Burning Bright

by Megan Derr

  "If I must, though I think that given how careless and incompetent the two of you were in Ashes, looking the hard way is the least you deserve."

  Dym said nothing.

  Slamming his book shut, Zholty rose and pulled on his discarded jacket, twitching irritably at the lace that trimmed his cuffs and closing the mother of pearl buttons. "Let's get it over with, then. I have better things to do with my day than your job."

  Letting him take the lead, Dym quietly followed him all the way back to the cathedral where he stopped short of following Zholty up to the altar. When Zholty began to fuss around with candles and other nonsense, Dym turned away and left him to it.

  Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to wait while Krasny approached, boots almost soundless as he walked across the smooth wooden floor. He'd braided back his hair and like Dym, was dressed to travel hard in the cold. Dym handed him a small pouch of fire feathers, and they sat together in a pew while they watched Zholty work.

  "I forgot he preferred all the pomp," Krasny murmured, low enough the words didn't echo.

  Dym's mouth twitched. "Palace application, not practical. It has its own uses."

  "I prefer to use the wood judiciously and get several fires, not throw it all into a wasteful bonfire."

  "Even a bonfire has its place."

  "Mostly celebrations where people get drunk and do things they regret the following morning."

  Dym laughed, but caught himself—too late, as Zholty whipped around to regard them coldly. "I was not aware this was an amusing situation, High Priest."

  "It is not. We spoke of something else," Dym said. "Please, continue." Zholty just continued to glare at him, but Dym simply stared back, refusing to apologize. The cathedral was his domain, and he would not be ordered around in it—not by the Minister of Magic, not by anyone.

  Sneering, Zholty finally turned back around and resumed his spell work. Dym glanced at Krasny, who smirked faintly, and in silence, they waited for Zholty to at last finish.

  Dym felt it as the spell was cast, could feel Zholty feeling, searching, hunting—and he felt when Zholty caught it. He was annoyed that was all he could do when normally he could have shared in the spell. Soon, he reminded himself.

  On the altar, Zholty licked his thumb and finger and extinguished the candle he'd lit with a faint hiss. Turning around, the magic glow still slowly fading away in his eyes, he said, "A village far north of here, very close to the Jagged Mountains. I could barely feel him, but that's not surprising given that location.

  Almost as one, Krasny and Dym sighed. They shared a look, and then laughed. Zholty sneered at them and stomped down the altar steps to stalk past them, slamming the door as he left.

  "A village that close to the Jagged Mountains … " Krasny said thoughtfully. "Little Shadow is what they call it. History says it was once a popular way point for travelers between here and Schatten. Legend holds it's the only way to reach the path where you can still enter Schatten. Not that anyone actually can, but the myth persists."

  Dym nodded. "That's not a tale I've heard in a long time. I did not know it was still around."

  Krasny looked at him, amused. "Still around? You sound like the aging council, but you are not even as old as me. I think being High Priest ages you too quickly, Holiness."

  "I think your position has done you no favors."

  "True enough. I ordered horses and supplies readied; they should be waiting for us just outside the cathedral. Shall we depart before I manage to get into another bought of family bickering?"

  "Yes, let's go find the Vessels," Dym said, ignoring the wash of emotion that struck him. Duty was all he had left when there was no hope of forgiveness. So he would do his duty, and then maybe ... well, one way or another, it was clearly long past time he found some sort of rest, if not the rest he most wanted.

  Chapter Eight: Memories and Promises

  Raz couldn't sleep. Hadn't slept for days, in fact. He tried, but every time he closed his eyes all he saw was that handsome face turning pale, filling with pain. Opening his eyes, he turned away from the dirty, smudgy window through which he'd been watching the moon and the falling snow and watched Pechal.

  Pechal was fast asleep, though mostly because of the sleep powder that Shinju had slipped into his ale. He lay curled on his side, face half-buried in a lumpy pillow, blankets tangled around him.

