Breakfire's Glass

by A. M. Valenza

  Silence fell, broken only by the flick and whirr of the spindle. When she shifted, her hair caught and tugged painfully. She sighed in exasperation, reaching up to smooth it out on her pillow. Her hand knocked into something and she glanced behind her. Nikolai was engrossed in his spinning, the faint glow bringing out the sparkle in his eyes. His whole face was bathed in the ice-blue light. She stared at him for a moment. He was handsome. She turned her back again, burrowing into the pillows.

  And still felt nothing.

  Chapter Four

  The Svarinard was magnificent. Jagged black peaks rose out of the white snow, like the broken remains of a dread-palace. Clouds hovered over them, close enough to touch, a freezing mist which burned the lungs. Not even scrub touched the barren rocks, razor-sharp and layered in biting ice. Snow puffed into the frigid air with every step, the depth ranging from ankle to thigh. The screaming wind was always present, winding through the maze-work of summits and peaks, snatching away heat and turning liquid to ice. Never had Katerini scaled something so vicious, so ruthless and unforgiving. She smirked beneath the mask strapped to her face. Exhilarating.

  Behind her, Nikolai spun his thread steadily. She glanced at him, twisting her whole body to do so, and he waved a hand at her. He staggered, and she heard him laugh. He had kept pace this past week, effusive and—hmph!—irritating, better than he would have done with two dozen or so spindles on his back. She had shouldered half his burden, after all. Grudgingly.

  Before they had left Svaroi, the morning after their meal with Darkrow Elea, she had woken first and stood over his bed with her arms folded. He had looked exhausted, she recalled, tangled in blankets and thread, his mouth slightly open and a puddle of drool seeping into the pillow. More like a lake, she thought as she eyed the massive dark spot on the fabric. How long had he spun before slumber took him? Bah. She could've kicked him for being so obstinate. If he insisted on spinning on the cusp of their journey, foregoing much needed rest for it, then she had no doubt he would stubbornly continue as they climbed the mountain ranges.

  Her eyes had wandered over to the pack of spindles.

  She listened to her partners, even when they didn't speak.

  Grunting and growling, annoyed out of her mind, she had thrown pillows at Nikolai's face and barked at him to wake up, Nikolai, now! Dressing as he groggily fell out of bed and half his undergarments, she'd taken a dozen of the spindles and stuffed them in her pack, her jerky movements showing clearly what she thought of them. Nikolai rubbed his sticky face and watched her quietly. He didn't say anything, not a word. Only moved when she yelled at him to get dressed already, bah! Then, when they were on the outskirts of the village with Elea waving them off, he'd kissed her on the cheek and burst into shadows, shooting towards the dark blot of the distant mountains. Bah! Her cheek tingling, she shattered into shadow and streaked after him. A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed.

  Scowling, she banished the memory, and focused on Nikolai's ascent towards her place on the peak. He wobbled, but his spinning remained steady. She would never admit it, but she had found Nikolai's company pleasant the past week. Fun, even. Forcing down her misgivings, she had observed him with an open mind. He loved to laugh, she realized. His laughter wasn't meant to be condescending, or off-putting. He laughed at everything, himself included.

  "Ah," Nikolai breathed as he came to stand next to her. His hands stopped working for a moment as he beheld the spread of the Svarinard. Across from them, separated by a wicked valley, stood the second leg of their journey, the third a dark shadow behind it. The ground rose and rose to scrape the sky overhead, dwarfing their current peak, and Nikolai chuckled. Katerini raised her eyebrows as he took off the mask. Was he overwhelmed? He took a step forward, about to say something, then slipped and fell on his face with a quiet, "Oomf!"

  She watched as he tumbled down, down, down, somehow managing to keep a grip of his distaff and spindle. He finally rolled to a stop, about halfway to the valley.

  Well, that was one way to get down a mountain.

  She slid gracefully through the path he had unwillingly carved for her, his laughter louder than the howling winds, echoing past the heavy snows. Snatching his discarded mask on the way, she pulled off her own and came to crouch next to him. He flailed and she watched him, one eyebrow raised, until his hand shot out and yanked her down with him. She snarled, the snow scratching her face, then caught sight of his grin. He looked so stupid, snow caked on half his face. She saw the image of his body flopping forward into the snow, eyes wide as his face impacted, and she snorted. He collapsed into another bout of laughter, and she may have laughed with him, both of them staggering up and straightening their gear for the long climb ahead.

