The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  Stasha bit down on her lip. Despite deciding to wing it, every idea and thought had disappeared from her head. Cursing her trembling fingers, she reached into her dress and pulled out her amber pendant.

  The princess’s eyes fell on the stone. She gasped, the sound sharp in the silence. Something in her expression clicked into place. As if the necklace were enough to tell her what magic stood before her—the same magic that had shaken the world eighteen years before.

  The archer and hunters standing on either side of the tent echoed their princess’s sharp-eyed interest.

  The princess’s lips parted, her dark skin paling. “It’s you—” She looked up at Averin. “You found her? Is she going to Zephyr, or—”

  Negotiating for her already? Not happening!

  Stasha raised her voice. “I had no idea who or what I was until a few days ago, but I have fire magic. Radomir claims that makes me part of Pyreack.” She tucked the pendant back beneath her collar. “But I want no part in their war. They sacked my village and sent my people to Angharad.”

  Any blood left in the princess’s face drained. Her now chalk-pale lips pulled together into a tight line.

  Stasha didn’t stop. She couldn’t, or else she’d never say what she needed to. “I won’t leave them there.” Her voice broke. “I can’t leave him there.” She ground her teeth together to stop hated tears burning her eyes. It didn’t help. Voice swollen with emotion, she finished, “So, I want your help getting them out.”

  The princess leaned forward. “Prove it,” she hissed. “Prove to me that you are who you say you are and you didn’t just steal that amber. And that you’re not working with Pyreack.” Rage poured from the woman. Icy, glittering rage. “And, believe me, girl, when I say that if you lie to me, I will personally spill your guts on the floor. And I’ll enjoy doing it.”

  Every instinct in Stasha’s body told her to run. That she wouldn’t bet on herself in a fight against the fae princess.

  But Klaus was just hours away from Angharad.

  She took a deep breath as heat rose in her bones. She risked a glance at Averin.

  He stood with his arms folded across his chest, leaving this to her. Just as he’d said he would.

  So what could she show the princess to convince her? Fire would just prove that she was a Pyreack fae. That could make them think she was a spy.

  Klaus would stumble and fall on his maimed leg. The fae would stomp on him, kick him. The bright wisdom in his very human tawny eyes would dull. He would—

  “Show me your power, girl.” The princess’s fingernails dug into the arms of her chair.

  Anger and fear. Fear and anger. Tarik and Klaus. Anger over her dead love, fear for the death of her only friend. The last person she had left.

  What could she show?

  Fire shot from her palms. It slammed against a shimmering barrier of water. Doused, the flames rebounded, crashing into the ground at her feet. Instead of extinguishing, they ran along the shield like a snake rearing its head, hissing to be let out.

  The shield spluttered and steam crackled, but it stood firm.

  This was her test. Breach the shield. Sweat broke on her lip. She had to pass.

  She reached in, calling on the furnace in her core. Fire exploded from her feet, then from her ankles. The hem of her dress and cloak ignited, but still she pulled on the flames. They curled up her legs, yet she felt no pain. She tossed her head back, threw her hands out so the fire could flow, and turned in a full circle of exhilaration.

  A living torch, she sprayed fire across the tent. Hastily tossed-up shields popped and spluttered as tongues of flame easily ten feet long and three feet broad raked them. On she reeled, head spinning with giddiness.

  She had never felt so free. So alive.

  Icy water doused her.

  “Enough!”

  Staggering to a stop, she peered at the princess through bleary, unfocused eyes.

  Why did water pour from the princess’s hands? It crashed down the dais to drench a sea of dancing flames. Pressed hard against the tent walls, everyone, Averin, Eliezar, and Trystaen included, cowered.

  She dropped her arms to her sides, and the fire spilling from her fingers died. Steam hissed as more frosty water splashed her feet, soaking through her boots. Boots that had survived the furnace. Her eyes shot to her dress. Half sorrow and half relief filled her that the ugly thing had also survived. She guessed it beat standing in front of everyone naked. The very notion made her blush.

  She forced a cocky smile and faced the princess. Had she done enough to pass?

