Burning Bright (15 page)

Sonya's eyes widened, and then narrowed. "I can break the engagement."

"We have no evidence," Dym said. "Nothing but the word of a mercenary that it was a noble who cursed him and our own suppositions that noble was Zholty. To break the engagement now, for any reason, would cause more problems than it would solve."

"Yes," Sonya said, sighing. "Zholty is difficult, to put it politely, but a sound match. If I were to break it now, with my brother about to die and the sacrifices nearly complete ... " She sighed again. "That does not mean that Kolya must, as always, take all the burden upon himself. It is probably for the best they never married because Kolya would have worked himself to death."

Dym poured her a cup of dark red wine from the silver pitcher on the table in the middle of the room. Carrying it over to her, he said, "Whatever might have been, good or bad, does not matter. The past cannot be changed, only the future, by the blessing and grace of the gods of chaos. But chaos is bound tightly by fate, so to some degree all things are as they are meant to be. Know that, Highness. Perhaps in his next life, your brother will find the happiness he could not find in this one."

Sonya wiped a tear from her cheek and accepted the wine. "I am so tired of all this death. We are a country of rebirth, not of death. I do not want to be Piedre; look at how poorly they handle that burden."

"Piedre was a beautiful country once, and in many places it remains so," Dym said softly. "The god of death valued life more than anyone. Is that not why people on their death bed suddenly see with clarity all that they should have appreciated while they still lived? People rarely appreciate what they have until they stand to lose it."

Sniffling again, Sonya drained the wine glass and handed it back. "I hope they make some sort of amends, then. Those two ... I never understood, really, what drove them apart. Neither would speak of it. I just know that eventually Krasny began to grow cold, to hate Zarya, to despise almost everyone and everything else. He was such a sweet child; there was no one kinder or gentler. I scarcely recognize him now, Dym."

"All will be well," Dym promised. "Forgiveness—giving and accepting—is a good start to healing wounds. I think—" He stopped as the door opened and Krasny stepped out, his expression shuttered.

Sonya immediately shot to her feet and bolted to him, and Krasny only grunted when she hugged him tightly. "Are things better now, Kolya?"

"We need witnesses," Krasny replied. "Two at least, three would be better. People you can trust to keep their mouths shut."

"I will get them," Sonya said, eyes widening. "Are you really—"

"Just do it before I change my mind," Krasny said, sounding frayed around the edges.

Sonya said nothing more, just gathered her skirts and left. "Holiness," Krasny said. "Do you need anything special to perform the ceremony?"

"No," Dym said. "You can call me Dym. We have worked together closely enough, long enough, that it seems absurd to stand on formality."

Krasny smiled ever so faintly. "Nikolai, then."

"Nikolai," Dym repeated. "I do not require anything save what you might like to have present."

"I would prefer not to be present at all," Krasny groused. "Come on, then. Hopefully Sonya will return soon and we can have done with this debacle."

Dym followed him back into Zarya's bedchamber, standing by quietly as Krasny resumed his place at the bedside. A few minutes later, Sonya appeared with two women and one man behind her. She ordered them to stand at the foot of the bed, and then went to stand near her brother and Krasny.

It was the most depressing wedding ceremony Dym had ever performed. As busy as he was with other matters, he rarely presided over weddings. Normally the work was left to his other priests. He could not remember when last he had performed one.

By the time it was over, he and Krasny were the only ones with dry eyes. Feeling tired, Dym ushered everyone out of the room and poured more wine for himself and Sonya while she admonished the witnesses again on keeping silent.

When they had gone, the silence seemed oppressive. Sonya joined him at the table, immediately draining the cup of wine he handed her. "All of this," she said, "and we still have the sacrifice tonight. I think I am going to go lie down, or I will never be able to face it." She rested her hand against his cheek and rose up on her toes to kiss the other. "Thank you, Dym, for everything you do. We would be lost without you."

"I would be lost without all of you," Dym said softly. "Be at peace, fair princess."

She smiled faintly and gathered her skirts and departed. Dym took his wine and moved to the sofa to sit, sighing softly when he thought of all that he must still do.

