Burning Bright (2 page)

"Once the sacrifices are complete and the shadows of the past no longer hang over Pozhar, all the problems you speak of should ease," Dym interjected. "We will not need magic to fix them."

Shifting his contempt to Dym, Zholty replied, "How would you know? How would anyone know? The laws against magic were meant for days long gone—days we are smart enough not to recreate. I do not care what the rest of you say:  Pozhar needs magic!"

"The children of Pozhar once did quite well without magic," Dym said. "They will do well without it again."

Zholty sneered, his amber eyes blazing with the magic on which he glutted himself. "What would you know about the days before we had magic? You are barely thirty—"

"I am thirty-six," Dym cut in, mouth curving faintly. "I did not mean to sound arrogant, I apologize, your grace. My comment was based on what I know of history. In defense of her Highness, much of history after the Loss is rife with the bloody tales of sorcerers. I acknowledge your points, Minister, but I agree that we are better off without magic once we are safe again."

"I concur, obviously," Krasny added, giving Zholty a look that dared Zholty to argue with him.

Zholty smiled thinly and said, "You are accounted the most talented 'sorcerer' in the country,
cousin
. I think you will find it harder to adapt than you anticipate, living without magic."

"You are not my cousin yet," Krasny replied, voice so cold that Zholty actually recoiled for a moment before catching himself.

"Enough!" Sonya said, holding up her hands to emphasize her command and forestall any arguments. "You treat this matter like it is a debate. I assure you, it is not. The matter is final. When all the Vessels have been sacrificed we will destroy the remaining fire feathers and cease to practice magic. I did not bring you here to debate that point. I brought you here to inform you that it will be so. Am I understood, gentlemen?"

"Yes, Highness," they all dutifully chorused, though Zholty was petulant at best. Dym did not envy Sonya the discussion she would be having later with her fiancé. Zholty stood and lifted Sonya's hand, kissing the back of it, lingering. "I will see you later for tea, Sonya."

"Of course," she murmured and tugged him down to kiss his cheek, permitting him to kiss hers. "Do have a care with the council."

Zholty smirked, brushing imaginary dust from his dark blue jacket and adjusting his pale gray gloves. "The council is comprised of babes, but anything for you, my princess." He swept her a deep, elegant bow, gave brief nods to Krasny and Dym, and then departed.

Krasny blew out an irritated breath. "Must you marry him, Sonya? I think you would do better to marry a thief off the streets."

"My brother is dying and people will rest easier to know I have remarried and do not bear the risk of dying childless as well," Sonya said with a sigh.

"You are past forty, you will not—"

Sonya shot him a look, and Krasny subsided, taking another sip of his tea. Setting it down with a soft clink, he said, "Truly, I will select a thief myself. A nice, clever pickpocket would be more honest—"

"If you do not want him as my consort, then go and see my brother!" Sonya snapped, slamming the flat of her hand down on the table. Krasny looked away. Sonya's voice held a trace of tears when she said, "Kolya, he's dying and all he wants—"

"I do not care what he wants," Krasny said, cutting in, golden eyes cold as they met hers. "He had any number of chances over the years. I gave him more than he deserved. I finally gave up. It is far too late for him to expect me to care about what he wants now. Do not ask me again." He stood and left, ignoring them both and stopping just short of slamming the door behind him.

Dym stood up and moved closer to Sonya, silently handing over a cream-colored linen handkerchief. She took it with a wobbly smile and dabbed at her eyes. "My apologies for inflicting our family squabbles upon you, Holiness."

"You need not apologize to me for that, Highness, please. I am sorry so many troubles burden you and admire than you manage it all so gracefully." He took her hand in both of his and squeezed it lightly. "Be at peace, Princess, please. I am here to guide and warm, not to cast cold judgment."

Sonya sniffled into the kerchief, dabbed at her eyes again, and then balled it in one fist. "Why must they be so stubborn? I am weary of arguing with them both."

Dym covered her hand with one of his own, quietly casting a calming spell that she would not notice, smiling faintly when she stopped crying and relaxed more in her seat. "The hotter and brighter the emotion, the more it burns. Your fiancé is terrified of what will happen when he no longer has the magic that has ruled most of his life. Your cousin is losing the man he clearly still loves, whatever he wants the rest of us to think. They should not be taking out their fears in petty squabbling, but I have known men to do much worse over less. Eventually, they will burn their tempers out and act more reasonably."

"I hope you are right," Sonya said with a sigh, rubbing at her temples with her fingertips. "On to business, then. When are you planning to cast for the next Vessel?"

"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.

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.