Scepter of Fire

by Vicki L. Weavil

  “Christiane … ” Anders grips the lamppost and pulls his body to a standing position. “She could still be inside. We must look for her.”

  Erik grabs Anders’s arm, steadying him while holding him back. “No one can get close to that building, much less go inside.”

  Gerda stands, wobbling a bit. “Perhaps they escaped out the back door?”

  “I have to do something.” Anders takes the cane from Erik and grips it tightly, his eyes focused on the Opera House. “I can’t live with myself if I do not try.”

  Through the smoke I spy a slender figure leaning over the balcony railing. It’s a woman with dark hair and a pale face, wearing a sweater that blends into the gray of the smoke.

  Anders has seen her too. “Christiane!” He stumbles forward, leaning heavily on his cane.

  Erik throws out an arm to halt his progress, but he’s chosen the wrong person to protect. It’s Gerda who takes advantage of a parting of the crowd to rush the marble stairs.

  When I scream and jump to my feet to race after her, Kai and Thyra grab my arms and pull me back.

  Quickly exhausting my knowledge of curse words, I struggle in their grip. Erik pushes past the gaping onlookers to chase Gerda until a muscular man takes offense and knocks him roughly to the ground.

  I yell Gerda’s name but even if she hears me, I know she will not listen.

  She never listens. Not when she is doing what she thinks is right. She would walk into hell to save someone, even a stranger.

  Tears drench my cheeks. Kai tells me to be still. I am not about to listen either.

  That is my sister, and I love her. Nothing else matters. I will run into hell too, if that’s what it takes to save her.

  Thyra slaps me, hard across my cheek. “Stop it. Hysterics will not help. Kai,” she commands, “hold her. I’ll go after Gerda.”

  Kai’s brown eyes flash. “The hell you will. I forbid it.”

  “You are not my master, Kai Thorsen. I will do what I must.” Thyra pushes me into Kai’s arms and runs toward the building. The milling crowd blocks her, forcing her to one side. She joins Erik, who sits up, holding his head.

  We are so caught up in this drama we miss it—Anders limping forward, some inner strength lending him the power to reach the bottom step. He drops the cane, which rolls off the sidewalk into the gutter, and crawls up the stairs. He reaches the halfway mark before any of us realize what he’s doing.

  As Thyra helps Erik to his feet, Kai marches me to where they are standing. “We can’t reach them now.” He gestures toward the building. Flames have sprung up between the sidewalk and the steps, like a curtain pulled across the base of the stairs, blocking any approach.

  It is something designed to keep us from aiding Gerda or Anders. Something unnatural.

  I turn my head. There, at the edge of the crowd, stands a tall, dark-haired figure, wrapped in a black greatcoat. Beside him is a slighter figure, hidden in the folds of a hooded cloak. His servant, perhaps.

  Sten Rask. I meet his sardonic gaze. He nods and raises his walking stick, as if in greeting.

  There’s a crystal orb topping the cane. It catches the light of the flames, making it appear the orb contains actual fire.

  Because it does. Look closer, Varna. That is no ordinary walking stick. That is a scepter, like in the paintings of kings and queens.

  Rask flicks his wrist and flames shoot from the scepter, arcing over the crowd and setting another section of the building alight.

  There are too many people separating us. I focus on those beautiful dark eyes.

  I will kill you. If Gerda is harmed in any way, I will hunt you down and I will destroy you.

  Rask’s smile broadens. He lowers the scepter. Varna, my dear, you will come to me one day. But not to kill me. You will come because you choose to do so. To embrace your true nature. To accept what only I can give you.

  I cry out and slam my fist into Kai’s ribs. He releases me and I elbow my way through the crowd, but the tall figure in black has disappeared, along with his mysterious companion. Turning my gaze back to the Opera House, I spy Gerda on the balcony, holding the hand of the dark-haired girl.

  It is Christiane. Gerda guides her toward the stairs just as Anders reaches the top step and pulls his body onto the balcony floor, rolling to Gerda’s feet.