  He looked far too young to be thrown into a fire—not that anyone was ever old enough for that, but it seemed especially cruel to sacrifice someone so young. Raz sighed and stood up and moved to the bed to carefully untangle the blankets and settle them more comfortably around Pechal. He sat on the edge of the bed, combed his fingers through Pechal's hair to smooth it out, and then bent and pressed their foreheads together, eyes stinging with the tears he could barely hold back.

  Why did it have to be Pechal? The only person who understood him, who saw him as more than a thief and a street rat. His best friend. They'd been planning to make enough to go straight and retire to a little village. Get a little house, a garden.

  Raz pulled away, fetched his cloak, and left the room. He crept out of the inn and walked toward the forest that surrounded the village. The moonlight shone down, granting the night more light than it normally would have, reflecting off the snow and giving everything the feel of a dream.

  In the woods, he walked along the footpath that wound through the trees, vaguely aware he shouldn't be so reckless, but not really opposed to a fight. Anything to get rid of all the energy that burned hotter and hotter but had no way out.

  Of course, the last time he had let out energy ... He could not believe the things that Shio and Shinju had told him about the Cathedral of Ashes. How could he have done that?

  But he remembered those moments when everything had gone wrong. That apparently he had overextended himself magically. He remembered the High Priest and the agony on his face when Raz had spoken.

  He wasn't entirely stupid. He knew exactly who would be going to the Sacred Fire after Pechal. Raz just wished they could skip Pechal. Was it really necessary to kill the Vessels to prevent a god's resurrection? Why couldn't they just live and die—

  It was pointless to wonder, however, because he knew the answer. If the Vessels were not permanently destroyed, there was always a chance that Holy Zhar Ptitsa would find a way to return, and when he did, he would finish the job of razing Pozhar.

  Raz shook his head, trying to dislodge the ponderous thoughts. They were thieves—poor, homeless, uneducated, harmless thieves. But he supposed everyone who stood to lose a loved one to the Fires thought they didn't deserve it. No one deserved it. That sort of pain should never be inflicted on the ordinary children of Pozhar.

  Sighing, wishing he could banish his strange mood, Raz increased his pace and tried to put his mind on the work he needed to do. First, he needed money. No ship would take them without sufficient funds, and passage to anywhere wasn't cheap. They also needed the money to start a new life wherever they landed. He might have been able to get away with agreeing to work for passage for himself, but that still left Pechal.

  Would Pechal always be so weak, so ... not Pechal? The thought was depressing, but not as depressing as the idea of his being cast into the Fires. No, if they could get away there was always a chance that Pechal would return to normal—or at least get much closer to normal.

  Raz sighed again, stomach churning at the thought of what he must do: return to the Heart. It was the only place he would be able to find work and a ship willing to take them. Fire and ash, it was the only place he already had a job lined up, assuming Ivan and his men had been able to find the comb that Raz was supposed to steal.

  That job would pay for their passage and a new life. Hopefully they could find a ship to Piedre. No one would ask questions there. Piedre had enough problems without worrying about the runaway reincarnations of other countries.

  He just had to hope that he could keep Pechal hidden long enough to get the job done,
and then get Pechal back to the Heart and onto a ship. It seemed insurmountable, but what was else he supposed to do? Surrender without a fight? He just wouldn't. There had to—

  Raz stopped as something seemed to wash over him. Bumps rose on his skin, ice shot down his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He wanted to run away and run forward all at once. What was causing it? He looked around and froze as his gaze landed on a spot almost immediately to his right. Nothing but trees, and yet ...

  Leaving the path was the definition of stupid. He knew that, but he could not hold his feet still and felt helpless as he plunged into the dark forest following a feeling he did not understand.

  Perhaps it was the mountains, he thought. All manner of stories surrounded the Jagged Mountains, none of them pleasant. Maybe he was being pulled in by one of the legendary monsters, the black beasts that moved like shadows brought to life. Raz made a face, tried to be scornful, but mostly he just felt afraid as he walked deeper and deeper into the dark forest.

  It did not occur to him that he should not have been able to see until he abruptly tumbled out of the woods and into an enormous clearing where the moonlight once more shone brightly.

