Burning Bright, Page 2

  "Tonight," Dym said. "I do not think it will take long to find the remaining two. A matter of weeks at worst, but far more likely a matter of days."

  Sonya nodded, but said nothing. "So many lives lost, and two more still to go. Do you ever wonder if we are doing the right thing? Is it wrong to say I doubt it sometimes?"

  "One should always hesitate about taking a life," Dym said quietly. "I would worry if you were not upset. But rest assured, Highness, that what we do is for the good of all. We are nearly done, and when it is all over, you will see that it was all worth it. We do not act in vain, I promise."

  "So young and yet so wise," Sonya said with a trace of a genuine smile. "How can you be so wise already, Holiness?"

  Dym smiled faintly. "I am not wise, merely good at looking and sounding so. My caretaker, when I was growing up, said I had a very solemn mien. I always have; it lends well to being a priest."

  "You are the most self-contained and solemn person I know, it's true," Sonya said. "I wish the rest of my court had even half your calm demeanor. But I have kept you long enough, Holiness. I know you've better things to do than soothe my ruffled feathers. I am off to find my intended. Fire warm and guide you."

  She stood, and Dym stood with her, taking the hand she held out and kissing her knuckles. She squeezed his hand, and offered him another smile, weak but true, before departing. Dym lingered a moment to finish his tea and then left himself, slowly wending his way back to his cathedral.

  He was not entirely surprised to see Krasny in the sanctuary, head tilted back as he stared up at the stained glass windows on the western side, colored beams of sunlight setting his brilliant hair aflame. He had already changed out of his court finery and was dressed in heavier clothes for travel; his hair was braided back, a sword strapped at his hip, and his saddlebags slung over a nearby pew. "Your grace," Dym greeted politely. "Give me a moment and I will fetch the fire feathers for you."

  "It seems a pity to me the history behind these windows has largely been lost. Do you know them all? I know this one, of the wolf who helped a peasant boy to become the first Tsar," Krasny said, gesturing to the window where a dark-haired man stood with a wolf and golden mare. "But this one I do not know. Do you know the tale behind it?" he asked, jerking his chin at one of the windows. They were wide, tall rectangles with arched tops, ten to each side of the hall. "I have deduced most of the tales depicted here over the years, but this one ever eludes me."

  Dym looked at the image in question, of a little boy sleeping beneath a tree of golden apples. "No, unfortunately I do not. The priests try their best to hand the stories down, but over the years something is always lost."

  Krasny nodded and finally turned to look at him. "Is Sonya very upset?"

  "Yes," Dym said, falling into step alongside Krasny as they headed for the back rooms of the cathedral. "She is mostly troubled about his Majesty and your continued refusal to see him. But she also worries about the Vessels, the people, and all those other matters which weigh upon the mind of any good ruler."

  "She is a great ruler," Krasny said. "I always thought it a pity she was not born first."

  Dym did not comment on the remark, only said, "You should go see him. It is better to say and hear the words too late than not at all."

  "So I am told, frequently and often. I am here for fire feathers, priest, not a lecture. Whatever is or is not between his Majesty and I is our affair, and I will thank the rest of the world to keep out of the matter."

  Bowing his head, Dym murmured, "Of course, your grace. My apologies. Right this way." He led the way through his private office to a door at the very back. He pulled the ring of master keys from his waist and unlocked the door, and pressed his hand to it, banishing the spell of sealing and protection he had placed upon it.

  "As ever, your spell work impresses me," Krasny said with a grunt.

  "You are nothing to scoff at yourself, your grace," Dym said lightly, pushing the door open. He snapped his fingers, triggering the light spell within to reveal a small room filled with myriad boxes placed neatly on shelves that took up most of the three walls. The space not given over to shelves was only to make room for the large chests shoved beneath them.

