The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  The princess’s perfect mouth quivered. “Call me Boa.” She held out a clean cloth.

  Stasha grabbed it and swabbed it over a splotch of gravy and meat on her tunic.

  Boa took a sip of wine from a goblet at her elbow and then proceeded to fill her plate with an equally healthy pile of food. “I don’t imagine there was much call for dramatic social graces where you come from.”

  Stasha frowned, unsure if it was a jab. She risked another glance at Averin. He still smiled at her, but this time with amusement and, astonishingly, care.

  She relaxed. “No, there wasn’t.” She picked up her fork again and swirled a chunk of meat in the pool of gravy. “After you turn twelve at the orphanage, they only serve a free meal once a month at the Hiding of the Moon. The rest we had to pay for from our wages. I almost always showed up covered in mud and sweat. And they never served anything as good as this.”

  Boa cradled her wine goblet and leaned back in her seat. “Sounds like a carefree existence.”

  Stasha snorted softly. Right. Carefree. Watching people die of hunger because their wages weren’t enough to pay for the meals. In memory of all those who had perished thanks to the loving kindness of the Kňazer and Martka, she tossed the meat into her mouth.

  “When I met Stasha,” Averin said, “she was betting in a fighting pit for coin to buy food. So, perhaps not as carefree as one would think.”

  What?

  Stasha froze and gawked at Averin. Why did he have to say that here? His blue eyes stared back at her with—pride. She swallowed, not sure what to make of that. Was it all part of the show they were supposed to be putting on for Boa, or did he really feel that way about her?

  Boa looked over Stasha’s scrawny frame. “I suppose not. We each have our battles to fight. Most of them happen in the dark, where no one can see or understand. But we fight all the same.” The line of blue tattoo snaked down Boa’s wrist. It curled and twisted around her fingers before disappearing up her sleeve.

  Stasha slowed her chewing. Boa was right in ways she had never acknowledged. That day in the fighting pits, when she’d stolen Averin’s silver coins, she’d done it without remorse. She’d given no consideration to the hardship it may have caused him. She’d let herself believe that the blue-eyed stranger had no idea of adversity, or what it was to be desperate.

  And now here she was, sitting across a table from him, trying to rekindle some hope in him that they could indeed destroy Angharad. No doubt he’d lost someone close to him in the death camp. His heartache and anguish might have been different from hers, but it existed nonetheless.

  Everyone has a war to fight. Most battles rage in the lonely dark.

  A lesson to remember.

  To lift the mood, she responded with cockiness. “Don’t despair for me. I didn’t make life easy for the Kňazer and the Martka. They had no idea what to do with me half the time.” She tossed in a smirk for Averin. “But then, I never make life easy for anyone.”

  Averin raised his goblet to her. “To that I can attest.”

  A goblet of red wine sat at Stasha’s right hand. She lifted it, and he tapped his cup against hers.

  Boa added her goblet to the toast. “I think we are all counting on that.”

  Boa and Averin—everyone at the table—took a sip of their wine. Stasha followed suit, almost gasping as warm, spiced silk caressed her tongue. Heady, it was nothing like the watered-down ale she and Ivan had passed around the pit while witty banter flew.

  Another thing she’d never get back. Oh, how much she missed that.

  She sighed through her nose and took another sip of wine. Were Ivan and Goul on their way to Angharad too?

  Averin put his goblet down and dipped his fingers into an earthenware pot. He sprinkled salt on his food.

  Her eyes widened. “I thought salt repelled fae?”

  “Old wives’ tale.” Averin laughed. “Just like we eat humans. Don’t believe everything you heard in the mortal world.”

  Boa ran her finger around the rim of her goblet. “Tell us a story, Stasha. Tell us about your mortal life.”

  Mortal life. She tried not to wince. Something else she’d never get back. Something she hadn’t known was never hers at all.

  So, what to share? What would ensure Boa came through with her promise of help? What would keep that glow of pride in Averin’s eyes and make Eliezar’s lips twitch? Trystaen had already proved he enjoyed anything she shared with him. And as for Lukas and Frea? She assumed they would be part of the heist, so she had to impress them too.

