The Fire Thief

by Erin St Pierre

  “As if I ever would. Rescuing Klaus is everything to me.” But even as she spoke, she knew she would hate it if things between her and Averin changed. Especially since the only reason he could have rejected her was because she was a nobody weapon while he was a prince.

  Familiar darkness settled over Averin. Eyes hooded, he said, “And taking you back to Zephyr is everything to me.”

  Averin in pain. Averin suffering from wounds she could only guess at. Wounds she longed to heal but didn’t know how to even start fixing.

  She tossed her shoulders back in the hope that a firm posture would steady her voice. “Then we both know what to do … and what not to do.” She forced a sassy smile to cover up her sorrow at what she was losing. At the chasm dividing her and this beautiful, tortured creature.

  Averin tossed a cocky smile her way, one that tumbled her straight back to the Averin she’d met outside the shop when he’d confronted her about his stolen coin. “Now that we understand each other, care to continue the tour?”

  “Of course.”

  Why did it hurt when he didn’t offer her his arm? And when had she become so needy as to want it?

  Numbly, she followed him along a length of stone wall, carved with alcoves. In the torchlight, life-sized statues flickered in them. Here the marauders had been more successful in their destruction. Cracked and broken, some of the effigies wore the black and white robes she was so familiar with. The carved robes clung to their frames, spilling like frozen waterfalls to forever pool at their bare feet.

  The two-faced god.

  The only difference between these statues and the ones in the orphanage, or at the Crekev, were the delicate, pointed fae ears that had survived on some of them.

  She flinched, tucking a hand under the bicep of her torch-holding arm. Her nails dug in so hard, she thought the skin might split.

  She forced herself to keep walking.

  “We see the two-faced god differently than humans do,” Averin said, still keeping his distance. “To us, he represents power—the font of all magical power. Him and the tree.” He looked around and sighed. “Or they once did.” His boot nudged a broken arm. “Before all this.”

  “So he doesn’t punish and burn at the stake?”

  “No. For that, you need to look to the other gods.” Averin ambled to the opposite wall. Its alcoves were stuffed with statues of gods she’d never seen before. Some bowed cracked heads over broken hilts of great swords. Others were emblazoned with strange words in a language she didn’t recognize. Stone owls or ravens perched on the shoulders and outstretched arms of others. Perhaps once beautiful, now they were chipped and deformed by war.

  She sighed, tired of yet more signs of senseless conflict.

  She was about to turn away to find Boa and the others when Averin reached for her hand. He hesitated, as if remembering their pact to stay clear of each other, and then wiped his palm on his leggings. “There’s more to see.”

  Not wanting to part with him, she waited.

  “Why do you hate the gods so much?” Averin’s voice was a mere whisper, as if the stone statues towering over them might smite him down for suggesting such a thing.

  She palmed her pendant in a dust-covered hand. It dug painfully into her scar. “I prayed once,” she said, so low she didn’t know if he’d heard. “I prayed the day Tarik died.” After kissing Averin, Tarik’s name sat awkwardly on her tongue, as if she didn’t deserve to say it.

  Averin stiffened beside her.

  She ground her teeth together so hard, her jaw ached. “I begged the two-faced god to save him. I pleaded.” She opened her palm and stared down at the ugly, thick scar. “And he did nothing. He let all those people die.” She blinked back tears. “And I will never pray for anything again. Either the gods don’t exist, or they don’t care.” She dropped her hand. “I have no interest and no time to waste on them.”

  Averin’s fingers brushed against hers. A reassuring, gentle touch, like she would share with Klaus, reminding her to breathe. “You’re not afraid?”

  She tilted her lips up in a coy, rueful smile. “Of damnation? The day the two-faced god stands accountable for what he’s done, I will too.” She stood a little taller. “What about you? Are you afraid of them?”

  Averin shrugged but didn’t answer. His sapphire eyes hid his thoughts well.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  His perfect eyebrows arched, and he waved a hand for her to go ahead. His sleeves were pulled up, revealing just a hint of tattooed skin.

  “What are those?”

