by Megan Derr
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 t
he 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.
Krasny blew out an irritated breath when he was gone. "I cannot imagine why you think marrying him is even remotely bearable."
"I do what I must for Pozhar," Sonya said, sighing. "Though, I suppose now it little matters, since you are likely only days away from being Tsar and Zholty is bound for a noose. Assuming we can find suitable evidence, of course."
"A matter for another day," Krasny said. "Are you all right, Dym?"
Dym nodded. "I will be fine, thank you. I think we have all had a very long day, and it is well past the time we should find our beds. Sleep well, fire warm and guide."
Sonya kissed his cheek and gave Krasny a nod, and then they both left him alone in the cathedral. Dym slowly dragged himself back to his chambers where he hastily discarded his clothes.
He snuffed all the candles in his chambers with a mere thought, pausing only to retrieve the keys he had carelessly discarded with his clothes, and then strode through his rooms to his bed. Climbing into it, he pulled up the covers and tried to sleep, praying fervently that he would not dream.
Chapter Eleven: Pain
Raz had just reached the Incoming Tide when the bells began to toll.
There was no mistaking that special set of bells, that pattern of ringing. Raz froze in place, whipped around, and started running back across the harbor toward the main road. He had to get to the palace, he had to save Pechal. How in the fires had Ivan and Shio and Shinju failed!
"Pechal!" he screamed as the bells stopped ringing, stumbling to a halt. He tried to make himself move again, but couldn't because he knew deep down that he was too late.
He did not know if the sensation was real or in his head, but he felt it when Pechal died. He screamed again, tears streaming down his face, and only when someone shoved him did Raz realize that other people were screaming too.
The rough stones of the street scraped his palms where he landed, but he barely noticed, more caught up in not being trampled as people fled the harbor in a panic. Raz stood gawking as he stared at the disaster the shipyard had become—there were boats sinking, already sunk, barely still afloat, and nearly all of them were or had been on fire.
What in the fires ...
He'd done it, he realized. Just as he'd practically destroyed the Ashes. Raz stood there, feeling lost. Scared. Oh, fires. Pechal was dead. He tried not to think about it, scared of what would happen if he lost control of himself again. Reaching up, he wiped away his tears, tried to focus—
—and yelped when someone grabbed him and jerked back—
"Calm down!" Ailill said and shook him. "Raz, you have to calm down."
Raz nodded. "I know. I didn't mean—Pechal is dead, even though they promised—"
Ailill let him go, but then took one arm again and half-led, half-dragged him away from the harbors and back into the heart of the city. "We need somewhere we can talk, somewhere no one will pay us any mind or ask questions. We may need to be there for some time."
"Um." Raz tried to think. "The Two Roses. East side of town. Go to the cellar, not the front door. Left here." He haltingly gave further directions to Ailill as they walked through the city and was shaking hard by the time they finally slipped into the cellar room of the Two Roses.
Dried roses hung from the ceiling, their scent beating back the otherwise musty smell. There was a small bed in one corner, and a table with two chairs against the opposite wall. A small stove was in the middle of the room, and it took Raz only a few minutes to get the coals going.
Then he simply dropped to sit on the floor. "Pechal is dead," he said. "They promised they would take care of him for me, and I left even though I had a bad feeling and now he is dead."
"And you're next," Ailill said quietly. "Once they throw you into that fire, Holy Zhar Ptitsa will be gone forever. You can't let that happen. We lost the gods once; if we destroy them forever then there is no hope left that all can be set to rights."
Raz looked up at him, a bit startled by the vehemence in his tone. "You saw what I did out there. What good would it do to bring back a god who can and will do that? Everyone knows Holy Zhar Ptitsa died after destroying half the country and thousands of people. I probably killed people tonight. If I am only a piece of a god, one piece out of a thousand ... how much worse would it be if I became a thousand times stronger?"
Ailill sneered at him, the expression an awful thing on his handsome face. It made Raz sad, somehow, to see a White Beast look so cold and dismissive. "No one knows what happened almost a thousand years ago. Stories change over time, no matter how hard anyone tries to keep the truth recorded. The same way no one recalls what happened at the Great Oak. We only know they die—every one hundred years they die! We try and we try to right our wrongs, but every century the Great Tragedy repeats. Here you have a chance to bring back the Holy Firebird, yet you sound as if you would rather throw yourself into the fire without a fight!"
"I—" Raz stopped, not certain what to say. "Is that why you need the comb? To bring back your gods?"
"They're part of the ceremony, yes," Ailill said tersely. "By 'they' I mean the comb and four other pieces of jewelry. They were stolen a long time ago, and we are hoping that in getting them back, perhaps something will turn in our favor. Do you have the comb?"
Raz wanted to be angry that all he could think about was the comb when Pechal was dead and he had just destroyed countless ships and the lost gods alone knew what else—but Ailill looked so sad and hopeful all at once, Raz could only reach into his jacket and extract th
e comb wound up in a silk scarf. "Here."
Ailill unwound the scarf and dropped it to the floor, turning the comb over and over in his hands. It really was a beautiful piece, and Raz did not think he was entirely imagining the power radiating from it. "Thank you," Ailill said, retrieving the scarf and carefully rewrapping the comb in it. "This was the last piece I needed to collect, and I—I know what it cost you to get it and that is not a price you should have paid. I am sorry, however little that is worth."
Raz said nothing, just turned away with a rough noise and started crying again. Pechal was gone, because he'd been unlucky enough to be born with a piece of a god's soul. Pechal, who had never hurt anyone without cause, who had been too sweet and kind to be a thief. Who deserved a house and a garden and a happy life. Not to be sacrificed, his name lost among hundreds of others who had shared his cruel fate.
And Raz was next. What was he supposed to do? Surrender? Run? Was it better to kill a god once and for all, or run away and run the risk of his returning? Was it possible that Verde had it right and the gods should be restored?
But for all that he had a piece of a god within him, Raz didn't think he was up to answering that question. He was nothing but a thief. What did he know about gods? All he'd ever wanted was a house and a garden, to see Pechal become something more than a thief. "I don't know what to do," he whispered.
Ailill did not reply, simply stood and fussed around with the stove and the kettle hanging on a hook above it. Raz vaguely noted that he seemed familiar with the process of making tea and was surprised that a noble would know how.
"Here," Ailill said, leaving the water to boil and bending to help Raz to his feet. He pushed Raz down to sit on the bed Ailill had just vacated. "What you need to do right now is get yourself under control and learn how to stay that way because otherwise you will do a great deal worse than you did at the harbor—and that was bad enough."
Raz flinched and stared at his hands. "I don't want to hurt people."
"It never occurred to me you did," Ailill said quietly. "But you have magic and you need to be careful with it." He returned to the stove and poured the boiling water out into two cups he'd already prepared with concentrated tea. Returning to the bed, he sat down beside Raz and handed one of the cups over. "What is this place?"