  "You are not entirely humorless," Nikolai said to her as he wiped the snow from his face. He gave her a wolfish grin, cheeks red and nose running. "Your laughter sounds like bells."

  She clicked her tongue. "Hmph. Anyone would laugh to see the Blue Prince kiss the snow. You've got snot on your face." She tossed him his mask and he caught it deftly.

  "I never said I was graceful." He wiped his nose quickly, then reached out and touched the edge of her cloak. She blinked. "When Ilya named me his heir, I fell down the stairs to the dais and broke half the crown." He shook out his cloak, adding, "I think it was the robes. They were the heavy brocade, you know, with the swirling gold and silver thread? Ugly, ugly things. Reaching straight past my toes. You know, I can never account for when robes or cloaks will get under my feet."

  She rolled her eyes and turned to the mountain range. "Shall I clip your hem now or watch you fall across the mountainside first, Your Most Imperial Majesty?"

  He only laughed in response, and they donned their masks to climb the second leg.

  She was still wary of him, though his good-nature calmed her. Zharva was much the same, she thought, except he was as hard as her. Nikolai was not. He was odd, and this oddness continued to throw her as they moved steadily upwards over the days. She was used to being alone, or being with Zharva. They communicated in grunts or clipped sentences when on assignment. Nikolai was a wanderer too, but she couldn't help herself from wondering if he could keep pace. He seemed so soft. Whenever she looked back to check his progress, he raised the mask to waggle his thick eyebrows at her while his spindle swung like a lone wind chime. Annoyed, she would make a face and swing her head away from him, hair streaming out behind her, trudging onwards. When he was strange, he was very strange.

  And he could be difficult.

  He saw too much. He was too clever, too sly and cunning, for her peace of mind. Where his laughter soothed her unease, his questions inflamed it. Nothing was simple with him. He didn't look at her as he should, like she was only a grumpy Darkrow with a nasty mouth. Lurking beneath his eerie eyes was a mind as sharp as her tongue. Sometimes she doubted if his levity was genuine, then quashed that indecisiveness. Bah. She hated such fickleness. Nikolai was infuriating. Proving himself to be a good partner, yes, but infuriating.

  A week into their climb of the Svarinard's second leg, they found shelter in a cave and Nikolai decided to be utterly exasperating. Again.

  "You are quite efficient, aren't you, Katerini?" Nikolai said as he watched her build a fire pit. He lounged against the cave wall, smiling like an idiot, and tapped a spindle against his leg. A lump of fleece rested on his lap. His fingers were stiff and aching, obvious by their trembling. She said nothing, merely choosing to build the fire before he could offer. "Not a single wasted motion for Katerini Gorchev."

  She glared at him and he laughed. She was tempted to set him on fire, she thought as she struck the flint and lit the kindling. She fanned it gently and puffed air, wishing she held a pipe with molten glass at its end. Usually she was at the forges, in a little shop in Zhakieva which afforded her a space every Lonely Winter. Arguing with the other glass-masters or supervising the apprentices—not in a cave, with a disappointing fire and Nikolai. At least he was a good cook. Katerini had o
nly barely passed cooking when she was tested to become a full-fledged Darkrow. She lacked finesse for most things except, of course, glasswork.

  "So tell me, Katerini Gorchev, most ferocious of the Darkrow, what do you think of the handsome Blue Prince Nikolai Irini?" Nikolai announced. She gave him a look of disgust and he laughed, banging the spindle against his leg. "I am not teasing you, Katerini. I want to know. What do you think of me?"

  She sighed through her nose. "Annoying." His smile faltered. She lifted a long finger and gave a flick with each word. "Suspicious, lazy, spoiled." His smile vanished as Katerini tipped her head back, blinking. She thought of the spindles. "Stubborn. Possibly stupid. Definitely reckless."

  He tilted his head to the side. "You make rather quick judgments, don't you?"

  She scowled. "I trust my instincts."

  "And your instincts say I am untrustworthy?" he asked, eyes dark. The frown on his lips looked wrong, and she wanted to make him smile again. Except that was utterly idiotic. She crushed the thought as he continued, "I am a Darkrow too, Katerini. I have sworn oath, I serve the Empire because I believe Ilya is worth serving. And I have had no complaints of my methods or skills. I have earned my place among the wandering Darkrow."

