by Megan Derr
"I do not see why you and every other scorching person in this palace think it is anyone's business but mine," Krasny snapped, finally turning around. The handprint on his cheek was still bright red, and there was a cut, as though from a ring, on the other. "There is enough to worry about without gossiping about the personal problems between my cousins and me. I know that Sonya has taken you into her confidence, High Priest, but that does not mean you share my confidence."
Bowing low, Dym said, "Of course, you grace. My apologies. It is only the situation strikes a very personal chord and makes it hard not to speak up."
"Oh?" Krasny said. "What about our tired drama is so personal to you, High Priest? I have never known drama of any sort to be attached to your name." His brow furrowed in thought. "You came to the palace, what … two decades ago? You've been High Priest at least half of that since your predecessor retired early." His frown deepened. "I think that's right, but I travel so much it is hard to remember."
"You have the right of it, your grace," Dym said. "It was my caretaker in the Heart. My feelings for him were much stronger than merely that of a ward for his guardian. But I never said a word, feeling I couldn't—or shouldn't. He was killed by robbers one night when they broke into the church where I was still training. I will always wish I had said something."
Krasny regarded him with a sympathy Dym doubted many would have believed him capable of feeling. "I am sorry and can understand why you feel compelled to interfere, but the situation is not the same, not really. You'd do better to stay out of it, Holiness."
Dym nodded, acknowledging his words, but said softly, "If the situation is so different, your grace, explain to me how. It is my duty and honor to hear and to help. I am the hearth and the light, and putting me out does no one any good."
"Indeed," Krasny said, mouth quirking faintly in a rare show of amusement. "Very well, then. I am headed into the Heart to search out the Vessel. Now that the curfew bells have rung and the city is quiet, I may better be able to follow the trail." He turned to glance out the window again and his eyes glowed yellow orange as he cast out his magic, feeling the tug of the Vessel. As the glow faded, he turned back to Dym, a hint of a smirk in the curve of his mouth. "Do you ride, Holiness?"
"Yes," Dym said, cocking his head quizzically.
"Then ride into the city with me. I doubt you've anything else of importance to do at this hour, unless you plan to keep his Majesty company." When Dym remained hesitant, Krasny crooked his fingers impatiently. "Come along and help me find the Vessel, and I will explain all the family drama to you. Perhaps then you will convince everyone else to drop the matter with that faerie tongue of yours."
Dym laughed. "I have no Verde blood in me."
"That does not mean you do not share the faerie talent for persuasion," Krasny replied. "So, will you come?"
"Of course, just give me a few minutes to change into more suitable attire," Dym said.
"I'll meet you in the Red Courtyard, then," Krasny said and, pulling on his riding gloves, departed.
Dym briefly considered first going to see Sonya, but decided she probably wanted nothing to do with company at present. Whatever argument between the cousins, it had put Krasny in a more malleable frame of mind and Dym was more than willing to go along with it.
They reminded him of days long gone, Krasny, Sonya, and Zarya. He did not want to see them break and fall apart the way he once had. So many people he had called friends and family, gone forever because misunderstandings and resentment had made them forget they loved each other. All that aside, Pozhar would not last if its core was destroyed. The people needed Sonya and Krasny because despite Dym's knowledge and power, he could not save Zarya.
Dym left the royal chambers and quickly returned to his own rooms in the cathedral, where he changed out of his ornate robes and into clothing as dark and plain as Krasny's own. All that gave away his rank was his heavy gold signet ring set with the flame and feather crest of the High Priest and the master keys that he carried at all times. Otherwise, he might have been just another noble, albeit one of those rare few permitted to use magic.
Leaving the cathedral again, but by the front door, Dym headed quickly down the long stairs leading from the cathedral and across the pavilion, down the main palace courtyard, and through a small gate set in the wall that was a shortcut to the smaller, private Red Courtyard.
