by Megan Derr
Grimacing, he stood up and went to pull the tapestry over the window, shutting out most of the annoying light. That done, he looked around for his clothes, amused that at some point someone—Ailill or Luka, likely—had stripped him completely. He sort of remembered their doing it, or realizing that they'd done it, or something. Ugh, he hated being cursed.
Thank the Fires he at least no longer felt like a scorching invalid. Ivan was just starting to wonder if they had left him any clothes when he finally saw where they had fallen off the end of his bed. Striding to them, shivering in the cool air, he quickly pulled everything on. He didn't really feel dressed, however, until his sword and daggers were in place.
The next time some scorching noble wanted to meet him somewhere and used magic light there would be no waiting, just a thrown dagger. Ivan rubbed his chest through the rough homespun of his shirt, trying to focus on his anger and not his fear. He did not want to know what it would be like to die over the course of seven days.
He didn't want to know what it would be like to die from a curse, period. Death would be unpleasant enough when it finally came; he didn't need the additional fuss of a curse. Sighing, Ivan left the room to go in search of his team.
As was typical, he heard them before he saw them and was not surprised to find them occupying the largest table in the dining room. What did surprise him was just how easily Ailill sat amongst them. They'd had clients tag along before, but there was always a discomfort about the whole thing. Ailill fit in seamlessly despite having only been around them for not quite two weeks.
Ivan shrugged the observation aside as irrelevant in the long run and lifted a hand in greeting when Maksim saw him. "Blessing of the whatever time of day it is," Ivan greeted as he sat down.
"Only just midday," Ailill replied, smiling in greeting before he turned away to signal a wench to have food brought for Ivan. When he'd placed the order, he turned back and asked, "How are you feeling, Vanya?"
"Better, though my chest hurts something fierce. I'm guessing that's not going to change."
"No, unfortunately," Ailill said. "But we have ... how do you say it here? We have lines out, at any rate, for the mysterious Sasha."
Luka added, "I've also got people on the lookout for Raz and Pechal, but so far no luck on either."
"How long have I been asleep?"
"Not very long, really. You slept through the night and all this morning. You recovered faster than most," Ailill said, and then murmured, "Impressive."
Ivan smiled faintly and started to give an appropriate reply when the wench returned with his food. Losing all interest in conversation, he made quick work of the porridge, black bread, and hot tea set in front of him.
When he had finished it all and shoved the empty dishes away, he said, "They can't have gone too far. Raz will do anything to keep Pechal alive, and the only way Pechal stands a chance is if he can buy passage on a ship and flee the country. So he's going to be where he can either get work to earn the money or steal the money. Given that we are the most lucrative job he can be sure of ..."
"Fires, you're right," Isidor said, gulping down his tea. "Then we need to get to finding that comb. I really wish Pechal had gotten a chance to try his sources; ours are still coming up cold."
Ivan drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. "We'll just have to keep trying them. Something will catch light eventually. See if you can't find Pechal's connections to the palace. Use his name—just be careful. Isidor, you and Gleb head out north through the forest. See if any city people have shown up in the village on the other side."
"You got it, boss," Isidor replied. "Why haven't the Vessel hunters found him? They're usually pretty quick to catch them after they identify them."
"I don't know. Hopefully we'll find him first." When they all gave him looks, Ivan held up his hands. "I'm not interested in saving, killing, or doing anything but letting Raz know he's got trouble from all sides. We owe him that much. Get going. I'm going back to that temple to see if that scorching lord who cursed me left any clues behind."
Ailill stood when Ivan did. "I'll come with you."
Ivan nodded. "We'll meet back here tomorrow morning unless everyone makes it back sooner. Fires warm and guide." He stood up and strode off, chest throbbing, Ailill at his side. Outside, he looked at the sky that was overcast, all sign of the sunshine that had woken him gone. "Why do I feel like something is about to burn out of control?"
"Pozhar is two Vessels away from killing a god," Ailill said, sounding torn between amusement and anger. "Did anyone think that would go smoothly? We are far more respectful of holy power in Verde."
Not sure what to say that, Ivan chose to say nothing and simply led the way down the street in the direction of the noble district.
Chapter Seven: Doubts
Five days after the disaster in the Cathedral of Ashes, Dym's head still felt as though it had been split in half like a block of wood. He attempted to open his eyes again, but the light still seared them and made the pain spike.
What in scorching flames had that spell been? How had the final Vessel managed to cast it when he should not have been able to use his magic at all? Magic was dormant in Pozhar unless the fire feathers were used to wake it.
Then again, it had unmistakably been the last Vessel who had nearly leveled the Cathedral of Ashes in a burst of panicked energy.
Why does looking at you hurt?
Dym flinched, burying his head in his pillow, curling up slightly on the settee in his study where he had managed to drag himself after being unable to stand his bed for one more minute.
He had thought he was braced for the day that the sacrifices came to an end. He had known there was a good chance that the very last Vessel would bear the strongest resemblance. Over and over again, he had told himself, convinced himself, he was ready to face it.
Clearly he had been wrong.
Why does looking at you hurt?
