Burning Bright

by Megan Derr

  Pechal already lay in his bed, paging through a little book of blank pages in which he liked to doodle. Their little trunk had half a dozen of the books, every last scrap of paper filled with drawings in charcoal, pencil, ink—whatever Pechal was able to find. "How was the singing?" he asked.

  "Beautiful," Raz said softly, feeling sad for no reason he could name, as he always did after the hymns.

  "You're going to get us caught one of these days."

  Raz rolled his eyes because he was sick of the argument. "If they catch me they'll just assume I'm one of the homeless who managed to sneak in and throw me out, at which point I'll scale the wall. I like the hymns. Can we please stop discussing this every single time I go and listen to them?"

  Pechal made a face but dropped the matter, tongue between his teeth as he lost himself in drawing. Leaving him to it, Raz picked through what little food they had left. Little food, but plenty of coin, he thought happily. They would have to treat themselves to a nice breakfast and a nice lunch and a nice dinner. He couldn't remember the last time they'd been able to eat more than once a day.

  Maybe he could persuade Pechal to get a better winter jacket. Raz looked surreptitiously to where Pechal was drawing, the lamp set between their beds so he could see, all but smothered in piles of blankets. Raz seldom felt the cold as sharply as Pechal; the winters were nice because he actually felt comfortable rather than too warm for once.

  He frowned when he saw Pechal rub his forehead and grimace in pain. "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Nothing," Pechal said irritably.

  "I can tell."

  Flicking his fingers, Pechal said, "Douse it."

  "No need to be mean," Raz chided. "Your head was bothering you when we left, but I thought it had tapered off. Not getting sick, are you?"

  Sighing, Pechal set his book aside and slumped down in his blankets, not quite dragging them up over his head. "No, I'm fine. My head aches and there's a weird, I dunno, buzzing sort of noise, but I'm sure it's just from working too hard to find the Blood Tear or whatever it was called. Sleep and a good breakfast will sort me out."

  "We've definitely earned a good breakfast," Raz said, making a mental note to slip away at some point and spend some coin on medicine powders. "Go to sleep, then. I hope you feel better."

  "Warm rest," Pechal muttered, and he dragged the blankets up to shut out the cold completely. Raz smiled faintly and doused the light. Removing his boots, he settled on his own bedding, stretching out with his hands behind his head and staring up at the dark ceiling he couldn't really see.

  He was not surprised when Pechal began to toss and turn in his sleep. Smiling faintly, Raz began to sing again, softly. After a few minutes, Pechal stilled, quieted, and finally fell into a restful sleep. Letting his words fade away, Raz turned onto his side, facing the crawlspace door, one arm still pillowing his head while the other propped on his hip.

  As much as he wanted to sleep himself, it simply would not come. It was not an uncommon problem for him, but it was tiresome. After all the work they had put into their latest job, he should have been exhausted.

  Sighing, he sat up and pulled his boots back on, and then fled the room, slowly making his way back down to the sanctuary again. Instead of stopping at the mezzanine level, however, he went all the way down.

  He and Pechal had taken up residence in the cathedral three years ago, shortly after moving to the Heart from the port town where they had met. Business was better in the Heart, and it was also much more difficult for the authorities to catch them. Even with the palace only minutes away, the guards were spread too thin to worry about a couple of petty thieves.

  Though Raz suspected that after stealing the Tear of Blood from the Duchess of Ilarion they would no longer be considered petty. He hoped that, whatever Sasha intended to do with it, the heat would not singe him and Pechal.

  Raz slowly made his way down the walkway between the dark wooden pews, admiring the paintings that adorned the walls. Murals, he thought they were called, but wasn't certain. Windows ran across the entire length of the cathedral along the top, and there were more skylights in the beautiful, winding spires far above his head. He'd heard that the royal cathedral had windows of colored glass cut to form pictures, but did not know if that was actually true.