The door to the bedroom opened a few minutes later, and a pale, weary Krasny stepped out. Dym's eyes went to his hand, but the large rubi ring Zarya had given to him during the ceremony was no longer present. "When are you going to announce the marriage?" Dym asked.

"Not until Zarya is ... " Krasny trailed off, mouth tightening. "I want Zholty to think all is going according to his plan, in this respect, until it's too scorching late. Let him think he will be Consort."

Dym nodded and stood, setting his empty cup aside. "I must go prepare for the ceremony. Be at peace, your Highness."

Krasny flinched. "It was never the throne I wanted."

"But you are well suited to it," Dym said softly. "I feel that if he were here you would rule with Holy Zhar Ptitsa's blessing. Good night, your Highness. Fire warm and guide you." He left Krasny there and walked slowly back to the cathedral, heavy-hearted and so very tired.

Returning to the room where he had left Pechal, Dym unsealed and unlocked it, and then slipped inside. Pechal was awake and sitting on the couch with his legs drawn up, looking lost. He looked up at the sound of Dym's arrival, and his eyes popped open wide. "You're the High Priest!"

"Yes," Dym said softly. "I am High Priest Dym. You may call me Dym if you like. There is no reason for you to be formal, honored Vessel."

Pechal laughed shakily, tiredly. "So I really am a Vessel. This is the first time I've felt ... awake, in a long time."

"It is because you are here, in the Cathedral of the Sacred Fires," Dym replied and stopped a few steps away from him. He clasped his hands in front of him and met Pechal's sad, dark eyes. "You are a Vessel, and the spark of Zhar Ptitsa awoke in you the very moment my spell was cast. It now seeks the Sacred Fires, and always will, until it is cast into them."

"It wants to die?"

"Yes," Dym said softly.

Pechal looked away, fingers trying to hold onto the smooth fabric of the sofa but finding no purchase. "I don't understand why."

"Gods are not mortals; they do not belong within mortals," Dym replied.

"But—why can't it just be taken out?"

"That's not how it works, much to my regret," Dym said, and he finally closed the remaining space between them to sit down beside him on the couch. "The matter is complicated, but I promise that it is necessary and in the end, all will be well again."

Pechal started crying. "Except me. Once I die, I'm gone. There is no reincarnation for those thrown into the fire. Everyone knows that."

"That's not entirely true," Dym said, reaching out carefully to take his hand, quietly relieved when Pechal accepted the touch. More than a few Vessels had turned violent, and while Dym was more than capable of defending himself, he hated to see them succumb to their fear that way. "You are a piece of a god, and it's true that part will be gone forever. A soul torn asunder is never the same as it was before, but fire is about rebirth, and what remains will become something entirely new." He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Pechal's forehead. "Be at peace, little bird."

His words made Pechal freeze and jerk away. "That's—that's what the mermaids call Raz."

"Raz," Dym repeated softly. "That is the name of your friend who nearly destroyed the Cathedral of Ashes."

Pechal nodded. "He—he's next, isn't he? I always knew Raz was special. He's ... he's Raz."

Dym remembered that moment in the Cathedral of Ashes, the way everything else had vanished, that face, those eyes staring so intently at him. For just one moment, he had thought everything might end well after all.

Why does looking at you hurt?

"He is special. So are you," Dym said softly.

Pechal sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I wish I could tell him goodbye."

"You will meet again," Dym said and stood up, keeping hold of Pechal's hand. "Come, we'll get you cleaned up."

"I don't see why it matters if I am clean or dirty," Pechal muttered. "I'll—I'll die all the same."

"You deserve whatever little things we can give you," Dym said and led him through the front room, into a bedroom, and beyond it to a bathing chamber that was a smaller version of his own. He guided Pechal close to it, and then stripped off their clothes. Bathing supplies had already been set out, his priests having begun preparations right after he and Krasny had departed on the hunt.

Dym washed Pechal, soaping him up and rinsing him off, carefully washing his hair, and then washing it again until the rich gold color shone. He scrubbed his nails and washed every speck of dirt away until Pechal's skin was red from soap and scrubbing. Finished, Dym helped him into the bath and made certain he was comfortable before he cleaned himself off and joined Pechal.

