Burning Bright (14 page)

"It would have," the High Priest said quietly. "The last person who suffered that curse died with a broken body and a broken mind. It was only one of many reasons that magic was outlawed. Who in the Fires ... " He trailed off and shared a look with Krasny, who nodded.

Krasny returned to his horse and swung up in the saddle. "We will address the matter when we get home. For now, let us secure the next Vessel and have done with this matter; it has dragged on long enough."

"Agreed," the High Priest agreed, and he motioned for the soldiers holding Ivan to put him on his horse. Ivan looked at Gleb and Ferapont, relieved to see they seemed fine, if out cold.

He looked back toward Krasny and the High Priest—just in time to see the High Priest was casting a spell. Then everything went black.

*~*~*

When Ivan woke, he was still—somehow—on his horse, but they were definitely not on the road or in the woods anymore. He looked around at the colorful tiles that made up the courtyard, the white walls and high, twisting towers and spires ...

Fire and ash, it was the royal palace. It was also daylight, so he must have been out for a day and a night at the very least.

"You okay, boss?"

Ivan turned away from the palace and saw his men already dismounted nearby. He didn't reply until a guard had come forward and helped him down, and then shoved him over to join his men. "Fine."

"His Holiness said he broke your curse," Isidor said. "Did he, really?"

"Yes," Ivan said. "I—" He broke off when he saw the High Priest walking away, Pechal in his arms.

He hadn't expected to really care how the whole affair ended; he had no real personal stake in the matter past fixing his curse and that was done. But ... something about watching Pechal, limp and oblivious in the arms of the High Priest, just tore something apart in his chest.

It was wrong, throwing so many people into the Sacred Fires like that. "How does he do it?" Ivan asked aloud. "Just throw people into a fire and watch them burn?"

"He does it because it must be done and because no one else is strong enough," said a cool, calm voice, and Ivan turned to face Krasny, surprised he hadn't noticed him sooner. "The position of High Priest is an arduous one, and it goes to men of great fortitude. If you think it is easy for him then you are grossly mistaken. Captain, escort them to their cells. Tell the bailiff there is no need to set a trial date, and I will deal with them personally in my own time. They are not permitted to submit honor payments, either; I want them locked up until I have the time to address them."

The captain bowed low. "Yes, your grace."

Krasny swept the group a half bow. "Gentlemen, please enjoy your stay at the royal palace."

"Thanks for the invitation," Isidor drawled and would have said more but for the kick Ivan landed on his ankle. "Your grace," he belatedly muttered.

Looking amused, Krasny turned and walked off, up the steps and into the palace, leaving them alone with the Captain of the Guard and six guards. "Behave," Ivan admonished his men. They were all silent as they were led across the fancy courtyard and through a wrought-iron gate, down an uneven stone path, and down a flight of cracked, damp stairs. They went down a short walkway, stone walls high on either side, and then through a door made of iron bars and requiring a key on the captain's belt.

Inside what was obviously the palace prison they were escorted down damp, dark, musty-smelling corridors until they reached a set of cells that were only barely lit by four dull torches set in sconces on two of the four walls. There were six cells total, and the guards scattered them amongst them all.

Only when they were locked up and the guards well gone did Ivan said, "What happened, and why do I sense it had something to do with those sea-bitches? The only other reason they wouldn't be here was if they were dead, and I'd bet my sword they're not."

"No, they turned us in," Luka spat, all of his anger finally pouring out. "The minute you were out of sight, they turned on us. I don't know why they waited this scorching long, but it was clear that right from the start they intended to hand Pechal over. They beat the fire right out of us, boss. Snuffed us like candles! Fire and ash!" He slammed his fist into a nearby wall, only grimacing slightly at the resultant pain.

Ivan wanted to hit something himself. He had thought they were at least on Raz's side, the stupid sea-bitches. He would gut them himself for betraying someone they had claimed to care for and who had obviously trusted them.

Of course, Raz had trusted him too, and now Pechal was at best hours from dying, and it was probably more like minutes. Ivan sat down on the creaking bench in his cell, suddenly feeling much, much older than his thirty-five years. He was just a stupid merc, destined to die in a pub brawl or backstabbed by a client or a noose around his neck. If he was lucky, someone might remember him after he died. His next life would not be a good one. Useless men like him did not get mixed up with things like Vessel hunts.

