said urgently. “There’re hunters in the woods. My fire would have delayed them, but—”

  “They can’t see us. I’ve put up a glamour.” Averin took a step closer. His gaze swept over her. “Are you hurt?” The usual amused glint in his eyes was replaced by something darker.

  She shook her head, but his worried darkness didn’t lift. “How did you find me?”

  Averin shrugged. “We’ve been tracking you since you left the village. Radomir is a predictable bastard.” He spat the name. “It didn’t take too many guesses before we found you.”

  Her eyebrows creased. “We?”

  Averin extended his chin in a slight nod. A twig crunched loudly behind her, as if someone was trying to be heard.

  She turned.

  The two fae who’d helped her and Klaus off the pyre stepped around the bough of a thick tree. So much for keeping her wits about her—she hadn’t even known they were there.

  The heavily-built one with the long chestnut-colored ponytail moved with swagger, grinning like an idiot. The dark-skinned one was silent, his brutally sculpted face blank, his blue eyes icy. Penetrating as a wolf’s, they seemed to take in every detail with one measured sweep.

  She had to look away.

  “Stasha.” Averin stepped closer and gestured to his companions. “My first, Trystaen.”

  The grinning one dipped his head. Classically handsome, his eyes, the color of pine needles, reminded her of home. Blades glinted on his baldric.

  “And my second, Eliezar.”

  The silent one didn’t move.

  Neither did she. Instead, she gulped out the only question that really mattered. “Averin, is Klaus okay? Did you see him before you left Askavol?”

  Averin’s lips thinned, and his face locked up, all amusement and lightheartedness gone.

  Her knees shook. She clutched her pendant. No. Please, no.

  Averin took a step closer. “He’s alive.”

  She could have cried with relief. But Averin’s frown suggested he wasn’t done yet. Bile rose in her throat.

  “After Radomir spirited you away, more Pyreack soldiers showed up at the village. We were outnumbered, so we had to fall back.” Averin’s shoulders tightened, and he inched closer, as if he were scared she’d bolt or that her trembling knees would buckle. “They brought prison wagons and loaded everyone inside. Including Klaus.”

  Her entire world swayed. “Prison wagons? Going where?” She knew on some level that she was shouting. She didn’t care.

  Averin hesitated, glancing between her and his companions. “To Angharad. In the heart of the Pyreack kingdom. They call it a ‘work camp.’ The rest of us know it as a death camp.”

  Klaus was going to a death camp.

  Every inch of her body crackled with fire, fire so hot it threatened to melt her bones and make her skin drip. Just like that Tiyanak’s had when Radomir had killed it.

  Trembling, she screamed, “What do you mean he’s in a death camp?”

  Averin’s sapphire eyes filled with something like despair. Grief.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. They turned to steam before reaching her chin. She screamed even louder. “You stood by and did nothing while my people—my friend, the only person I have left—was carted off to a death camp.” She launched herself at him.

  Averin didn’t budge as she slammed into his chest. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she swung both her fists at his face. Before she made contact, he grabbed her hands gently but firmly and twisted her around until her back pressed against the hard warmth of his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a forced breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry wasn’t enough.

  She roared, a primordial sound filled with pain and fury as she thrashed in his arms. Heat shimmered like rippling water above her skin. Tears burned off her cheeks in salty steam.

  Still Averin held her, even though he, too, must have been on fire. She brought her foot up to slam into his shin, but it snagged on her stupid dress—a dress that didn’t burn even though she was engulfed in flames.

  Averin flinched but held her in a tight embrace. The stink of burning leather sank into her pores. But still his grip remained firm.

  Trystaen’s grin vanished. Both he and Eliezar had shifted forward, poised to pounce.

  Averin didn’t summon them. He just kept repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She hated him for it. And she hated herself even more for leaving Klaus. For leaving Tarik. For being the last one left.

  She’d done this to them. The earthquakes had come from her, from the cursed beacon she wore around her neck and loved so much.

  The fire of self-loathing roaring in her core would never burn out.

  And she didn’t know if she wanted it to.

  A soft wind rustled through the clearing. It was so cold, her breath puffed and her steaming tears froze. A Zephyr fae trying to cool the terrible heat pouring off her skin?

  And still Averin held her.

  In the end, she wasn’t sure how long she fought in his arms. It could have been minutes. Or hours. Maybe even days. She didn’t care. Finally spent, she slumped forward against his biceps. Her chin dropped onto his hands.