  The paintings in this cathedral told stories. There was one great painting behind the altar that had all nine of the Lost Gods in their holiest of forms. The Dragons of the Three Storms writhed and twisted along the bottom, fierce, sinuous beings of chaos. Upon them stood the Faerie Queen, the Unicorn, and the Pegasus, the gods of life, gathered around an immense, beautiful tree. Twined in its branches was a great white snake—the Basilisk. Perched atop the tree was Holy Zhar Ptitsa himself, a bird with feathers of fire, a golden beak, and eyes like burning embers. Raz shivered, looking at him.

  Sunlight poured down upon all of the gathered gods, which Raz knew was meant to represent Licht, the god of light and order.

  It was only when he started to turn away that he noticed the candles upon the altar itself: red candles, just two of them, and only one lit. Raz felt suddenly cold and sick. He must have missed the bells signaling the search had begun while he'd been breaking into the Duchess' house.

  The High Priest had cast the spell to find the next Vessel. The last one had been found only a few months ago. Raz looked around even though he knew everyone had gone to bed, and then climbed the stairs up to the altar and reached out to lightly touch the side of the lit candle.

  Was it really necessary to kill people? Had they really killed almost a thousand people? Would it really result in destroying a god? Raz frowned and looked at the painting of the gods, wondering if it was really possible to kill such beings.

  Of course it must be, he supposed. Everyone knew that the Basilisk had killed himself and that the other gods had likely killed each other. So if Zhar Ptitsa had been killed once then obviously the pieces of him that remained could be killed again. He was being stupid to wonder about it at all.

  It still seemed unbearably sad, somehow, that a god should be killed forever—even if he had done something wrong and deserved to die. If he and Pechal were arrested, they would likely be hanged for stealing the Tear of Blood. If they were not killed, they would be severely lashed. If the lashing was not done properly they would die of their injuries. Did they deserve to die for stealing? It seemed an overreaction.

  Surely destroying a god ... Had Holy Zhar Ptitsa really acted so horribly that he deserved to be truly destroyed? If even the vilest of criminals could be reborn to redeem themselves in a new life, did not a god deserve the same chance?

  But he could not even read or understand the hymns he sang every night. He was a thief excited by the prospect of getting three whole meals for once. What did he know about gods and killing them?

  Turning away, Raz fled the altar, started to flee the sanctuary entirely, but on impulse sat down in one of the pews. He had never attended a proper service. Technically, people of all walks of life were welcome, but seating was limited in the overcrowded Heart, and no one would give a seat to a penniless thief when there were honest, wealthy, people about.

  Bitterness and resentment tried to rise up, but Raz fought them down. He had seen too many others like him wind up dead because those emotions had gotten the better of them. It made his stomach churn, recalling all the hangings he had witnessed, the bodies he saw dead in the street from starvation, abuse by guards. If he wound up like any of them, who would take care of Pechal?

  Standing up, he finally left the hall and quickly made his way back upstairs, only to find Pechal thrashing about wildly, still asleep, but locked in a nightmare. Raz yanked the blankets away and dropped to his knees, pulling Pechal into his lap and trying with no success to wake him up. "Pechal! Pechal!" Raz shook him, but Pechal would not wake up.

  Desperate, Raz slapped his cheek—and recoiled with a strangled cry when Pechal's eyes snapped open. Rather than the normal blue-gray, they glowed
like burning embers. Raz couldn't breathe, staring into those eerie eyes.

  Pechal's eyes finally slid shut again, and Raz held him tightly as he began to thrash about again. Not knowing what else to do, he began to sing, holding Pechal close and ignoring his own tears.

  Pechal couldn't be a Vessel. They would have found him far sooner if he was. Raz pushed away all thoughts of those ember eyes and just closed his own and focused on the singing. He'd imagined it; that was all.

  Chapter Three: The Wolves

  Ivan lightly cuffed Gleb as he took a seat at the table they'd commandeered in the pavilion, snatching up one of the small loaves of black bread on a platter in the middle of the table. Snagging a cup, he helped himself to the pot of soup, piling on soured cream before pulling it close and devouring it in several quick, neat bites. He sopped up the remains with the bread and stole Luka's vodka to wash it all down.

  "Hey!" Luka protested lightly.

  "Douse it," Ivan said and looked around, gesturing to a wench to bring them more. He wiped his face with his handkerchief and grabbed another loaf of bread. "When did we last eat? Fire and ash, I feel like I haven't eaten in a week."