  Going to the very back of the room, Dym reached up to a topmost shelf and retrieved a wooden box carved with flowers and feathers, sealed with complicated spellwork, and nearly too hot to touch. Taking it down, he carried it back out to his office and set it on a large, dark wood table beneath a wide set of windows. Outside, the world beyond was drenched in snow, bright and sharp beneath the winter sun. Smoke curled up from various chimneys, and far in the distance he could see the colorful spires of the Cathedral of Ashes, sister to the palace's Cathedral of Sacred Fire.

  Spreading his hands over the box, he called up his magic and broke the spell that held it shut. Lifting the lid, he stared at the contents: half the fire feathers that remained in the country. The other half were kept by the Minister of Magic.

  He picked one up, unable not to admire the beauty of the fire feathers despite the fact they were only made upon the death of a Vessel. One thousand fire feathers with every sacrifice, guarded and carefully used over the centuries to grant magic to those permitted to use it. Though once magic was granted, the fire feathers were not really needed, they did help to supplement spells and boost magical energies.

  Back in the early days, fire feathers had been much more likely to run out because the number of those who could use magic had been much greater. But the dark days of sorcerers were long gone and only nine people were capable of using magic in Pozhar.

  Of those nine, he and Krasny were the most powerful, and no one else was remotely close to their level, a fact that infuriated the Minister of Magic.

  Dym turned the chest around for Krasny to more easily access the contents. "Help yourself, your grace."

  "Thank you," Krasny said and took out five feathers, tucking them away in a special pouch at his waist. "Ideally, I will not be gone more than a couple of weeks, but do not hesitate to contact me should my presence be needed."

  "Yes, your grace," Dym said and swept him a bow. Krasny met the bow in kind and then left. Dym restored the spell on the box, and returned it to the storeroom and then resealed that spell as well. He settled behind his desk and looked over the paperwork set neatly before him—then ignored it in favor of pulling out his sketchbook, which was kept in a locked drawer of his desk.

  Picking up a pencil, he began to sketch, letting his mind wander and his fingers work unimpeded. When he finally paid attention to what he was doing, he was not in the least surprised to realize he had drawn the face of the man he had once loved—still loved—more than anything else in the world. The man he had failed.

  Dym sighed and set the sketchbook aside, stared at his paperwork, and sighed again. The country was two Vessels away from finally being free of the shadow hanging over it for nine centuries, and he was mired in supply requests, reports to the throne, and a half-finished speech for the next service.

  Standing up, he went to go find someone to bring him tea.

  Chapter Two: Thieves in the Night

  Raz crept through the silent house, the necklace he'd been sent there to steal tucked safely away in a secret pocket of his jacket. He tugged restlessly at his cap, always anxious when a job went so smoothly, and tensed for the moment when it all burst into flame.

  Slipping back down the staircase, he crept across the main hall to the salon or parlor or whatever the flames the room was called and to the window he had broken to get inside. Shoving the window up, he crawled outside, and pulled the window shut again.

  A shadowy figured moved in the garden at his approach and whispered, "Got it, then?"

  "Yeah," Raz whispered back, ruffling Pechal's hair and tugging him close for a quick hug. They said no more as they darted quickly through the garden and climbed over the back wall. Once in the alleyway between the rows of lavish houses, they increased their pace slightly, ever careful to watch
for guards who would put them in the stocks for being out after curfew.

  They wended their way through alleys and small side streets, keeping well away from the main ways where they were more likely to encounter trouble. Beside him, Raz could feel Pechal all but vibrating to ask how it all had gone.

  But they maintained their silence while they walked, too smart to risk drawing attention by speaking. Raz led the way as they looped around the Cathedral of Ashes and the enormous pavilion in front of it where so much city activity occurred.

  When they were behind the Cathedral and tucked away in an alley corner, he finally stopped. "That was almost too easy, I think."

  "No kidding," Pechal muttered. "Let's see it, then."

  Reaching into his jacket, Raz extracted the little velvet bag into which he had placed the stolen necklace. Pulling the drawstring bag open, he tipped the necklace into his hand. The light of a nearby torch gleamed faintly over the gold chain and glistened wetly over a fat, teardrop-shaped rubi. "The Tear of Blood, Sasha called it," Raz said. "Beautiful, isn't it?" He held it up closer to the light, admiring the rich color.