Dym had always believed the sacrifices were the right thing. They were the right thing. It had to be done. Doubt was his greatest enemy, but he had slain that enemy at the very beginning. Pozhar could not be saved without sacrificing all one thousand Vessels. Whatever the personal cost, he would see it through.
But apparently his doubt was not as vanquished as he had thought. The doubts clawed at him, whispered to him. That he had made a mistake all these years. That the Vessels should have been left alone. Did looking at him, seeing him, really cause so much pain?
Had he made a mistake all these years?
Dym had not cried since the day he had lost everything that mattered to him, all because he'd lost his temper. But he cried then because he could not bear to think that everything he had done had been in vain. That he should have left well enough alone.
What was he supposed to do? Those awful words would not stop rattling around in his head. That look on his face. Had he really thought, after their last words, that Eminence would be happy to see him?
Yes, he thought miserably. That was what kept him going when he thought he could not endure one more day. That when he had done what he must, he would be forgiven for his mistake. Finally be able to rest. But it would seem the forgiveness he sought was never to come. When at last all the Vessels were cast into the Fires ... there would be nothing left for him. No forgiveness, no peace, nothing but the same misery he had lived with for so long.
The realization was crippling.
Dym shoved the pain away, all the way to the back of his mind with all the other things he could not bear to think upon, forced it back until it became a dull ache he could mostly ignore. He forced himself to sit up and shoved his blanket aside, wiping the drying tears from his cheeks. Whatever his personal agony, the children of Pozhar came first. They always came first, no matter what. He would not let Pozhar suffer to make himself feel better.
Whatever his flaws, whatever his mistakes, he had not forgotten his most sacred duty. Only, he thought bitterly, the duty that had mattered most to him. Stand
ing up, Dym left his study and walked to his bedroom. There, he went into the changing room, discarded his dressing robe, and continued on into the bathing chamber.
His head throbbed so badly his stomach churned, threatening to force up the tea he had cautiously drunk a short time ago. Dym walked around to the far side of the bath and sat down on the edge to slide slowly into the water. He settled on a bench, adjusting to the heat, waiting for his stomach to settle. When his stomach finally behaved, he was finally able to relax slightly.
At least the damage to his magic did not seem permanent. He had not been able to use it since their failed attempt to capture the Vessel and had feared it had actually been taken from him. He was grateful it seemed to have only been heavily dampened for a few days. A couple more days, and he would be back to full strength—hopefully, anyway.
It would all be much more bearable if his head would stop hurting. The sound of shoes scuffing the floor drew his attention, and Dym reluctantly opened his eyes, not surprised to see Krasny standing at the edge of the pool.
He looked exactly as miserable as Dym felt. "Good morning, your grace. Would you care to relax with me for a time? The hot water does seem to be helping my head."
Krasny seemed surprised by the offer, but after a moment simply nodded and turned around to go back into the dressing chamber. A few minutes later, he returned naked and slid into the pool beside Dym. "I still can make no real sense of whatever happened. I can only assume that second street rat was the last Vessel? I cannot think who else would have that type of power to tap without any need for fire feathers. It was ... stunning." He made a face. "Also humbling."
Dym's mouth quirked. "It was certainly that. I do not know about you, but I still cannot use my magic. By the time we have it back, there is no telling where they might be hiding. Unless the others have been able to find them."
"No," Krasny said, mouth curving in a sneer. "They will not, fearing another outburst. Zholty justifies it by his engagement, of course. I—" He bit the words off, but they were clear. Everyone knew just how much Krasny was against Zholty's marrying his cousin, but the only way to prevent Zholty's becoming Consort was to give in and speak with Zarya—the one thing Krasny would not do. "I am still perturbed the Vessel got away from me. When I found them, they'd nearly managed to sneak out of the cathedral."
"Do not take offense: the last Vessels are the strongest. The very last one—well, you have seen what he can do, and that is only a very small taste of Zhar Ptitsa's full power. All of that done in anger ... "
Why does looking at you hurt?
Dym scowled at the water.
"Well, whatever setbacks it has caused us, the display has certainly convinced any doubters or would be rebels that we are doing the right thing."
"Yes," Dym said softly. The right thing. Was he doing the right thing? He could not afford to think such treacherous thoughts. "Can we at least convince Zholty to cast for the Vessel?" he asked with a sigh. "Even that will give us a direction, and by the time we reach the designated location our magic will have returned."
"You go argue with him," Krasny said. "I have had my fill today. I am surprised you did not hear the shouting, Holiness."
Dym turned to look at him. "Shouting? How in the Fires are you able to shout if your head hurts as badly as mine?"
"Zholty tried to use the lesser throne room to conduct business," Krasny said flatly.
"Ah," Dym replied softly. So Zholty was already trying to act the part of consort. Krasny was not the only one who would have found that in poor taste. "I can only assume he enjoys antagonizing you and his bride to be."
Krasny sneered, but said nothing, merely sank down to his chin in the water and sighed softly. "You were right: the bath does wonders for my head."
"The minerals are soothing and have some very minor healing properties, or so I have always been told. I have found no reason to argue."
"How long do you suppose we can hide here?"