  Opposite Gleb, Maksim snorted in amusement. "Been nearly that, boss. We need to remember not to take any more jobs from that Piedre lot. Nothing but trouble, those roses."

  Ivan grunted in agreement and helped himself to more soup. "Thanks," he told the wench when she reached them and flipped her a copper piece.

  She bustled away, and Ivan returned all of his attention to his food, eager to ease the gnawing ache in his stomach. Food was not the plentiful thing it had been back when he was a boy, and back then his father had been the one complaining of scarcity. Ivan was glad to be back in the Heart where the problems of the smaller villages and towns had not yet arrived. "However much trouble they are, the job is done and we do not lack for funds. We shouldn't need to take another job until spring if we're careful with our coin."

  Directly opposite him, sitting between Luka and Maksim, Isidor laughed. "Whatever you say, boss. By tomorrow night we'll all be bored." The others laughed in agreement.

  Two more men strode up, taking up seats at the very end of the table. Ivan nodded to them. "Ferapont. Karp. How did the delivery go?"

  "Well enough," Karp groused, stealing Maksim's beer. "They tried to cheat us out of full payment, but we took care of that right enough—with interest."

  "Good," Ivan said. He finished his second bowl of soup right as the wench brought them more vodka along with a dish of pickles, white chunks of salty fish fat, and more bread. He gave her another coin, then went back to eating and drinking. He looked his men over surreptitiously, quietly relieved as always they had all survived another job: Luka, his second in command, good with a blade and better with his brain; Maksim, his main muscle and twice the size of the rest of them; Gleb, small and quick and sharp; Isidor, resourceful and nearly as deadly as Luka with his blade; Ferapont, who could be falling over drunk and bleeding to death, but still able to find his way home no matter where he started; and Karp, so good with money and numbers that he could probably make the clerks of the royal treasury look like incompetents.

  They all looked tired, but satisfied. A very good team, his men. No better pack of mercenaries was to be found anywhere in Pozhar—or the world, he would be happy to wager. "At least the job is done," he finally said. "We can rest for a bit, as I was just saying, then get back into it with lighter work. But no more of those roses. Fire and ash, I've had enough of them to last three lifetimes."

  "Agreed," Luka muttered, the others adding their agreement in grunts around them. "So where shall we head to rest and recover? We could go east. Shade village is a good place this time of year."

  Maksim snorted. "Assuming you can reach it now. The way the snow was falling this morning and the look of those clouds? We're not going anywhere."

  Ivan took a swig of vodka from the bottle the wench had left for him, setting it down with a thump. He scratched at his chin, longing for a shave, for a bath—and he might just indulge in a proper bath once he bothered to get around to obtaining rooms for the night. "We'll stay here a few days," he said. "Maksim is right, the snow—"

  He stopped when shouting erupted from behind him, some of it in an accent he recognized as Verde in origin. No one else had those smooth, snotty tones to their words. Whipping around, he watched avidly along with everyone else at the fight between—

  Oh, fire and ash, that faerie child had white hair. No good would come of scorching him, and Ivan knew the ruffians bothering him could not afford to piss off the man they were assaulting. Too late, of course, but maybe something could yet be done. "Stop them," he ordered his men. "That's a White Beast."

  "I think he can take care of himself—"

  "I'm not worried about him as much as I'm worried what he'll do if he gets too pissed off," Ivan said.

  Not waiting for a reply, he abandoned the table and bolted to the fight that was spinning increasingly out of control. Reaching the group of half a dozen men or so, he grabbed one by the back of his shirt, yanked him back, and threw him aside.

  After that, everything turned into chaos. Ivan fought his way through the mess, punching and kicking aside all the hot-headed idiots stupid enough to attack him. Distantly he noted his men, but his attention was solely for removing the source of the mess: the White Beast of Verde.

  Finally reaching the man, Ivan grabbed him close and dragged him out of the fray, not slowing down until they had sprinted across the pavilion and were well out of sight. Just in time, to judge by the whistles that started blowing as the city guards showed up to put an end to the street brawl.