  She stood up, irritated. "I didn't say you were incompetent. And I didn't say my instincts were set in stone. I am amiable to changing my mind, Nikolai. I am not completely heartless."

  "I never once said, or thought, you were heartless," he replied quietly. "It is clear to anyone with eyes you feel deeply, and hide it." His eyes boiled and rippled like Porfiry's as he finished, "You are a Darkrow of many moods, all of them locked behind a ruthless mien."

  She saw red, streaming outwards and melting the snow, and shouted, "Enough! Stop talking!"

  He stared at her, his face blank.

  Licking her lips, she said quietly, "You asked me, and I answered honestly."

  "So you cannot say I have a single admirable trait, can you?" he replied bitterly.

  She blinked at him. His head was lowered, mouth twisted in dissatisfaction, the grip on his spindle tight. Ridiculous. Did he not think? For all that cunning of his, he could not see the most obvious answers. She would not be his partner if he wasn't—wasn't—bah! She recalled Ilya, his smile as Nikolai teased him. Gritting her teeth, she said at length, "You are loved. Everyone who knows you, loves you."

  His head shot up, lips parted in surprise. He stared at her, this time in astonishment. She grew uncomfortable, a scowl working its way onto her face. He looked stupid with his mouth hanging open like that. She would close it for him if he—abruptly he grinned, eyes sparkling through his thick hair. "Does that mean if you know me, you will love me too?"

  She sucked in a breath and snapped, "Don't be foolish!" It echoed throughout the cave as she stomped past him, her cheeks burning. How did one even ask such a shameless question? How did he not choke on his tongue for being so bizarre? The drivel which slipped past those lips! She burst from the cave's entrance, not even the wind cooling her embarrassment. She heard laughter echoing after her.

  What was that fool laughing about? She kicked a pile of snow. She refused to believe seeing his grin replace that wretched frown soothed any part of her, nor that hearing his laughter had lessened her tension. No. Bah! She kicked repeatedly at the snow, watching it whirl away in the storm. Muffled footsteps whispered behind her and she turned to see Nikolai standing at the entrance of the cave, smiling.

  "I offended you. I am properly scolded," he said. "It is too cold for you to be out here."

  She pressed her lips together, bowing her head, and walked over to him under the cave's rocky entrance. Hunching, she growled, "I was unfair in my judgments, Nikolai. You were… considerate towards me. At Darkrow Elea's home. And you have weathered my less than pleasant personality. My judgments are quick, and harsh, as I am." Her mouth twisted shut. She hated things like this. It made her skin crawl.

  She jerked when his fingers slid under her chin, tugging her face up so their eyes met. After a brief moment, however, he leaned back. Katerini frowned. "Your personality is not unpleasant. You are interesting to behold, Katerini, and you are a better partner than I could have ever hoped. I can never know what to expect from you, only that you accomplish it ruthlessly," he replied. "It has been an honor meeting you."

  She narrowed her eyes. He grinned wider. Quick as lightning, she snapped her teeth viciously and he yelped, jumping back and laughing. Rubbing her chin, she glared at him before retreating back into the cave.

  After that, most of the unease she felt melted away, though sometimes she caught him watching her with the same blank expression he had worn in the Wandering Wolf. Then the unease would return, a gnawing itch in her body which hissed something was terribly wrong.

  The itch only grew worse as the days passed. Hidden beneath his blue-black hair, Nikolai's eyes glittered and darted restlessly, the darkness in them amplified by the daylight. He spun as he walked, a desperation in his fingers she hadn't noticed on their way to the Svarinard. He flicked and twisted rapidly, the thread lumpier than she had seen him produce in the past. The finesse in his movements was gone. And she saw all his distaffs were laden with ice-blue fleece. When and where he had gotten it was a mystery. She was tempted to ask, recalling his words from earlier at the inn, then decided against it. The unease in her gut stopped her.

  Another week passed as they toiled through the second volley of mountains. The Svarinard's three legs were comprised like half-healed claw marks in the earth, parallel and raised, the grooves in between connecting the steeper peaks. The second volley was nothing like the first. They could no longer remove their masks if they wanted to prevent their lips cracking and eyelashes freezing. The climb became steeper. The peaks were higher, the going more dangerous, and shelter was becoming harder and harder to find without magic. In the distance, she could see the ghostly outline of the Svarinard's last leg.