  Averin blinked, then smiled sadly. “They’re a promise. A promise I made to Nela the last time I saw her in Angharad. I had them tattooed so I’d never forget. That’s why I’m going back tomorrow with you to rescue your friend. I owe my sister that much.”

  Her heart broke for him. For all he had lost. But all she could do was hope that no more broken prayers or promises would be borne in Angharad.

  Averin tipped his chin at another wall. A web of cracks and carved symbols traced the dark stone. A few gems still gleamed in the intricate murals, but most were gone. “Come. Let’s finish this tour so we can eat. I’m starving, and I’m sure you are too.”

  Stasha’s eyebrows knitted together. The stone was flaking, like blackened bark, or … parchment. She walked with him for a better look. “Are those messages stuffed in the cracks?”

  “Prayers. Fae would write their heart’s desire and leave them here for the gods to answer.”

  “And did they?”

  “Enough believed they did for this temple to stand for generations.”

  “How did they answer?” she asked, doubting every word.

  “Notes shoved in the crevice with the original prayer.” Averin pulled out a curl of scorched parchment. It was the only one in the nook. A cloud of ash and dust made them both sneeze. He unfurled it and traced the faded blue lettering with a long finger. The swirling calligraphy was grand. He read, “I love a female who loves another male. I pray for his pain. I pray for his death. I pray for her heart. D.R.”

  Stasha gagged audibly. What a vile prayer. She grabbed the parchment and stuffed it back into the wall.

  But now she wanted to know more.

  She grabbed another. This curl was so delicate, it threatened to crumble to dust and be lost forever. She mouthed the letters, taking far longer than Averin to stumble through the greenish ink, faded into almost nothing. She loves a human. I let her go. I pray for my own traitorous heart. E.A.

  Were the gods sporting with her? Or were these real prayers of desperate fae, so fervently written? She pulled out another. The yellowing paper was thicker and sturdier than the others but folded badly. Hurriedly. Carelessly stuffed into the cracks. A date had been scrawled on the top right corner. Thirty years ago. Remember us. Deliver us. Fulfill your promises. They’re coming. They’re here. And now we burn. Ink smudged the parchment, as if the writer had begun to sign his name and had been forced to stop.

  “That must have been the day the Pyreack soldiers came.” Averin was reading over her shoulder. His warm breath sent so many shivers through her, she nearly dropped the hopeless prayer. Her mouth dried. She placed the parchment gently back where she found it. “I’m done. Let’s join the others.”

  “As you wish.”

  But as she turned away, her gaze snagged on another folded sheet. Instead of being stuffed into a crevice, this prayer fit into a tear-drop-shaped hole from where a gemstone had been prized. Unlike the rest of the prayers, the cream-colored parchment wasn’t charred. That dated it to after the attack. Intrigued, she pulled it out. The stiff, newish paper crackled as she unfolded it. Undated, the scrawled lettering was still clear, still perfect. I pray for the child who carries the world. I pray that the child will know us. I pray that the child will serve us. I pray that the child will recognize the key. I pray that the child will use it to free us from our bonds of stone and wood. C.L.E.

  Her lungs tightened, and she just man
aged to wheeze, “Who was C.L.E.?”

  Averin took the sheet from her and turned it over to see the other side. Nothing had been written there. He tapped it against his fingernail. “I don’t know.”

  With no answers, she snatched the prayer from him and shoved it back into the wall. Hatred for the gods and all these unanswered pleas sent sparks flying off her body.

  Averin skittered out of range. “You really need time with Eliezar. He must help you control your fiery emotions.”

  She glared at him. “So you all keep telling me. But not tonight. And not tomorrow, because I want my emotions running wild and free in Angharad. I want nothing to stop me burning.”

  “Perhaps so, Stasha. But we need you to come out of Angharad as the same fae who went in.” She almost jumped out of her skin when Eliezar stepped out of the shadows.

  How long had he been there?

  She glanced at Averin. His expression suggested he wasn’t surprised by the visitation. Still, he glowered at his second. “I’ve got this, El. You don’t need to panic.”

  Eliezar panic? That was almost worthy of laughter if she hadn’t been so irritated that the wolf-eyed fae had stalked them. She plunked her hands on her hips.