  Perhaps inspired by the wine, a memory tugged at her. Like everything in her life, it was fraught with both pain and humor. As hard as it was to talk of Tarik, she decided to share it. “Tarik and I used to go to the fighting pits often. As Averin mentioned, that’s how we earned money for food. But if we lost, we went hungry. That was a problem. Especially for Klaus. I hated it when he went hungry.”

  Boa’s eyebrows rose. “Keeping him fed was your responsibility? How old is this friend of yours?”

  Stasha’s face flushed at the implied criticism. “He has a crippled leg.”

  Boa exchanged troubled looks with Averin. Stasha guessed what they were communicating: a boy with a damaged leg would have even less chance of survival in Angharad.

  All the more reason to wow Boa with this story. She forced a smile into her voice. “The Kňazer’s pantry in their private kitchen was always a last resort. They knew the contents were coveted like gold, so they had their toughest acolytes guard it. Getting into it took ingenuity and no small degree of courage.” She took a quick mouthful of food and spoke around it. “One day, Tarik stole a set of acolyte robes.” She grinned. “He was a sneaky thief. Much better than I ever was.” She giggled at the memory despite her yearning for Tarik. “The fanatic acolyte he stole them from was stuck inside all day with no clothes.”

  Boa’s smile mirrored hers. Happy but sorrowful.

  Stasha’s heart warmed, and she pushed more emotion into her voice. “We hid two knapsacks under the robes on the day Tarik wore them to take me to the Kňazer’s home at the Crekev to be punished for my”—she made air quotes—“frivolity.”

  “Frivolity?” Trystaen leaned back in his chair. “That’s punishable in the mortal world?”

  She flashed him a smile. “Two days in lockup.” His eyebrows rose, and she guessed he had no idea what lockup was, but she wasn’t going to break the rhythm of her story to explain.

  “The acolytes guarding the place didn’t even stop us when we sauntered in.”

  “Just how many times had you been punished for frivolity?” Averin’s eyes glinted with mirth.

  “I thought I’d already mentioned that I never make life easy for anyone. Myself included.”

  Averin—and Boa—chortled. She had to stop herself from preening. Who knew that a boring story from her very mundane life would interest these majestic creatures. Some of the others chuckled, too, but the two royals were the ones whose opinions counted the most.

  “The acolytes were watching us, the little busybodies, until we heard the crash from the Kňazer’s parlor.” She threw her head back and laughed. “Klaus had struck. Him and the goats. You want to know how to drive a Kňazer nuts? Let goats into his parlor.”

  More laughter.

  She bobbed in her chair, smirking. “It was chaos. Goats crapping. Kňazer yelling. Acolytes running.” She clapped her hands together, making sparks fly. “Before it was sorted out, Tarik and I had virtually cleaned out the pantry. We even stole an old bottle of wine.” She didn’t add that Klaus had ended up holding her hair back while she vomited after drinking too much of the sour stuff. “We ate well for days on that.”

  When the laughter subsided, Boa poured herself more wine. A bright teal stone set in a silver ring on her index finger caught in the light. Like everything about Boa, it was beautiful.

  Averin leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. “Did they punish you?”

  She grimac
ed. “Oh yes. Five lashes for me and Tarik. And three days in lockup.”

  “And Klaus?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. As if she or Tarik would ever have allowed Klaus to be punished. “Tarik and I always took Klaus’s punishments, even when he pleaded with us to let him take a stint in lockup. With his leg, we weren’t risking the rest of his health.”

  “Now you need to explain lockup,” Trystaen said softly.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “A dark cell with no food and little water. You stay there until the Martka and Kňazer decide that the gods have forgiven you.” She rolled her eyes, picked up her fork, and pushed a potato around her plate. “Not much different than regular life, really.” The corners of her mouth pulled down. “Still, we all thought that was the worst thing that could possibly happen.” She shifted in her seat, smile dissolving completely. “I guess we were wrong.”