Dym started to answer, but paused when he heard the front door to his chambers slam open and then closed again.
Krasny sighed. "Not long enough, it would seem. I hope you are not terribly modest, Holiness, because I promise you my cousin is not."
"It's hard to be modest living in the palace."
"That is a good point," Krasny murmured, just as Sonya came striding through the dressing room, heels clicking on the marble tiles of the bathing chamber. She walked to the edge of the pool, planted her hands on her hips, and narrowed her eyes at Krasny. "I might have known you would slink off to sulk here, Kolya."
Krasny rolled his eyes. "I am not sulking, I am saving my own life. Arguing with that scorching imbecile has done nothing to improve my health. If not for the excessive amount of counter-magic powder I already take, then I think you would not have to wonder if I will bother to be around when Zarya dies. If you have come here to pick another fight, Sonya, then I am afraid you will only be arguing with yourself."
Standing up, Krasny climbed out of the pool—swaying slightly, but at the last moment catching himself. He walked around the pool, keeping close to the wall and avoiding Sonya, as he vanished into the dressing chamber.
Heaving a sigh, Sonya turned to go after him. Dym listened to them shouting, but blocked the words out, having no energy to spare, for once, for their perpetual squabbling. Letting his eyes fall shut and ignoring his head as best he was able, he tried to think. It was the first time in days he thought he could successfully manage the feat.
Where would the Vessels go? Probably for the first ship that would take them. It was the surest way—that they knew of—to avoid capture. Certainly, it would make catching them more difficult, though not as impossible as they probably hoped.
Dym opened his eyes, and then swam across the pool and climbed out on the side closest to his dressing chamber. Krasny and Sonya had wound down to looks and hissed words, though Sonya looked as though she might resort to violence at any moment. She must have gone to see Zarya, then; it was the only thing that put her in such a volatile state.
Ignoring them, Dym pulled on black breeches and stockings and sat down to pull on knee-high boots, already dreading the snow he would have to endure if they were pulled out into the country. Standing again, he rifled through his clothes until he found the long-sleeved dark gray undershirt he sought, over which he pulled a black thigh-length tunic that was split up the sides and embroidered with swirls of silvery smoke.
He attached his master keys to his belt and then moved to a chest on the opposite side of the chamber and pulled out a sword belt. At his left hip he affixed a sword; to the right he attached a whip. It wasn't something he used often—weapons in general were not something he preferred to be anywhere near—but it had its uses when blades simply would not suffice.
Finally, he pulled down a heavy winter cloak and swung it around his shoulders, securing it with a cloak pin made of gold and shaped like a fire feather. The hood was deep and lined with the same black fur that lined the rest of the cloak.
Leaving the dressing chamber and the pair still arguing, he went into his study to fetch coin and other necessities to tuck into the hidden pockets of his cloak. He turned to leave the study and stopped short when he saw Krasny standing in the doorway. "If you will give me an hour, I will join you. Do you have any idea where we are going?"
Dym shook his head. "No, I was going to fetch fire feathers, then go have a word with Zholty. He should be doing something if he will not go out into the field."
Krasny nodded. "Then I will find you when I am ready to leave."
"If I can make him cooperate, we will probably return here to the cathedral. Thank you."
Nodding again, Krasny departed. Dym half expected Sonya to burst in next and sighed softly when she never appeared. Leaving the study, he went quickly to his office in the cathedral and fetched the needed fire feathers. He could feel their power, but could not quite catch it—yet. Two day, at most, and he would have his magic back.
T
hen the Vessel hunt would resume in earnest, and the matter would be that much closer to concluding—finally.
Why does looking at you hurt?
Dym's breath caught, his chest twisting and aching, eyes stinging. Why had he dared to hope that it might be any different. That Eminence would understand what he had been trying to do, would forgive him his error, would ... stop being angry, would stop hating him.
Apparently it was not to be.
He wiped the tears on his cheeks away with the heels of his hands. He was still High Priest, and he had a duty. Whatever his own turmoil, he had to remember that. There was no time for wallowing in misery. The sacrifices must be made.
How many more times would he have to repeat those words?
Leaving his office and locking the door behind him, he headed quickly for the palace and up the stairs to the royal library where he knew Zholty would be sulking. As expected, Zholty was in the farthest corner where floor to ceiling windows took up the entire corner, looking down upon the hedge maze and the fountain that displayed an image of the Dragons of the Three Storms in vivid ocean tones. "Your grace," he greeted.
"What do you want, High Priest?" Zholty asked, slowly looking up from the book he was reading. Dym noticed a distinct hand print on his left cheek and only practice enabled him to keep back his amusement.
Dym bowed his head politely and said, "I am sorry to disturb you, but I am afraid that I am still unable to use my magic. I need someone to cast for the Vessel so that I can resume the hunt."
Zholty scowled, but at least had sense enough not to refuse—magic, after all, was for hunting the Vessels. Sonya was not expected to help because she was the heir and too busy tending her brother. The rest were either too old, or Dym simply did not trust them. It was difficult, not having sufficient hunters, but in the end, he was happier it was largely just him and Krasny.