  The princess leaned back in her chair, and her steamy water evaporated into nothing. A thin line of sky-blue slithered around her fingers, then retracted as her hands folded in her lap. That strange, living tattoo.

  Stasha let loose a shaky breath, trying to keep from gasping at the beautiful magic. She snapped her focus back to the results of the test—and the fae who held Klaus’s destiny in her hands.

  Black fingers rapped the rickety throne’s armrest. “Impressive. Very. I defy that chamber pot swill who now calls himself king of Ocea to toss that much fire around.”

  Stasha’s eyes drifted to Averin. He, Trystaen, and Eliezar had dropped their shields and straightened their backs. Averin watched her with his head canted. The speculation in his eyes instilled no comfort.

  “Girl! Look at me.”

  Her head shot back to the princess. The golden-haired archer had sidled closer to Princess Boadicea. Bow in hand, the archer had a schorl arrow targeted at Stasha’s heart.

  Were they that scared of her?

  Not that the princess needed such protection. No one seeing the waves of hate crashing in the princess’s eyes at the mention of King Darien could doubt the power rolling beneath her skin.

  What had King Darien done to her?

  It wasn’t just the invasion of her homeland. This was something else. Something far deeper. An invisible wound filled with schorl and salt, never healing, never dulling.

  Much like Stasha’s own.

  “Convince me, Stasha,” the princess said, “that you aren’t working for that piss-and-pus King Darien who now rules my land. Convince me that I shouldn’t kill you right now and send your head back to him in a schorl box.”

  Stasha looked at the floor. She vaguely recalled seeing a carpet there when they’d first come in. Now all that remained was sooty ground. She’d done that, but as she’d already guessed, displays of fire would never convince this woman.

  Only one thing would do it. The one thing she never wanted to talk about. Ripping her own tongue out would be preferable to speaking about this, but if it helped Klaus—

  She took a deep, calming breath and faced the princess.

  “I grew up in an orphanage in Atria, and I had two friends—two people I love more than anything.” She balled her tingling fists. More fire would not help her now. “One is Klaus. He’s being dragged off to Angharad as we speak, where he will die. And the other … the other.…” Fire licked through her fingers and skirted her hands and wrists. She tucked them under her cloak. “Tarik.”

  She hated the silence. Hated that everyone watched her, listened to her baring her soul to strangers when she and Klaus could barely stand to talk of Tarik.

  It had to be done.

  She tossed her shoulders back. “A year ago, after the first earthquake, Pyreack soldiers came looking for me.” Fire bloomed across her skin, covering her body in a cocoon of red and gold. Nothing she could do about it.

  She spoke through the flames. “Radomir told me it was him.” Her voice spiked. “Did I mention that I plan to kill him? Before this is over.” She looked at the floor, knowing she was drifting off point. “I’d been with Tarik when the quake happened, but I left him to check on Klaus.” Her body trembled, and her second skin of flame crackled. “I left Tarik there. Radomir came. And … and his filthy fae. I didn’t even say goodbye.” She sucked in a sharp breath, trying to keep tears from falling. It didn’
t help. Steam spluttered on her cheeks. “They slaughtered everyone they found, including Tarik. Radomir boasted to me about it after he threatened to give me to his soldiers if I didn’t behave.” She raised her hands, making fiery air quotes around the word behave.

  Even the chirping nighttime insects seemed to have stopped to listen. Hopefully to mourn. She rubbed the thick, jagged scar across her palm. It burned the way it had after she’d torn it open.

  The princess’s eyes followed the movement.

  She dropped her hands to her sides and took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I didn’t know then who they were. Or who I was to them. Only that they murdered one of the only people I have ever loved.” She fixed the princess with her steeliest expression. “Now I do know what they are, and what they want. And now they have Klaus, the last person in the world I have left.” She snarled, baring her teeth. “I will rip each and every one of them apart for touching him. And if he dies—” She didn’t even try to stop the tongues of flame that blasted out of her.

  Shields shot up around the tent. Behind them, fae raised their hands, poised to use magic. Perhaps they feared she’d burn the place down. She was angry enough, but it wouldn’t help her. She tried reining her fire in, but the plumes barely obeyed. She tossed her head back, allowing them to burn. Let them know how serious she was.