"Will it hurt?" Pechal asked, the word barely audible.

It was a question Dym had been asked nearly every single time. Very few Vessels had not asked it. "No, it will not. If you prefer, I can put you to sleep for it."

Pechal looked down at the water, watching his own hands as he moved them around. "I think I would prefer that. Otherwise I'll keep hoping to see Raz."

Dym kissed his temple and whispered, "Then sleep, little bird." Pechal slumped as he finished speaking, and Dym caught him before he fell beneath the water, hauling him out and carrying him back into the bedroom.

He laid Pechal on the bed and fetched the clothes that had been set out:  a simple robe of dark red with a cloth belt of red and gold in the shape of feathers. It took only a few minutes to dress Pechal, who somehow looked even younger in the somber robe. Dym fought back the emotions he had battled nearly a thousand times and went to get dressed himself.

Because he always tended the sacrifices, his formal clothes were always kept in the sacrifice's chambers. His robes were deep gray and trimmed in embroidered feathers of red, orange, and gold. At his hips he fastened the gold and rubi belt he always wore and affixed to it his master keys. Dressed, he pulled up the hood of his robe, shadowing his face as the ceremony dictated, and then lifted Pechal and carried him out.

The ringing of the bells was just fading away when he entered the cathedral. The sun had already set, and moonlight peeked through the stained glass windows. The only other light came from candles on either wall, but somehow they only served to make everything seem darker.

Perhaps a hundred people sat in the pews. The days when it had been filled while people waited fearfully to know if the Vessel actually died were long past. That was good and bad, but mostly it made Dym sad that people had so little respect for something so important—depressing or not, it
was
vital.

Shoving his own feelings aside, he crossed to the black marble altar table and laid Pechal upon it, and then lit the candles in stands on either side of the altar table. Returning to his place behind it, he clasped his hands in front of him and began to recite the prayers.

Those who still knew the rites added their parts, fluidly speaking the Ancient that was always used in the Ceremony of Sacrifice.

As the last of his words faded away and his priests began to sing the Hymn of the Sacred Fires, Dym picked Pechal up for the last time and turned around to walk toward the black marble door that led to the Chamber of Sacred Fires.

When he reached it, he spoke too softly for anyone to hear him, especially over the singing.
"I bid you open in the name of Zhar Ptitsa."

The black marble door swung open, and Dym stepped inside. The door closed again behind him, blocking out everything, reducing the world to Dym, Pechal, and the Sacred Fires.

Another altar resided at the back of the room, the black marble glistening as though it had only been carved that day, polished, and put into place. All around its base, flames flickered.

Dym stepped up to it, ignoring the flames that licked at his robes without actually harming them. He stepped back, shoved his hood back, and watched as the flames flared up at the arrival of a Vessel.

Tears streamed down his face as the flames became too great for him to see anything, but that the figure on the altar quickly vanished. A burst of brilliant light, and the flames abruptly died, leaving only sparks that blossomed into fire feathers and a pile of ashes upon the altar.

Later, when he returned to collect the feathers, the ashes would be gone. Dym turned around and slowly left the chamber, pulling up his hood again to hide his own tears.

Returning to the main altar, he announced, "The Vessel is successfully sacrificed. Be at peace, children of Pozhar. Fire warm your hearth and light your path."

Those few who had attended the ceremony slowly rose, most of them shuffling out. When they had gone, only Krasny, Sonya, and Zholty remained. Sonya extended her hands and after shoving back his hood, Dym offered his own, soothed by the simple comfort of her touch.

"I cannot stand these things," Krasny said. "I am glad I get to live to see the last of them."

Zholty said only, "So the next one will show himself shortly, yes?"

"A matter of days, if not a matter of hours," Dym said. "I will begin work on it in a few days. Tonight—"

"Yes, I know," Zholty cut in. "Mourning, though I do not see why we should mourn something that was meant to die."

No one replied to his comment, and Zholty shifted impatiently. "Sonya, we should go—"

"I will follow in due course," Sonya snapped. "If you cannot find a little bit of heart, then certainly you may go." She glared at him until Zholty drew himself up, turned sharply around, and walked off.