  Pechal shivered beside him. "Looks too much like blood to me; gives me the creeps. Why would anyone give a jewel such an awful name?"

  "Who knows why nobles do half the things they do," Raz replied. "Not my problem. My problem is to steal it, which I've done, and then deliver it, which we're doing. He said to meet him at the Sword & Sorcerer at twelfth bell."

  "I wish we could be in bed by twelfth bell for once."

  Raz laughed and tucked the necklace away again. Tugging at the brim of his hat, he said, "That will never happen and you know it. Come on, then. We deliver the necklace, get our payment, and we won't need to take another job for weeks. A few more like this and we'll have enough money to make honest citizens of ourselves."

  "Right, you honest," Pechal said with a laugh and gave him a playful shove. "You won't last a week, even with your garden."

  "I'd go at least a month," Raz retorted, shoving back. "We'll see who's laughing when it's my garden making all of our honest food." Just thinking about it sped his heart up even as he tried to convince himself to calm down and not get his hopes up. However much they might want to be honest citizens, it was still far more a dream than a reality.

  Even if it did someday happen, he still was not entirely certain he knew what ordinary meant, precisely, or how to be it. If he had ever been anything but a street rat, he could not remember. "Hurry up, then." He darted off, not quite running as he left behind the relative safety of the cathedral.

  Another ten minutes or so of walking saw them to the designated meeting point: a pub that, during the day, was a favorite location for exchanging and arranging all manner of interesting things. At night … everything just got more interesting.

  Raz looped around to the back and knocked three times on the door. A panel in the upper portion of the door slid open and a gruff voice said, "We're closed and it's after curfew. Go home."

  "Don't be damp firewood, Misha," Raz retorted. "The only thing less closed than your pub is your mother's legs."

  Laughter came from the other side of the door and the panel closed with a thunk. A moment later, the door swung open and a large, burly man beckoned them inside. "Warmth to you," he greeted and embraced them both briefly. "Haven't seen you little sparks in a bit. What trouble you been hired to act out now, Raz? Pechal, ain't you found someone better to run around with?"

  "No one as easy to boss around," Pechal said lightly. "I smell stew—any of it left?"

  "Plenty," Misha replied. "I'll get you both some. Beer, too. What are you doing here so late?"

  Raz smiled briefly in thanks and said, "Meeting a client. Tall, quiet, spooky sort."

  "Half dozen of them, you'll have to pick out which one is yours," Misha said dryly and nodded his head toward the door that led to the front room. "Go on, then."

  "Thanks." Raz led the way down the narrow hallway and out into the main portion of the pub, skimming the dim, smoky room. There were ten occupants, three serving girls, and a large man tending the bar. He wondered what Misha was up to that he had four people working such a small crowd.

  But the first rule of the Sword & Sorcerer was: mind your own business. He skimmed the room again, but did not see anyone who looked like the man they were supposed to be meeting. Shrugging, he found an empty table in the very back and settled down. Pechal ran off to fetch their promised food from Misha and returned a couple of minutes later with a tray.

  He sat down and set out two bowls of stew, a bowl filled with hunks of black bread, and two tankards of beer. Raz took his portion eagerly, snatching up chunks of bread to sop up broth, and washing it all down with the thin, but still appreciated, beer.

  Misha had only just brought them a second round of beer when their client showed up, a deep hood hiding his face. He was tall and thin and moved with a sinuous grace that reminded Raz of the sorts of criminals even he preferred to avoid. The man pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning back in a way that seemed casual, but Raz knew was anything but—the bastard was a snake waiting to strike. He had a dagger strapped to one thigh, a sword at one hip, and a bull whip at the other. Raz had heard rumors about all the things he could do with that whip when he was pushed. "Was starting to wonder where you were, Sasha," Raz said.

  "Do you have it, then?" Sasha asked and held out one gloved hand.

  "Payment," Raz countered.