  Voice an icy contrast to her heat, she hissed, “If Klaus dies, I will stop at nothing to see King Darien’s head on a spike.” She risked a step closer to the dais. “And, Princess Boadicea, I want your help doing it. Help me free my friend from Angharad.”

  She’d said it. Now all she could do was wait while the princess studied her through pensive eyes.

  It was the longest moment of her life.

  And the quietest.

  The only sound was the pounding of her heart. And she didn’t care if they all heard it.

  “I’ve waited an age for this,” the princess mused. Did the even realize she was speaking aloud? Mauve eyes met Stasha’s and … smiled. “You want to sack Angharad Death Camp?”

  Stasha jerked her chin in a nod. “I do. They must pay in blood for what they’ve taken.”

  “What will you give me if I help you?”

  Must all these fae demand something? Can no one do anything just because it’s right?

  The princess leaned forward expectantly.

  Stasha racked her brain. What, of her meager possessions, could she offer this fae? She blinked.

  Hope.

  Tarik’s hope. It hadn’t been futile or foolish. It had kept her alive, kept her fighting when she should have died from hunger, like so many others in the orphanage.

  She splayed her hands. “Angharad is a gold mine. Resources Darien needs if he wants to keep fighting this war.”

  The princess nodded.

  Relief flushed through her that she’d remembered that detail. She gripped her courage by the throat and declared, “If we can successfully sack Angharad and free his prisoners, we can cut off his funding for this war. We can slow him down long enough to buy you and your rebels time. You could still gain the upper hand.” Knowing that Princess Boadicea would expect her to fight on the rebels’ side—that’s what everyone seemed to want—she added, “We might actually have a shot at winning this war.”

  Despite the arrow still trained on her, she risked another step forward. It closed the gap between her and the dais. “I offer you a better world, Princess Boadicea. One where fae and humans alike are no longer slaves to a tyrant king. I offer you hope.”

  The princess stood. Power flared in her mauve-and-gold-flecked eyes. “Then welcome to my army, Stasha.”

  Princess Boadicea had ordered tents erected for them. One for Stasha, and another for Averin, Eliezar, and Trystaen to share. She’d also ordered their weapons returned, and fresh fighting leathers for Stasha, along with a bath filled with steaming water.

  Stasha had been all too eager to shrug off her ragged clothing, bathe and then dress in the softest leggings and tunic she’d ever worn. They hugged her new fae body like a more comfortable skin. Black metal covered her chest and shoulders, blending with her dark fighting leathers. The breastplate was light and easy to move in, like the rest of the outfit. Best of all, it bore no crest of allegiance. A black velvet cloak clipped to her shoulders flared out behind her as she swirled in her tent. Her red boots, more and more scuffed each day, were a stark contrast against her light-sucking black attire. She had even been presented with a fancy sheath for the dagger Averin had given her.

  Although Stasha was exhausted, the princess had insisted she, Averin, Trystaen, and Eliezar join her for dinner. She strapped her dagger to her waist and stepped outside into the freezing night.

  Averin’s canines flashed white in the darkness. “You did well, my pit princess.” This was the first time she’d been alone with him since the meeting. He held out his arm to her. “Allow me to escort you to dinner.”

  She blinked, then blushed, and then blushed some more that she could have been so stupid to blush in the first place. Beautiful as he was, this was just Averin. And Averin was a prince. A prince who wanted her for reasons still unstated. A good fact to remember, especially when her pulse raced as his endlessly blue eyes embraced her.

  Averin cocked his head. “Not going back to the days when my touch was an abomination, are we?”

  She thumped her arm down on his. “Of course not.”

  “Good. Because that would be a shame.” Averin tucked her hand under his arm and started walking.

  Her pulse spiked when his skin grazed hers. How annoying.

  Averin chuckled. “And if it came down to it, I’m not sure anymore that I’d fare very well in a fight with you—where magic was concerned.”