Two horses stood waiting, stamping their feet restlessly, coats dark brown and glossy in the lamps lit around the small, square space. Krasny had rebound his hair and pulled on a cloak, making him little more than just another shadow. Spying Dym, he grabbed the reins of the nearest horse and swung smoothly up into the saddle.
Dym quickly mounted the other horse, and without a word they rode off, away from the palace and down the long road that stretched between the palace and the city proper. Far above, the sky was clear, the stars sharp and bright, the full moon providing all the light they needed. The smell of snow and wintery pines was all around them, mingling with the less pleasant smells of an overcrowded city. They paused at the city gates, but Krasny displayed his ring to the guards, and they were quickly on their way again, slowing the horses as they wandered the city streets in search of the Vessel.
Eventually they stopped in the enormous pavilion that took up the center of the city, spreading out from the Cathedral of Ashes at the very heart of it. Dym frowned thoughtfully. "When we are at the edges of the city, I can feel it. The Vessel is here. But the closer we get to the center, the more it all blurs." He frowned pensively at the cathedral. "I can only think the residual magic of the cathedral is interfering."
"There's a lot of old power here at the very center of the Heart," Krasny agreed. "Legend does say this was Zhar Ptitsa's home. The Cathedral of Sacred Fires was built after the Great Loss, when Tsar Aleksandr III decided to go through with the proposed sacrifices. Moving the Altar of Rebirth closer to the palace allowed more control."
"Dark days, from what I recall," Dym murmured and lifted one gloved hand to gesture. "If the Vessel is in or near the cathedral, it does make sense that his energy gets muddied. We could try inside and see if we have more luck. If the Vessel is a priest, sensing him should be easier once inside."
Krasny nodded, and they rode across the pavilion, dismounting at the base of the stairs. Leaving the horses tethered at the rails off to one side of the cathedral, they walked side by side up the long, wide steps. When they reached the nearest of the six sets of double doors, Dym pulled out his ring of master keys and selected the one that opened the Cathedral of Ashes.
They slipped inside, and he locked the door again behind them. Krasny led the way from the entry hall into the cathedral proper, nothing but the moonlight slipping through the windows to guide their way. A single candle was lit on the altar, next to an unlit candle; both were red: Vessel Candles. Once, the Cathedral of Ashes had been filled with one thousand of the blood red candles. With every hunt, one candle was lit. After the Vessel was sacrificed the candle was taken away.
Approaching the altar, Dym climbed the stairs up to it and lightly touched the side of the lit candle, a chill running down his spine. He frowned thoughtfully, wondering what had provoked the sensation. Letting his fingers slide away, he turned to face Krasny, who stood in the aisle between the pews, eyes glowing bright gold as he cast out his magic. Dym did the same, feeling the gentle wash where their magic overlapped, creating a stronger pool of energy that rippled out across the cathedral.
He closed his eyes, concentrating on the magic, feeling what it felt … and not quite grasping what they sought, like reaching for a jar just out of reach on the topmost shelf. He pushed harder, releasing more energy, but again, it just barely slipped out of reach.
With a frustrated noise he broke off, feeling Krasny do the same. "Are we being resisted?" Krasny said. "I have never heard of a Vessel resisting before—well, not in this manner, anyway." He reached into his jacket and extracted a small flask, taking a sip from it. Dym won
dered how hard Krasny had been pushing himself magically, lately, that he was drinking the counter tonic already.
Dym shook his head in reply to Krasny's comment. "I do not think it's the Vessel; I think it is this place, instinctively protecting the piece of Holy Zhar Ptitsa it can feel. But that is confirmation of a sort. We know for certain now that the Vessel is here. It will take only summoning all the priests and going through them one by one."
Krasny looked pained for a moment. "Roughly five hundred priests reside here. Just searching through them will take at least a day. Nevermind that we keep saying priests, but it could be one of the non-holy staff they retain, and if I know the Heart, there is likely an entire colony of street rats in the rafters. Even if we began right this moment, it would take days to go through them all, and there is no promise the Vessel would not simply slip away. Though I guess that would be a lead of its own." He sighed softly, looking extremely tired for a moment.