  Raz stared, not quite believing what he was seeing. A manor—well, the ruins of what had clearly been a manor. His skin prickled again, and as much as he wished otherwise he knew it wasn't the cold air that made him shiver. Raz hugged himself, trying in vain to ward off the chill that seemed to work from the inside out.

  What was this place? Why did it seem to be ... drenched in sadness was the best way he could think to put it, as stupid as that sounded even in his own head. He wanted to turn and leave, but his feet continued to drag him helplessly forward, over the nearest bit of broken wall and into the house itself.

  As he walked, images flitted through his mind like glimpses of fish in deep water where the sun struck their scales. A splash of red and gold that seemed to be fabric: An elaborate marble fireplace; a window that looked out over a garden; a dim hallway lit only by a single candle set in a sconce on the wall; a room filled with books; an empty kitchen; a stone path that wended through an elaborate garden; a tree—

  Raz stopped abruptly as he came out of the strange collection of images and realized that he stood before the tree in his mind. Well, what was left of it. He could barely tell it was the same tree.

  The tree in his mind had been lush with life, vivid green leaves spreading out in all directions and reaching up toward the sky, branches heavy with apples that looked as though they were carved from real gold. Raz reached out, seeing that tree in his mind, remembering the taste of the apples, sweet and tart, the juice sticky on his fingers and chin.

  His fingers hit only stone, jarring him from the memory, and he stared in brief confusion at the petrified remains of the apple tree and the barren branches with no sign of life left in them. He shook his head, trying to reorient himself. Swallowing, he rested his hands on the trunk of the tree and leaned his head against it, closing his eyes against emotions that made his chest ache, fought against what could only have been memories.

  Some people claimed to be able to remember their past lives. It was, of course, better that no one did, for how could anyone move forward with a new life while still clinging to the past? But some people simply could not let the memories go, and in every life they remembered their previous lives. Was that what he was doing? Reliving the memories of …

  Even thinking it seemed blasphemous. If he was the last Vessel, then he only carried one very small piece of Zhar Ptitsa's soul. There was no way he was truly recalling the memories of a god. But what else could they be?

  The sound of movement in the woods made Raz whip around, crouch, and reach for his dagger, tense to spring—

  And then he saw Shio come slinking out of the woods, the moonlight making her pale skin seem almost to glow. Beside her was Ivan, and Raz relaxed slightly. Letting go of his dagger, he stood up and waited while they slowly made their way over to him.

  "What is this place?" Ivan asked. "It looks like a lord's manor, but these lands fall under the Duke of Vaklov, the Minister of Magic, and his home is some hours southeast of the village."

  Raz shrugged, not willing to divulge that he thought it might have belonged to Holy Zhar Ptitsa himself once upon a time. "I don't know. What are you doing here, Ivan?"

  "Bad news," Ivan said. "A couple of days ago I went to meet someone about a job. He wanted me to find the latest Vessel, kidnap him, and take him to my client—"

  "No!" Raz said, panic bursting through him. He stepped back, gauging how best to get past them, and tensed when Shio abruptly lunged forward and grabbed his arms. "You can't take Pechal, I won't let you," he said desperately.

  "Bank your flames," Ivan said irritably. "Fire and ash, I'm not going to turn Pechal over to some scorching lord who, when I refused, placed a death curse on me."

  Raz stared, barely noticing when Shio let him go. "He did what?"

  Ivan pulled at the laces of his shirt, drew the front apart, and displayed what looked like a particularly morbid tattoo of a bird skeleton.

  "Basilisk's Kiss," Raz whispered. "Seven days of death."

  "How could you possibly know that?" Ivan demanded.

  Raz jumped and looked at him. "Know what?"

  "That it'll take me seven days to die. I haven't told anyone that part."

  "I—I don't know," Raz said. "So why are you here if you're not going to take Pechal?"