  A thunderous roar drowns out every other sound. The stairs, their wooden underpinning scorched by the fire, give way and collapse in a thundercloud of smoke and ash. Only the landing and its balcony still stand, hoisted on a rickety framework of wooden poles and beams, forlorn as a ship in dry dock.

  “Come away,” shouts a voice in my ear and I turn to see Erik staring directly into my eyes. Behind him stand Kai and Thyra, covering their faces with the edge of their cloaks.

  Erik tugs at my sleeve. “We need to fall back. Now.”

  “We can’t leave them there!” I push at Erik’s hand. He grabs my flailing fingers and pulls me into a tight embrace.

  “We cannot help them, Varna. Only God can help them now.”

  Erik drags me across the street, away from the worst of the rolling smoke and ash. “Wait here.” He presses my back against a rough brick wall.

  I stare at the Opera House. Gerda’s golden hair is still visible amid the drifting clouds of smoke. On one side of her stands Christiane, dark head held high. On the other side is Anders, leaning against her shoulder.

  I silently pray for God to save them. Or if not God, then I beg the same of the man who obviously caused this conflagration.

  Whatever you wish of me, I will give you. Whatever you ask, I will do, if you will just save them. Or Gerda, at least. All of them, if you can. If not, save Gerda.

  It is madness to think Rask can hear me, or will heed my plea. But everything is madness now.

  If there is anything you can do …

  A shadow falls over the street. A black cloud glides overhead, blocking any sliver of sky.

  No, it is not a cloud. It is wings—dark wings, as wide as the street. It is a great bird, sailing straight for the burning Opera House.

  The screams and shouts of the crowd intensify. The huge creature pulls its wings against its body and dives toward the balcony.

  Slender, ridged legs extend, displaying black talons curved like sickles. The bird—or whatever it is, for it looks like no bird I’ve ever seen—reaches with clawed feet and plucks Gerda from the balcony.

  She is imprisoned in its talons as if in a cage. Clutching my arms across my chest, I rock on my heels and pray she’s unharmed.

  Just as the great bird lifts off, Anders grabs hold of a leather strap dangling from its other leg. So this is no wild bird, acting by instinct. This creature was sent by someone.

  You have saved her from the fire. Now return her to me.

  Words wind through my mind, sensuous as a snake. Come to me, Varna. If you want your sister back, you must come to me.

  Erik shouts his friend’s name, but Anders is swept away, clutching the great bird’s fetters, his legs fluttering like pennants beneath him.

  The creature sails into a cloud of smoke and vanishes.

  I stumble into the street. Kai dashes forward and grabs me before I collapse onto the cobblestones.

  As quickly as they sprang up, the flames recede, leaving only embers and coils of black smoke. A stiff wind rattles the framework under the balcony, and it lists to one side. The bodies of those overcome by smoke or flame slide into the balustrade like so much cordwood.

  Seated on the railing on the opposite side of the balcony, Christiane dangles her legs over the edge.

  She is going to jump.

  The four of us run toward the burnt-out building.

  I notice the alley near the stage door, not far from where Christiane perches on the balustrade above. “Over here!”

  I guess her plan—a hedge of bridal veil bushes lines the wall just below this side of the balcony. Their slender branches are already covered in delicate green leaves and soft c
lusters of white flowers. It’s a smart choice, if one must jump.

  It is still a tremendous leap. I gaze up into Christiane’s dark eyes. They’re as lifeless as cold coals.

  Another blast of wind tips the balcony farther. Christiane only stays in place by gripping the railing with both hands.

  She has no choice, if she doesn’t want to be sucked down into a whirlpool of rubble when the balcony collapses.

  The others join me at the edge of the singed bushes. We link arms and press our bodies into the arching branches of the shrubs, ready to keep Christiane from tumbling onto the stony surface of the alley.

  “Now!” Erik shouts.

  The bridal veil bushes shudder under the impact of the dancer’s body. Curled in a tight ball, she rolls from the swaying branches into Erik’s arms.

  Erik gathers her still form to his chest and strides across the street to an alcove under the stairs of a narrow brick townhouse.

  The rest of us follow, Kai pausing to snatch up Anders’s cane, still lying in the gutter in front of the smoking building.