"We can start in the morning," Dym said. "It has kept this long; it will keep a few hours more. We should go home and rest ourselves, given that it will be as arduous a task as you describe." Firebird knew they'd had more than a few of those in their days as Vessel hunters. Rare was the hunt that went easily. "Let's be off before we wake someone."
Nodding in agreement, Krasny turned and led the way out, not speaking again until they were outside once more. "Thank you for coming with me, High Priest. With my magic alone it would have taken longer, and I would not have been as certain."
Dym did not bother to comment that Zholty should have joined Krasny in the venture, never mind the other nobles. "I am happy to help, and I do believe I was promised explanations."
Krasny's mouth twisted with his reluctance to discuss the matter, but he conceded with a nod as they walked down the steps and to their horses. "There is not much to tell, really. Once upon a time I loved a Tsar. He was not willing to love me because I was his cousin and a man. I tried countless times to prove to him we could work, overcome all the obstacles he threw in our path if he would just try. Every time he would start to listen … and then cast me aside again. Dying is a poor reason to ask for those things he rejected all his life. He lived as a coward, High Priest, and so far as I am concerned, he can die as one."
"I see," Dym said softly, but held off saying anything further as they rode off back to the palace. When they reached it, he handed his horse off to the guards in the main pavilion. "I will see you tomorrow, your grace. Shall we gather after breakfast to return to the Cathedral of Ashes?"
"Meet me for breakfast after the morning services," Krasny said. "Sonya will need to know, and I can tell her then. If you're present, she'll have no choice but to resume speaking terms." He winked. "Good night, Holiness."
"Good night, your grace." Dym waited until Krasny vanished into the palace, and then strode across the courtyard toward his cathedral, going around it to a backdoor that was a faster route to his private chambers.
Once there, Dym closed the door and leaned against it, sighing.
"You're being unreasonable."
"You know nothing about it"
"I know you're angry and hurt. I know you have every reason to lash out, but it is not like you—"
"Do not presume to know me so well! Do not presume to know me at all! I tire of everyone telling me who and what I should be, how I should act. Taking advantage of all that I do and demanding still more. Then you dare come in here and tell me how to feel about it?"
"I meant no disrespect—"
"Get out. Stay out. Your duties lie out there, not in here. Do not presume to tell me what I should be doing when you are neglecting your own duties. Get. Out."
Dym pushed away from the door, running a hand restlessly over his dark hair, wishing his hand would stop trembling. He had not thought that memory would haunt him again; it had remained silent for so long. Not that he would ever forget those words, that terrible moment—how could he? If he had only stayed and done his duty instead of storming off angrily …
But he could not undo what was done. He could only move on.
He moved through his front room and into his bedchamber, not stopping until he reached the changing room. There, he stripped off his robes and hung them up, neatly tucking away the jeweled belt. He pulled on a dark gray dressing robe, tucking his master keys into one pocket as he returned to the bedroom proper.
Sighing softly, he moved to the little stove in the middle of the room and with a thought, lit the fire. Setting a kettle on top to boil the water, he sat in a nearby divan and picked up the book he had left there: a book of art across the four nations; the ink and woodwork of Kundou, the stained glass and murals of Pozhar, the stone carving of Piedre, and the paintings and silversmiths of Verde.
A pity no knowledge remained of Schatten, for no discussion was truly complete without its inclusion. Dym flipped idly through the book, admiring the drawings that tried so hard to convey the beauty of the works discussed.
His kettle began to rattle, warning him the water was ready, and Dym stood to fix his tea. He picked up a pitcher kept near the stove and poured out a small measure of concentrated tea, always made in large enough batches to last for days. Over the concentrated tea, he poured hot water, and stirred until the tea and water were evenly combined. Settling into his seat again, he relaxed in it, drawing his legs up and propping the book against them, sipping his fragrant rose tea and enjoying the distraction.