  No one said anything, so she felt obliged to continue. She laced her fingers around the stem of her goblet so tight it might snap. “You probably think that Tarik and I babied Klaus. We didn’t. He might be strong in mind, but his body is weak. And the weak don’t survive in Askavol.” She tipped her head back and chugged the rest of her wine. She thumped the empty glass back on the table.

  Eliezar refilled her goblet. The protector of their little circle, he saw everything with those pale, wolfish eyes. She liked him.

  Despite the wine, her throat was dry. She swallowed. “Averin.” His stars were sparkling, but … mournfully. Pitiful. She wanted to hate him for that sympathy. That grief. But she couldn’t. No matter how tough and cavalier Averin appeared, he was in bits and pieces too. Just like Boa. “How did you fail to destroy Angharad? What went wrong?”

  Averin stiffened and glanced at Boa.

  Face pale, Boa had frozen. Her extraordinary eyes locked on something Stasha couldn’t see. That blue-lined tattoo slithered back over her fingers, wrapping around them like a noose.

  Stasha’s gaze shot between the Prince of Zephyr and the Princess of Ocea. “Were you two together?”

  “Not at first.” Averin sounded strained. “But it all started with the Battle of the Blue Desert, sixty years ago.”

  Blue Desert? Trystaen had mentioned the place. He told her it had caught fire when she was born. Other than that, she had no knowledge of it.

  “My father thought we had Piss Swill on the run,” Boa cut in, gaze still locked on something no one else could see. Perhaps something not in this world. “He persuaded King Seph, Averin’s father, to send troops for an attack on Pyreack. Averin argued that it was a mistake. That Piss Swill was playing with us. Luring us into the Blue Desert to slaughter us.”

  “No one believed me.” Averin’s jaw clenched, and his face hardened into something vicious. “They all wanted to believe that if Ocea, Atria, and Zephyr united forces, we could defeat Pyreack. I knew our soldiers were marching to their deaths. In the Blue Desert, terrain is as much an enemy as Pyreack armies. I refused to commit as many troops as King Appius wanted.”

  Was that where the animosity between Boa and Averin came from? That Ocea had needed his help, but he had been unwilling to give it?

  Boa sighed. “The battle lasted nine days. Nine days of constant slaughter. The ground was bathed in red and tears. Fae and mortal blood alike. Even at night, the sands didn’t glow blue. Only red. They tell me nothing grows there now, even sixty years later.”

  Stasha shuddered. It would be easy to drown it all out with more wine, but she didn’t want this story—this truth—hazed by alcohol.

  “We knew there was no hope left.” Boa’s voice was a dull monotone. “Even before the main Pyreack army crested the dunes—the army they’d hidden from us.”

  The army Averin suggested awaited them? Unsaid, the words hung in the air.

  “There were so few of us left, and their forces were.…” Boa shook her head. Her gold seashell combs fell onto the table. Her hair tumbled across her face, exposing her pointy fae ears. “Their army stretched as far as the eye could see.” She closed her eyes. “I still hear the beating drums. The horns and battle cries. They knew they’d already won, even before the first blade struck. And they reveled in it. The misery. The slaughter.”

  Averin stared at his wine goblet. But even though his eyes were dark, there was no triumph in them for having been right.

  “They wielded flame and ash and smoke as though it were a blade. I could taste their victory in the air, like a spray of salt from the sea on my skin.” Boa’s voice was just as bitter as brine. “It was all I could smell for months after.” Her gaze met Stasha’s. “All Pyreack scum can wield orange-red fire, but you burn with blue-green flames. That’s what we saw tonight while you played with fire. But we all felt the thrum of invisible flame—white heat—coming off you, straight through our shields. It took me straight back to the Blue Desert.” Boa reached over and squeezed Stasha’s hand so hard it hurt. “You need to understand how rare and dangerous you are. It takes bands of Pyreack soldiers working together to pool their magic to create white heat. You created it as easily as breathing. It explains why Piss Swill wants you so much.”

  Stasha resisted the urge to pull away. “What does white heat do?”

  “The unimaginable,” Boa whispered. “I’ve seen grizzled soldiers run into walls of orange or blue flame to escape white heat.” Boa’s hand fell away from Stasha’s.