  Katerini led them, didn't mind carving out a path in the snow, silently placing herself in front of Nikolai. If she became too tired, they could switch. She'd even spin for him if he kicked up a fuss about less spinning while he took the lead, though she knew he'd never do such a thing. He was determined to be as little of a hindrance as possible—she sniffed. Dangerous in its own way. Those types didn't complain until they dropped.

  She had worried the blizzards and flash storms would make her job of tracking down Darkrow Bravka harder, but she needn't have. Bravka's trail was clear. His magic was strewn haphazardly all over the mountain range, bursts of it splattered like paint. It was the mark of an amateur, which surprised her until she recalled Bravka had been stationed at Zhakieva for nearly a century. He wouldn't know how, or remember at least, to conserve his magic like she and Nikolai did. It took years and many near-deaths to learn the proper way of conserving magic. Not to mention she had always felt the stationary Darkrow were frivolous with theirs. They did not realize the Darkrow, while dauntingly powerful, were not limitless.

  Yes, Evgen could move mountains—if he wanted to be incapacitated for the better part of a year. With the elements constantly battering them down, nature sapping their strength like nectar, wandering Darkrow learned the limits of their powers. Or they died. They knew to use their magic only under duress. Bravka had misjudged himself. The nasty feeling in her gut worsened with every new splatter she saw. It was not as if she wanted him to be dead.

  She brooded over this as she stomped through the snow, instinctually avoiding dips and rocks hidden under the layers of heavy powder. She didn't notice at first, too caught up in the hum of travel, a faint grunting coming from behind her. She kept walking, her thoughts flowing between slow and fast, moving from Bravka to wondering when she should call the break to eat. Another muffled grunt sounded in the snowfall. This time she paused her slow plow through the snow, blinking. Nothing. She shrugged, then resumed her pace. Maybe she had imagined—

  "Oof! Ouch!"

  She whipped around to see Nikolai face
first in the snow, distaff sticking out awkwardly. She hesitated, unsure whether to laugh. He was much further behind than he had been a few moments earlier. He struggled to stand, swaying and wobbling, though his grips on the distaff and spindle were firm. She stiffened in alarm. Was he fatigued? He wouldn't dare say so, she thought. Stubborn fool! She was not his keeper, no, nor his lover, but she was his partner in this. Bah! She watched him, uncharacteristic indecisiveness gripping her. Should she help or wait? She did not want to insult him. He trudged forward in a zigzag, then landed heavily on one leg. Well. She surged back down the mountainside to him, gripping his shoulder as he panted.

  "I don't understand!" he said, voice muffled by the mask.

  "Stay in the path I'm cutting," she advised. "I'll slow down."

  "No-No, I have been careful to stay in the path this entire time! My balance—I cannot seem to—something is touching my face and—" He stopped. Dropping the distaff and spindle, he ripped off his mask and let it fall to the snow.

  Red.

  All over his face, slippery and wet. She recoiled, gasping for breath, because his eyes were gone, gone, they were—and she had—

  Nikolai stared at her. "Katerini," he said. "Are you here, or elsewhere?" She blinked rapidly. A small, desperate look dulled his beautiful eyes, and she saw the blood dripped only from his nose. "I'm afraid I need you to be here right now. I do not understand—"

  She stood, yanking off her mask, and hauled him up. "I am here. You are bleeding."

  "What?" he murmured in astonishment, wiping the blood from his nose. No effect. The blood kept coming and Nikolai looked at Katerini helplessly. "I do not understand. I just feel—" He gulped, then spat blood, "—a little light-headed. Nauseated, maybe, but…"

  She hooked a hand around the back of his neck. He stiffened, tried to pull away, and she snarled at him. His eyes were dilated, she noticed, the glittering lights in them reflecting like crystal. He relented and she pressed her head against his chest. His heartbeat was fast. Much too fast. She took her head away and met his panicked eyes. "I've seen this before—air sickness. We'll stop here for the night. There was a cave a little ways back." She separated from him, gathering his distaff, spindle, and mask, then entwined their hands. "Tell me if you begin to swell anywhere. Hands. Feet."