It would not keep him from having nightmares when he finally went to bed, but it kept him from thinking about them until he was too tired to fight sleep any longer.
Chapter Five: Escape
Raz licked honey from his fingers as he walked, humming in pleasure at something other than dubious looking porridge from the poorhouse kitchens. Money was definitely a nice thing to have, and their's would go a long way yet.
He dodged out of the way of a cluster of guards and paused at a public washing fountain to rinse away the remaining traces of stickiness. Wiping his wet hands on his tunic and shoving back the messy strands of his dark, red-brown hair, he pulled up his fallen hood and continued on his way.
The streets were even more crowded than usual, but that was typical for a market day. Everyone was pouring into the cathedral pavilion, setting up stalls or trying to get an early peek at what would be available. The guards already looked more harried than usual, which made Raz grateful that he and Pechal were not so desperate for money that they would have to resort to picking pockets. Easy enough, most days, but market days tended to make people more volatile when something invariably went wrong, and the guards just loved an excuse to take out their frustrations on someone.
Raz paused when the bells of both cathedrals began to ring, signaling the start of the morning prayers. The sun would be up shortly, then, and that was when the real chaos would begin. An hour or so after the morning prayers concluded the market would open and very little else would be done in the Heart that day. It made him grateful all over again that, for once, he could afford to slip away and find a bit of quiet instead of risking life and limb working the crowds.
Though that reminded him that he was out early for a reason: apparently Ivan's gang had been looking for him. Raz hadn't answered the queries because Pechal was still sick—he refused to believe anything else was wrong. He just ... Pechal was sick, that was all.
Which meant Raz would have to do the job alone, and knowing Ivan, it would not be an easy one. Raz pushed through a throng of men arguing the pricing on Kundou sashes then scurried around a man trying to contain a small herd of goats.
It was another twenty minutes or so before he finally got past the crowd and stumbled into the small street he had been seeking in the first place. Fire and ash, he hated Market Day! Heaving a sigh, Raz quickly made his way up the street and stopped short when he saw the crowd around the Sword & Sorcerer, a profusion of guards in their deep red uniforms.
A man sat on a horse, dressed in the pomp and splendor of the aristocracy and oversee
ing the proceedings. He was handsome, in a spoiled sort of way. He had black hair, unusual in Pozhar but not unheard of. Likely he had an ancestor who had hailed from Piedre. His eyes were dark gray, cold and sneering as he watched his guards arrest Misha and the others who worked at the Sword & Sorcerer.
He had a pin affixed to his jacket: a firebird made from gold, silver, and copper with a rubi heart and diamond eyes. Raz's eyes widened when he realized who the man was: the Minister of Magic. Why was he arresting Misha?
But even as he asked the question, it was answered for him when two guards came out carrying small chests. They presented the chests to the Minister of Magic, opening the lids to display the contents. Raz drew a sharp breath when he saw what could only be fire feathers along with a host of other objects that he would hazard were magic related.
Misha had been a Vessel Protector? He had never realized Misha was a rebel. How had he missed that? That would explain why there had been so many workers on staff the other night: they'd been preparing for something. Raz's stomach roiled as he watched the guards load Misha and the others into a prison carriage.
He jumped when someone grabbed his arm, one hand coming up and the other going for his knife—and immediately relaxed when he registered it was only Ferapont. "So I guess we're not meeting at the Sword & Sorcerer."
Ferapont rolled his eyes. "Come on, this way. Look sharp, the guards are looking to impress Master Minister on His Horse, there. Looks like someone shoved damp firewood up his ass, don't he?"
Raz snickered as he slipped through the crowd following Ferapont, who led him down a particularly foul-smelling alleyway. They came out at the end of Bakers' Row, went half-way up, and then cut through a small side street until they spilled out onto Market Street, the bustle of the market for which it was named already causing a racket despite the fact it was not yet open.