  Averin loosened his grip just enough to free her, but not enough to evict her. She pulled away, rubbing her aching hands over her stinging eyes. She faced him and gaped. Her fire had burned right through his leathers. His chest was blistered and raw.

  Hating this power that turned her into a weapon, she looked down at her boots.

  But there was no denying what had happened to Klaus and Averin. She looked up and locked eyes with him. Voice hoarse, she said, “I’m going to Angharad. Are you coming with me?”

  No one moved. Perhaps Averin and his friends were shocked at her radical announcement. “Well,” she demanded. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere with you until I rescue Klaus.”

  Averin ran a hand over his blistered chest. It was already beginning to heal. “Stasha, my glamour won’t hold forever. The rebels are still out there. And by now, Radomir is on your trail.” A wry smile. “You kind of led them here.”

  She thumped her hands on her hips. “I need an answer.” She threw her head back. “No. Two answers. One—is Angharad near the Pyreack capital with the unpronounceable name?”

  “Phyrturq? Nowhere near it,” Averin said.

  That ruled out going back to Radomir.

  Averin frowned at her. “But, Stasha—”

  “And two,” she almost yelled over Averin’s objection. “Are you coming, or do I make my own way to Angharad?”

  Averin, Trystaen, and Eliezar exchanged a look that suggested she didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t, but that didn’t matter. She would find her way to Angharad if she had to beg, steal, lie or kill to do it.

  Averin inched closer but didn’t try to touch her. “There’s a fae inn nearby. It’ll be easier to defend ourselves there. Let’s head over and talk about it.”

  Eliezar dug into his knapsack and pulled out a tunic. He tossed it to Averin, who pulled it on.

  “Fine. Lead the way. But don’t for one second think that you’ll dissuade me.”

  “I wouldn’t debase your grief by trying.”

  But instead of leading, Averin walked beside her while the other two took point. He didn’t say anything, but she caught his surreptitious glances. Trystaen and Eliezar talked quietly, navigating their way through the frost-covered trees.

  It was cold. So very cold.

  Even her thick dress couldn’t keep her shudders at bay. Exh
austed, thirsty, and hungry, her feet snagged on every loose root and branch on the dark forest floor. But none of that shifted the fire raging under her skin.

  A death camp. They’d taken Klaus, and everyone else in her village, to a death camp. How much time did Klaus have? How long did she have to get him out? She needed answers.

  “How much farther till we get to this inn?”

  “We’re not far now.” Averin slowed and scanned the forest ahead. Trystaen and Eliezar had gone silent. “I’d suggest keeping quiet for just a few minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “There’re a lot of predators in these woods,” Averin whispered. “We don’t want to attract attention.” At least he was more expansive than Suren had been, even if he veered from specifics.

  She whispered, “But you’re fae. You can handle something like the Tiyanak, right?”

  “I’m not talking about the Tiyanak,” Averin whispered back. “And, yes, we can handle most things, but not if we’re severely outnumbered, as we were in Askavol. Manticore like to travel in packs.” His hands inched closer to his weapons. “We’ll be fine if we can make it through to the inn undetected.”

  She sidled closer to him, eyeing a curved dagger strapped to his belt. She hoped there would be no need to use it. “Manticore? Are they real?” She’d heard stories about the terrible manticore with their pincered tails but had never really believed them.

  Averin’s lips tightened, and he rested his hand on his dagger hilt. “As real as you and me. Just keep quiet for the next few minutes.”

  She nodded and focused on placing her feet more carefully as she walked. Twigs and leaves still cracked under her boots. Even her breathing sounded too loud. She hated these woods.

  Through the mesh of tree trunks and shifting leaves, a dark form loomed. She slapped a hand on Averin’s arm, eyes frozen on the threat ahead.

  Averin’s fingers wrapped around hers in a reassuring squeeze. He leaned in closer. “It’s just a broken building. This used to be a fae town. It was ruined in the war. Nothing more. Now keep quiet until we’ve passed.”

  She slipped her hand from his and slowly picked her way through the undergrowth until the ruin came into view. The ramshackle building was one of many broken, blackened structures in the village. Stone walls leaned haphazardly, as if they would topple at any moment. On one of the walls, a firebird crest had been carved. Other buildings had crumbled into nothing but gray pebbles and dust. Ivy and vines swallowed others whole. Trees grew up through long-decayed roofs. Old roof tiles littered the forest floor. Any roads that once existed were choked by thistles, shrubs, and weeds.