  “If Boa hadn’t doused you tonight, you would have melted us all.” Averin’s voice was somber. He gestured to Eliezar. “He has some tricks up his sleeve to help you control it.”

  “For control it you must,” Boa said. “Or you will kill us all.”

  Stasha’s stomach curdled. She pushed her plate away. “Tell me more of the battle.”

  A long silence before Boa spoke. “There was a legion of defectors from Ocea, Atria, and Zephyr fighting with the Pyreack armies, cowards who would rather fight as traitors than die as heroes. They turned on us, using our own magic against us.” Her voice was thick. “We had one last gift to give. One last stand for our people. So we fought until our blades snapped, and then we fought with hand and foot … until I realized that none of us had fallen in many hours.” A bitter laugh. “I understood too late. They were herding us while they brought in their schorl wagons to take us to Angharad. And to capture my father.”

  Angharad. Stasha sat up straighter in her chair.

  “My father was not a young fae, even then,” Boa said. “Every day I sensed more of his power draining from him and into me as his living heir. He realized what they were doing at the same moment I did. He grabbed me—” Boa rubbed her temples. “The key he transferred dropped me to my knees. The last thing he could do to protect his people. I was writhing on the ground when he tried to kill himself with his broken blade.” Pain twisted Boa’s face. “White heat evaporated the sword in his hand. I had never heard my father scream before. Not in two hundred years. And I’ll be glad to never hear it again.” Boa gulped a mouthful of wine and wiped the drop that drizzled down her chin. “They spirited him to that son of a bitch, Darien. I knew the moment he arrived because the power that had been leaking into me for years … just stopped. Darien had won. Not just the battle, but our entire kingdom.”

  “And you? And the rest of your soldiers?” Stasha asked.

  “I had been so focused on my father that I barely noticed when they locked the first wagon door. Like you, Stasha, it carried the only person I had left in the world—my lover, Shyael.” Boa’s tattoos swirled across her hand. “I tried to stop them, of course, but Radomir spirited them away.

  “I wanted to fight on, but my father had given me the key to spiriting into our kingdom, and I could not risk being captured. While I live, no one who isn’t from Ocea can spirit into my kingdom.” Boa turned haunted eyes on Stasha. “I abandoned Angharad and slunk out of the Blue Desert with Pyreack soldiers on my heels.” She slammed her fist on the table. “But I swore I’d never slink again. I returned to Ocea to guard my borders a
nd set up my rebel army.” Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “But I never forgot Angharad. Or Shyael.” She waved at Averin. “I buried my fury over his betrayal and turned to him for help.”

  “As you can see, even in need, she doesn’t forgive.” Averin spoke lightly. He blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his dark two-day stubble. All mirth gone, he added, “I lost fae to Angharad too.” His eyes swallowed the candlelight. “I led an army to Angharad Death Camp. Even from five miles away, we could smell the bodies on the wind. The rot. The blistering heat in the Blue Desert didn’t help. I flew over the camp only once—I think they let down their shields because they wanted me to see what they’d done to our soldiers. Many had been flayed and left to die and rot in the sun. The rest wore schorl manacles around their ankles and worked the mines.”

  Stasha’s hands itched with fiery rage, mixed with fear for Klaus. “So what did you do?”

  “Do?” Averin laughed hoarsely. “Rather ask what we didn’t do. The walls are unscalable—guarded by magic. The two tunnel entrances are guarded and blocked by portcullises. Not that any of that really matters. Getting into Angharad is easy. It’s getting out that’s impossible.”

  “You lost fae trying?”

  “More than I care to admit.”

  Trystaen nodded. Even Lukas and Frea added murmurs of agreement. Only Eliezar seemed untouched. Inscrutable.

  Boa slammed her hand on the table. “Futile. Everything we did. Just futile.”

  “In the end, we tried starving them out,” Averin said. “But after a year of failure, my father ordered the Azura back to Zephyr.” He canted his head to appraise Stasha. “The low point of my very long life.” A smile quirked, perhaps in memory of her accusation that he was two billion years old.

  How she wished she could have a private moment with him to wipe that shame, pain, and despair away with a gentle hand.