  But before she could reprimand him, Eliezar said, “Stasha, places like Angharad change us. They have to. If they don’t, then we need to question our values—our very right to existence. Be careful of what you allow to be wrought in you tomorrow. None of us want to see you changed by hate and fury.”

  Her hands slid off her hips. Eliezar had lost his wife in Angharad, yet he could speak so calmly of guarding against hate? Her irritation dissipated, dissolving as quickly as honey doused by water. “You’re a better person than I if you can lose without hate.”

  “Fae live a long time, Stasha, when our lives are not cut short. Although I fight daily against the Pyreack—and will until I die—I choose to live in peace with myself. I want that for you too.” Eliezar’s eyes softened. “Let’s call that my first lesson. Go to Angharad and burn, but do not let what you see there ignite your soul. Because if it does—” His gaze drifted to Averin. “Not even a hurricane will extinguish it.”

  Indestructible as he seemed, Eliezar feared the power of her destruction?

  She dipped her head to him. “I give you my word. If Klaus is alive, you have nothing to fear from me. But if he’s dead, I make you no promise. I will burn until every Pyreack fae is dead.”

  King Darien Pyreaxos had no idea of the force he’d unleashed.

  More spiriting. This time, Stasha landed up to her ankles in ochre-colored sand. Her stomach rolled, but she didn’t vomit. That would have been progress if the harsh sunlight hadn’t made her flinch.

  Ahead of her, towering dunes stretched to the horizon. Dust drifted above their sculpted slopes, caught in a moaning wind that did nothing to cool the scorching heat. The contrast to the icy cold of the last few days almost made her lightheaded. Above her, the sky was impossibly blue and almost painful to look at. Nothing like her crisp, cold sky in Atria, now so very far away. She shook her head in wonder. If anyone had told her that she, a waif from Askavol, would live to see a desert, she’d have laughed in their face.

  But here she was at the border of Pyreack and the start of the Blue Desert. Three of Boa’s healers and a half a dozen rebel soldiers awaited them. The healers would be responsible for protecting and caring for the prisoners Stasha and her team were about to release. The soldiers—all defectors from Pyreack who now fought alongside Boa—would ride with her in the wagon. Dressed as Pyreack soldiers, Averin and Lucas would sit up front with the horses.

  Clad in rough, grimy clothes befitting prisoners, the soldiers and Lukas would free the fae, part of the distraction she and Averin needed to buy time while they opened the prison gates. Back in the map tent at Boa’s camp, they’d debated bringing a bigger force, but neither Boa nor Averin had been willing to risk more foot soldiers when they’d already lost so many trying to take Angharad.

  Stasha nodded her greetings and tugged her feet out of the mire to walk over to them, only to sink even deeper with each step. Sweat beaded her forehead and trickled down her back. Slogging through these dunes would be exhausting. Fighting in them—well, she had some appreciation for Averin’s claim that the terrain was as much of an enemy as the Pyreack who lived and thrived in this hellhole.

  “Are the Pyreack colorblind?” she asked no one in particular. “There’s nothing blue about this desert.”

  “It shines blue at night. I once thought it magnificent.” The blades in Averin’s baldric, and the ones attached to his arms, legs, and back, glinted in the sunlight. Those were the visible ones. No doubt he had more stashed in his secret pockets and boots. He handed her a waterskin. “Make sure you stay hydrated. We can’t have you weak once the heist begins.”

  She drank greedily.

  “Enough chitchat.” Boa tossed a cloak at Stasha, who caught it with one hand. “Everyone get ready. That includes setting up the bivouac for the prisoners. Behind those rocks will do.” Boa pointed to a jumble of golden boulders on the side of the track. “As soon as the wagon is hemmed in between the dunes and the rocks, we hit it.”

  Stasha quickly detached her black velvet cloak from her shoulders. A cloud of dust stirred upward as it fell. The cloak Boa had given her was tattered and worn—pale gray, like she’d worn every day of her mortal life. Holes peppered the fabric. Even though they suspected all glamour would be swept away when she passed through the camp’s portcullis, she was still going to try to present herself as human.