  Ivan closed his shirt again, still eyeing him warily, but slowly said, "We came to warn you; it seemed the least I could do. I also wanted to let you know that we've found the comb, and it should be an easy steal—for you, anyway. We couldn't do it; the scorching thing is locked up tight in the bedchamber of the Minister of Magic at his private home in the Heart, right smack in the middle of the Noble District. Do you still want to do the job?"

  Raz nodded and swallowed, the taste of hope equal parts sweet and bitter. "Yes, of course. I'll go at once. Bedroom steals aren't actually as difficult as most think." Talking about a job almost made him feel as if everything was all right, as if it would all work out. He clung to that thin hope and prayed for it to hold.

  "The Minster of Magic," Raz repeated thoughtfully, remembering the arrogant looking man on his horse watching loftily as the workers of the Sword and Sorcerer were dragged out into the street, arrested, and hauled off to be hanged. "A man like that would keep all possessions of real value in or near his bed. Men like that also either sleep heavily, or drug themselves to sleep."

  He worried his bottom lip as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to do with Pechal. Normally, they worked as a team. Pechal was the one with a real talent for ferreting out information; he could sweet talk wood into lighting itself. Before he had teamed up with Pechal, Raz's thieving career had been far less stable.

  He could certainly do it without Pechal, he had enough information to be going on with, but that still left the problem of how to keep Pechal safe while he did the job since he absolutely could not take Pechal with him. Not in his current state, and Raz had no idea when he might come out of the fog in which he was lost.

  "When will you head back?" Ivan asked.

  "Tonight," Raz said. "I'm not tired any way, and time is of the essence. How are you going to break that curse, Ivan?"

  Ivan grimaced and sounded almost petulant when he replied, "I'm trying to get in contact with Sasha. There's no one else I can think of on the streets who might know how to break it, or how I can reach the people who can." He pressed a hand to his chest, grimacing again. "I don't know what else to do, unfortunately. I have four days left."

  Raz's mouth tightened, hands balling into fists at his side. "You don't know why the scorching bastard wants Pechal so bad?"

  "My impression is that he does not want him going to the Sacred Fires. Why, I couldn't say, but that seems his goal. Definitely a lord, but that doesn't really do us much good."

  "Are you headed back to the H
eart, then, too?" Raz asked. Ivan nodded. "Would you take care of Pechal for me? I can travel faster without him, and he's in no state to help with the job. If you can watch him and get him back to the Heart for me, I can work that much faster." Ivan hesitated, and while Raz could understand why he wanted no part of hiding a Vessel and interfering with the sacrifice, it made him bitterly angry all the same. "Please, Ivan. I don't—I can't let him die. Please. You can take Sasha's fee out of my pay—"

  "Oh, scorch off," Ivan said. "I'm not a complete bastard. I'll take care of him, all right? I don't like the sacrifices any more than the next person. We'll leave first light, take him back to the Heart, and hide him in the docks so you can leave that much faster."

  Raz slumped, eyes burning with relief and that bittersweet hope again. It had to work, it just had to. He just wished they could leave immediately instead of doing one more scorching job, but it was the easiest way. That, and he owed Ivan now for coming to warn him—for that curse on his chest. He'd do the job, secure passage, and then he and Pechal could leave. "Then I am leaving."

  "This place gives me the chills," Ivan said, looking up at the petrified tree. "How did it turn to stone like that? Nothing else around here is like that, and it's right in the middle of the scorching house. Creepy."

  Reaching out, Raz ran his fingers along the trunk of the stone tree. "It's not actually in the house, but a walled garden at the back. This was an apple tree, once. I don't know why it petrified, but I would guess magic."

  "How do you know that?" Ivan demanded.

  "Memories," Raz whispered, and letting his hand fall, walked away.

  Back at the inn, Ivan's men sat huddled in a shadowy bunch in front of it, their horses tethered nearby while they made quick work of food and drink. They lifted their hands in greeting, but did not speak as Raz and the others approached them. Raz watched in amusement while they communicated with Ivan by way of hand signals. Pechal had understood some of them, but Raz had never quite managed to learn the mercenary cant.