  She stumbled over her feet. “But—”

  “No buts about it, pit princess. Your fire is … noteworthy, if a tad uncontrolled. Eliezar will be speaking to you about that. I suggest you accept his help. No one trains warriors better than he does.”

  She barely heard his comments about Eliezar. Radomir had used fire to herd her and the other villagers in Askavol. That had seemed more impressive than what she’d done. She frowned as they strolled up a torch-lit path to another large tent. “I saw Radomir do more.” She shivered as she recalled the scorched bodies he’d blackmailed her with.

  “Radomir!” Averin scoffed. “I’ve had the misfortune to fight him before. Believe me, without an army at his back, his fire is nothing. And he knows it. He’ll always take the first gap to spirit from a fight, if he can. Spiriting is all he does really well.”

  “Good to know.” She tucked the knowledge away for future reference. “Is that how he got away from you?”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  They reached the tent flap. Before swinging it open, Averin stopped. “Boa and I have our differences, but under the circumstances, she is the best ally we could have in this venture of yours. Use the time at her table well.”

  She gnawed her lip. “No pressure?”

  “No pressure.” A half smile. “Remember, this was your idea.” Averin led her into the tent as if she were a queen, and not an orphan of unknown origin.

  Princess Boadicea waited for them. Dressed in black leathers, she wore a silver breastplate with the fish crest of the Kingdom of Ocea etched in jade and a gold-flecked stone that Stasha didn’t recognize. The burly fae who had met them in the forest and the golden-haired archer flanked the princess. Armed fae stood guard along the sides of the tent. From across the tent, the princess’s strange eyes followed her and Averin as they walked toward her.

  Trystaen and Eliezar had already arrived. Eliezar’s hands hung in easy reach of the blades he’d strapped to his armored body. She’d seen how difficult it was to fight fae with just magic and understood the need for mundane weaponry.

  Prompted by pressure from Averin’s arm, she bobbed a curtsy. Averin merely dipped his head.

  The princess waved right and left. “Lukas, my first.
Frea, my general. They will be joining us for dinner.” Lukas’s smile was almost as broad as his shoulders. Frea’s face didn’t even twitch. “Come,” the princess added. “Let’s eat.” She glided past a glowing firepit to a rough table hewn from the same pale wood that grew in the forest. None of the chairs matched. The princess sat at the head.

  Averin pulled out a chair to the princess’s left and gestured for Stasha to sit. Never more awkward, she shuffled into it. The legs scraped across the canvas ground sheet as she pulled it closer to the table. Of course, when Averin sat at the princess’s right, his stupid chair made no noise at all. Neither did any of the other fae. Was she always to stand out as different?

  Odd.

  To cover her embarrassment, she studied the drool-invoking array of food spread across the table. Between lit candles, wooden platters overflowing with savory meat dressed in garlic and rosemary and drizzled with thick gravy fought for space with bowls of soft, sweetly spiced vegetables and a mountain of roast potatoes.

  Her stomach growled so loudly, every rebel in the camp must have heard it. She grabbed a dishing-up spoon and scooped a pile of potatoes onto her plate. Next, she forked up half a dozen slices of meat. Hand shaking with hunger and anticipation, she slopped vegetables over the top and then drowned it all in gravy. She snatched up her slightly bent fork, stabbed a gravy-drenched potato, and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed as she chewed the very best food she’d ever eaten.

  Averin clicked his tongue and, not too subtly, cleared his throat. She looked up from her enthusiastic chewing. Averin’s face twisted into something that resembled a part grimace, part smile. Straining not to laugh? His starry eyes darted between her full mouth and her messy plate. She glanced around at the rest of the table; his expression was reflected in the other diners. Even Eliezar’s lips turned up. Only Frea remained stone-faced. Also, none of them had yet dished up a morsel.

  Her sharply pointed fae ears burned. She put her fork down and swallowed the mouthful. “I’m sorry, Princess Boadicea.” Eyes glued to her plate, she shifted in her seat. Was there more gravy on her food, or on the table? Or on the front of her soft, new leathers? “I’m not really used to … well, this.” She waved a vague hand at her surroundings and peered up through her eyelashes.