  Panting, wiping sweat and blood—some his own, some not, he established after a moment—from his face, Ivan finally got a good look at the fiery idiot he had just saved. He blinked, stared some more, and tried desperately to recall whatever he had intended to say.

  The man was tall and slender but fit. Handsome, but not pretty, his white hair was a messy tumble around his face and fell to just past his shoulders. There was a cut on his lip, the blood an especially lurid red against his fair skin. Ivan reached out without thinking to wipe it away with his thumb. When the man stared at him in surprise, Ivan recalled himself and jerked his hand away. "Beg pardon, your grace. Are you all right?"

  "Quite," the man replied. "Thank you for the assistance. I did not expect them to be that angry about my refusing to pay them, given they did not do the job I asked."

  Ivan grunted in amusement. "You should have picked better mercs than that lot. They can't even jerk off correctly. Why do you think they pay the whores for instructions?"

  The man burst into laughter and was all the more beautiful for it—something Ivan tried and failed not to notice. Nothing came of admiring a beautiful lord except frustration and a sore wrist. When his laughter finally subsided, the man said, "Well, that is certainly my lesson learned." He looked at Ivan and gave him an appraising look followed by an appraising look of an entirely different nature. "What about you? Are you for hire?"

  "Depends on what you're hiring me to do, your grace," Ivan said dryly.

  Sighing, the man said, "Given that you keep calling me 'your grace' I suspect you're going to refuse my more entertaining offer. But there is a job I need done, and if you are for hire to do that I will take my victory where I find it."

  "Boss!"

  Ivan turned toward the front of the alley as Gleb's thin face appeared, a small line of blood dripping from his temple and down his cheek. He wiped it away absently on his sleeve. "Fires, boss. You and his grace all right, then?"

  "We're fine," Ivan said, pushing away from the wall. "How is it out there?"

  "Coast is all clear. The others are headed for the Sword."

  Ivan nodded and gestured to the duke. "Want to come along and tell me more about this job?"

  The man nodded and followed them to the Sword & Sorcerer, slipping onto a bench at a table in the middle of the room right nex
t to Ivan. He smelled good—like soap and a hint of something that might have been flowers and was definitely expensive. But he seemed at ease among them, and his clothes were simple, not showy. There was also not a single stitch of leather anywhere on him; even his boots seemed made of some heavy duty fabric Ivan did not recognize. If he was a White Beast of Verde, that only made sense: wearing leather and eating meat or any other part of an animal were taboo.

  Accepting a beer when the serving girl arrived with a tray full of them, the man smiled congenially and said, "Thank you for the rescue, my new friends. I am assured by your boss here that you will not cause me the trouble the earlier group did."

  Luka laughed and folded his arms in front of him on the table, bright orange-red hair falling in his face. "Roc and his men have soot for brains. You're a White Beast, aren't you?"

  "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid. I was hoping it would go unremarked, but I do rather stand out, I suppose."

  Maksim snorted. "Rather."

  "What are your names?" the man asked. "I am Ailill."

  Ivan made the introductions, gesturing to each man in turn. "And I'm Ivan, in charge of these sparks." He ignored their protests to the playful jibe.

  Ailill smirked and tossed his head, white hair falling across his shoulders. "So now that we know each other, I believe we can go back to discussing what I need you to do for me, Vanya." Around them, the men erupted with laugher, and Ivan took a swat at a couple of them for the ribald comments they made.

  "Indeed," Ivan drawled, amused despite himself and more than a little impressed. If not for the white hair, he would not have marked Ailill as nobility. None of the snobbery he associated with that lot was present in Ailill. He was polite, casual, and did not simper or fuss about every scorching thing. "Let's discuss the job we're getting paid to do, first."

  "I am looking for something," Ailill said, smile fading away as he focused on business. "I have been ordered to track down the lost treasures of Verde: a necklace, tiara, comb, bracelet, and earrings that were once gifted to the Faerie Queen by the other gods. They were stolen centuries ago. I have retrieved all of them, save the comb. My efforts to find it have led me here to Pozhar, but now the trail has gone cold."