  As Erik gently lowers Christiane to the ground, I notice one of her legs is twisted the wrong way. I still my chattering teeth. I cannot go to pieces over Gerda’s abduction right now. There is work to be done.

  Christiane’s eyes are closed. “Do not wake her.” I cast about for anything I can use as a splint. “I need to brace her injury.”

  Kai catches my eye and holds out Anders’s cane.

  I whip off my cloak and squat down beside the prone form of the dancer. “We need to stabilize her knee.” I take the cane and place it next to the dancer’s leg.

  “You must help.” I look up at Erik and Kai.

  The two young men follow my instructions as Thyra slides around to hold Christiane down by her shoulders. As we yank the leg back into place, the dancer’s eyelids fly open and she utters a heart-rending wail.

  “Again,” I say, closing my ears to the sound.

  While we work on her leg the ballerina whimpers and moans. Thyra strokes her forehead and murmurs soothing words with a gentleness I’d never have expected.

  We manipulate the limb into some semblance of a normal position before I use my cloak to tightly bind the cane to Christiane’s leg. After I finish this process, Kai and Erik stand and help me to my feet.

  I wipe my sweaty face with my sleeve. Even though the fire has died down, residual heat and smoke blanket the air. “We need to get away from here, but cannot move her far.”

  “We must.” Thyra turns to look at me, her eyes bright as steel. “This was no ordinary fire, nor was that bird anything natural. Is it the work of Sten Rask?”

  I clench my jaw and nod.

  “He has Gerda and Anders then?” Erik’s fingers clutch something inside the pocket of his coat. The pistol, no doubt.

  “Probably.” Thyra shares a significant look with Kai. “We should carry Christiane to Sephia’s cottage. She will receive the best care there.”

  Erik pulls his hand from his pocket and rakes his fingers through his hair. “We need to go after Rask to find Gerda and Anders. We can’t backtrack now.”

  Thyra takes Kai’s proffered hand and rises to her feet. “If this is the doing of a master sorcerer, we need Sephia’s assistance just as much as Christiane does. We cannot face Rask on our own.”

  Erik bangs his fist against the brick wall of the foundation. “So we let Rask take our friends to God knows where? How will we ever find them if we don’t track them now?”

  “Perhaps Erik is right.” Kai strokes his chin with two fingers. “No, seriously, Thyra, spare me that look. Listen—Erik and I can try to track Rask. We will not confront him, but we can determine where that bird carried Gerda and Anders. You and Varna take Christiane to Sephia and we’ll meet you there when we locate the others.”

  Thyra looks like she wants to argue, but sighs instead. “I concede. But take Bae with you. He’s just outside the city walls, waiting in the woods. Luki and Freya are with him—they can come with us. We’ll need Freya to transport Christiane, at any rate.”

  “And Luki for protection.” Kai smiles. “A logical plan.”

  “Always.” Thyra’s lips twitch upward.

  A great roar and crash split the smoky air. It is the balcony, finally giving way. I focus on the small group of people near me, refusing to look at the Opera House.

  More bodies, more blood on Sten Rask’s hands, and for what? To find the mirror? Or to draw me to him?

  Or both, Varna. Probably both.

  Erik bends down to pick up Christiane. “Enough talk, let’s get her to the woods. The sooner you carry her to Sephia, the better.”

  Thyra lifts her pale eyebrows. “Very well, Master Stahl. Lead on.”

  “After you accomplish that, Erik, meet me at my rooms. I need to throw together a travel pack or two.” Kai rattles off the address. Erik nods as if he knows the street well.

  “I would like to go with Erik and Kai,” I say. “Gerda is my sister. I must find her.”

  Thyra shakes her head. “No. It is not the impropriety,” she adds, after a quick glance at my face. “I don’t care about such nonsense. It’s simply that I believe you are connected to Rask as more than just a casual acquaintance. I’m afraid he will sense your presence if you are anywhere near him, and that could betray the others.”

  I bow my head. She is right. “I just want to be there when he is defeated.”

  Thyra takes my arm as we follow Erik and Kai down the street. “I’m afraid you must be there, Varna, and I’m not sure you will really want that, in the end.”