  Sasha chuckled and dropped his hand to pull something from within his cloak. He threw a small bag on the table, the coins inside chinking when it landed. Pechal snatched the bag up and tipped the contents out. "Payment is good."

  He tucked the coins away, and Raz withdrew the velvet bag in his own jacket, holding it out. Sasha took it and pulled out the rubi necklace, admiring it much the same way Raz had earlier. "Perfect. I was told you were the best thieves in the business."

  "None better, by the Fires I vow it," Raz replied.

  Sasha rose. "Fire warm and guide you." He was gone before Raz could reply.

  "He's as creepy as they say," Pechal commented.

  Raz shrugged. "Who cares? He pays well and isn't playing games. I wouldn't mind more jobs this easy. Finish your beer and let's go home."

  Obediently finishing his beer, Pechal rose and led the way back through the mostly empty pub, pressing coins into Misha's hand as they passed him and slipped out the way they had come.

  The cathedral bells were just chiming half past twelve when they reached the back yards of the cathedral again. Raz overtook the lead, walking right up the back of the cathedral itself, and slipping into a small courtyard that contained a long-neglected and no-longer working fountain. He suspected the rest of it had been a garden at one point, back when the cathedral had maintained its own foodstuffs, but like so much else in the Heart of Zhar Ptitsa, generally just called the Heart, that practice had faded out.

  He leapt neatly up the wall, grabbing the first set of handholds even as his feet felt for grooves to rest on. Assured of his grip, Raz began to climb, up and up the cathedral wall until he reached the cracked window near the top of the west wing. Pushing the broken window open, he climbed over the edge and all but toppled inside. He regained his feet just as Pechal climbed in behind him, hit the floor smoothly, and turned to close the window and pull an old blanket across it.

  Raz moved easily through the dark, fumbled briefly with their lantern, and then the pungent scent of sulfur filled the room when he struck a match to light it. Warm orange-yellow light filled their little space, a disused corner of the upper attic that none of the priests seemed to remember existed.

  It wasn't much, but it was home: two piles of discarded blankets and pillows that comprised their beds, and still more pillows were piled on the other side to serve as chairs. They shared one small trunk that they had snuck in through the cathedral itself and which contained all their clothes and other worldly possessions: bits and baubles they had clung to while making their way a
s thieves for hire.

  They got settled in, tucking away purses and tools of the trade, wiping off dirt and brushing more away from where they had climbed up. Raz exchanged a smile with Pechal, reached out to ruffle his hair. Not much at all, but they were all the home they'd ever really need.

  "I'm going down," Raz said, slipping away before Pechal could make fun of him. Leaving their little room by way of the small crawlspace that was the closest they had to a door, he picked his way across the half-rotted floor of the upper attic, ignoring the rodents and birds that shared the space with them. Halfway across, he slipped down through the open trapdoor to the main attic which was much better maintained. Weak moonlight slipped in through cracks and a few small windows to provide paltry guidance. At the far end, he opened another trapdoor and climbed down the steep stairwell to the uppermost floor of the cathedral, where most of the bedrooms and various workrooms were located.

  Everything was so silent every breath he drew was audible. Moving as silently as possible, Raz headed down the hallway to the narrow staircase that eventually turned into the great stair that led down to the cathedral proper.

  He stopped just short of going all the way down, keeping to the mezzanine level and all but pressed up against the back wall as he walked closer to the front of the sanctuary. He sank down to sit on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, and closed his eyes while he listened to the priests singing the midnight vigil below.

  Raz didn't understand the words; he'd never learned to read and never received any sort of formal education, so he only knew the hymns by listening to them. But he had listened to them so many times he at least knew what to say, even if he did not understand what he was saying.

  Eyes still closed, Raz began to sing along softly with priests, absorbed by the song, lost in the singing. It made him a calm sort of happy, in opposition to the hot thrill of a theft gone well. He remained there and sang until the bells finally rang out the first hour and the singing tapered off. Reluctantly standing, Raz slipped away again and returned to their little attic room.