  She grunted. Pity her nose was undoubtedly fae, given the reek of mildew and filth that wafted over her as she slung the ragged garment around her shoulders. Horrible as the grimy thing was, it would hide her dagger and allow her hidden blade to remain truly hidden in its folds. And keep her hands concealed should they start to spark—a fact no one had mentioned but had to be utmost on everyone’s minds. No matter what happened, she had to control herself, only revealing her fire once Klaus had been found and the slaves freed.

  Or at least that was the plan.

  Averin tossed a Pyreack-foot-soldier’s cloak around his shoulders.

  While she was sure that she appeared like nothing more than a peasant from nowhere in particular, he still looked every inch a prince, despite the ugly firebird crest on his back.

  Eliezar tsked. “Averin, I wish you’d let me and Trys come with you and Stasha.”

  Averin wrapped an arm around Eliezar’s shoulder. “We’ve been through this a dozen times, El. I won’t risk you. If things go badly, and Stasha and I don’t make it, I need you and Trys to explain it to my parents and Rican.” Averin stepped away and added sharply, “And I need you to take over the Azura and the regulars. We can’t risk everyone and everything on this heist.”

  Eliezar sighed. “I hope the glamour lasts long enough to get you through the portcullis.”

  “A risk we have to take,” Averin said firmly. “Now cast it.”

  Eliezar lifted his hand, then hesitated. “Averin, I know I can’t stop you, but at least tell me that you’ve fully recovered from yesterday’s spiriting.”

  Averin punched Eliezar lightly on the shoulder. “Being at the tree was highly restorative. And I slept well after my watch.”

  Stasha blushed. She’d woken this morning with her head on Averin’s chest. His arm had been tight around her. How she’d gotten there, she didn’t know, other than to say that despite wanting to avoid each other, after circling the cavern when their watch ended, they’d gravitated to the same shadowy corner to sleep. She hadn’t been the only one to stutter and huff with embarrassment when they awoke. They had parted instantly without saying a word, neither questioning who had closed the distance in their sleep. She hoped no one had seen them, although with Eliezar, that was unlikely.

  Eliezar fixed her with a penetrating stare, confirming her suspicions that he knew in whose arms she’d spent the night. “In that case, I’ll cast the glamou
r,” he said tersely and waved his hand.

  Stasha gulped when Averin looked at her through very ordinary, very brown Pyreack eyes. His pointed fae face changed from achingly beautiful to merely handsome. “Your turn,” he said.

  She raised her hand to stop Eliezar before he could glamour her. “Is that enough? You still look like Averin. At least to me.”

  “Like you, no one is expecting Prince Averin Trysael of Zephyr to drop into Angharad. All it has to do is get us through the portcullis.”

  “Ready?” Eliezar asked her. Even though he clearly didn’t approve of her relationship with Averin, he spoke softly. Kindly.

  She nodded. Eliezar flitted his hand across her face. Magic trilled through her. Her fingers shot to her ears. Round. Ordinary. Human. Boring. The perfect match to her eyes.

  Next, Eliezar changed Lukas’s mauve water-magic eyes to Pyreack brown.

  “Dirty up.” Lukas passed her a tincture bottle. A firebird crest adorned the back of his soiled, stolen cloak. “It’ll help hide your scent, if nothing else.”

  She pulled out the cork and gagged. It stank of rotting leaves and pig manure. “What, in all the darkness, is this stuff?”

  Averin grinned. “In circumstances like these, I find it best not to ask.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Fine for you. You don’t have to use it.” Only she had to cover her fae smell. She slapped a blob on her face and rubbed it in. Next, she did her hands and clothing.

  Everyone except Averin shifted upwind from her.

  Boa rounded on them. “Frea, Trystaen, Eliezar, positions.” Like shadows, the three fae slipped behind the boulders. “The rest of you, out of the way until called.”

  Averin grabbed Stasha’s sleeve. “I think you smell awful enough.” He dragged her behind the boulders. “Don’t forget. No fire. Save it for the guards operating the gates. Just use that hidden blade until we free Klaus and the rest of the prisoners.”

  She wanted to snap that she wasn’t a child and that she knew the plan as well as he did, but she stopped herself. They all knew how unreliable her fire control was. Boa joined them and crouched low with a crossbow in her hand.