  Chapter Fourteen: The Power of a Mirror

  I shift the strap of my bag from one shoulder to the other. Both shoulder blades are equally sore and I’m glad I decided to abandon Gerda’s bag when I retrieved my rucksack from the lean-to. Although I did pull the blue gown from her bag and stuff it into mine.

  Because she will wear it again. I know she will.

  Our travel back to Sephia’s cottage is uneventful, even though Christiane’s obvious pain makes each mile seem longer. Fortunately, Erik gave me the remaining bottles of Sephia’s special potion. I feed Christiane a few drops when she’s conscious. It’s the only thing that allows us to move forward without constant cries of pain.

  My feet swell inside my boots, but with Christiane slumped against the horse’s neck, her face pale as milk, I decide not to complain. Instead, I remark on Freya’s gentle gait—she takes great care in placing her hooves so she doesn’t jostle her semi-conscious rider.

  “She is well trained.” Thyra guides the mare around a fallen tree limb. Luki trots ahead of us, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure we follow.

  “I was afraid she might pull away, or break into a trot or something.”

  “She will not.”

  “Yes, but if she’s startled; if something spooks her … ”

  “She fears me more,” Thyra says, without looking in my direction.

  “Fears you? Not loves you?”

  Thyra shoves her curls behind her shoulders. “She remembers me as the Snow Queen. Despite any fondness developed since those days, she retains a shadow of fear.” Thyra quickens her pace. “We need to make it to Sephia’s by evening. I don’t want to spend another night on the road.”

  “What about Luki?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he fear you as well?”

  As if he knows we’re discussing him, Luki turns his head and looks back, his tongue lolling from his half-open mouth. Those teeth. I still can’t get used to keeping company with a wolf, no matter how friendly.

  Thyra’s smile softens her angular face. “No. Luki loves me. He never feared me, even when he should have. Even when I was wielding my power and other creatures shrank back in terror.”

  I lengthen my stride to walk beside Thyra. “You gave it up. Your magic. Do you ever miss it?”

  Thyra side-eyes me. “No. I relinquished it willingly, as I’m sure Gerda told
you. It was a burden, not a blessing.”

  “But the power.” I stare at my hands. What could I accomplish with such power? Healing beyond my dreams.

  Healing, Varna? Be honest. You also want to be admired or adored. You want to wield authority over others. To know they can never laugh at you, or pity you, again.

  I kick a pebble from the path into the woods. “I sometimes long for power. I don’t have any, you see.”

  “Is that right?”

  I turn my head to meet Thyra’s scrutiny. “No. I am not rich, or beautiful, or talented at socially acceptable pursuits. I’m just a girl from an ordinary family living in a small village, learning to make a few ointments and potions.”

  “I’m not sure I would say your family is ordinary. There’s Gerda, after all. And I think”—Thyra casts me a little smile—“there is more to you than meets the eye, Varna.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so. I am not much to look at.” I toss my head as I say this, to show it doesn’t matter. Even though it does. It always does.

  “I think it depends on who is looking.” Thyra slaps the reins against her palm. “Do you think Kai loves me for how I look?”

  “Maybe. I mean, you are beautiful, so I’m sure that comes into it.”

  Thyra laughs. “No, not at all. I suspect he would prefer someone who looks like Gerda. No doubt, given a viable option, he’d choose someone who does not annoy him with intimidating stares, or constantly remind him of a world of ice and snow. Someone warmer and sweeter.” She shrugs. “He likes how I look because he loves me, not the other way around.”

  Easy for a beautiful woman to say. I swallow my sharp reply and fall back a few steps.

  “Finally,” Thyra says, as we step into the clearing where Sephia’s cottage sits, squat and comforting as a rocking chair.

  Sephia opens her door before we even reach the stoop.

  “What is this?” She hurries to Freya and helps Thyra lift Christiane from the mare’s back.

  “Her leg is badly broken.” I follow them inside the cottage. “I did what I could, but I doubt it’s enough.”

  Sephia carries Christiane to the bed, with Thyra shoving back the alcove curtains so the enchantress can lay the injured dancer down in one swift motion.