"What a mess," Maksim muttered from the cell next to Ivan's. "This is not our type of problem, boss."

"It seems it is now," Ivan said. "We made Raz a promise and we broke it. I don't have much decency going for me, but I have that much. If we can't save Pechal, we can save Raz. First we need to get out of here. Any thoughts?"

Isidor laughed from his cell where he had been lounging lazily on his own bench. "These locks are easy to pick; I used them for practice back in the days before I started running with you sorry lot. Say the word and we're free."

"Shouldn't be hard to go back the way we came," Ivan said thoughtfully. "The only obstacle will be scaling the palace wall, but that's hardly a real challenge for us. We'll wait a bit. If we go now, we'll just get caught again. But it won't be long before they ring the bells to signal ... " He trailed off, that sadness washing over him again.

Across from him Ferapont let his head fall to knock against the bars of his cell, hands wrapped around the bars. "It seems depressing to me, Pechal carted off that way to be thrown into a fire. I just don't believe all that holy stuff, boss."

"Nothing we can do about it now," Ivan said. "Nothing except get to Raz. If we can save him, then we'll have saved one Vessel from dying forever."

"Boss, you keep saying that," Luka said. "You really think Raz is the next Vessel?"

"I know it," Ivan said. "The way he was acting when I spoke to him in the forest. The way Shio and Shinju were acting in retrospect. I don't know why they scorching care about the Vessels, but they do, and I'd be willing to bet their plan is to hand over Raz the same way they handed over Pechal."

Gleb kicked at his cell bars. "Fire and ash, what's all the fuss about?"

Ivan shook his head and said, "I don't know, but I'm more than happy to ruin everyone's fun by taking the last Vessel away from them. We wait until dark, and then we ... "

He trailed off when they heard footsteps approaching and bit back a curse when he saw Krasny stride into the cell. Krasny smirked at them as he went down on one knee, splaying his hand on the floor. He spoke several words of Ancient, and dark orange light seemed to shoot from his hand, radiating out in a circle than ran over everything.

Gleb and Ferapont yelped, jumping back from the iron bars they'd been holding. "Fire and ash!" Ferapont swore. "What was that?"

"You'll stay put until I say otherwise," Krasny said and pulled back on the leather gloves he must have removed before reaching them. "I told you that I knew of the Wolves. Your sentencing sheets are an amusing read. Keep your lock picking equipment in your pocket. Even if you possessed magic you would not have enough of it to break my spell. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen."

He turned and left, and Ivan slammed his fist down on the bench. "Fire and ash."

"Agreed," Luka said with a sigh. "So what do we do now?"

Ivan shrugged. "We wait. Eventually we'll get a chance. We just have to hope that chance comes sooner rather than later."

"If it doesn't?"

"Then I guess we find out what happens when you kill a god once and for all," Ivan said flatly, grateful when his men took that as their cue to stop talking.

Dym carried Pechal into the Cathedral through the main hall and into the maze of rooms behind it to a private suite reserved for the Vessels. He settled Pechal on a sofa beneath a window streaming sunlight and gently brushed aside the hair that had fallen in his face.

He hated it most when they were found young. It seemed slightly less cruel when the Vessels were older men and women, people who had gotten a chance to live. A little thief who looked barely over fourteen ... Dym turned away with a rough noise, hating himself more than ever.

It was getting increasingly difficult to remember that he was doing the right thing. Whether he would be forgiven his deeds or not was irrelevant. Doing the right thing was not about being rewarded for it, not even about acknowledgement. It was about doing it.

He made himself check over Pechal, but the sleeping spell was still firmly holding. It usually did, even if in theory all Vessels were capable of resisting his magic. On some level, he knew they didn't want to—why would they? Easier to sleep and hopefully never wake up.

Some sacrifices, that's what they chose: to sleep through the entire ceremony, never to wake again. Others specifically requested they go to the Flames awake.

Dym left the room, locking and magically sealing it behind him. Food and wine had already been brought on the chance that the Vessel woke. He would be fine for a short time while Dym began to prepare everything.

He was not surprised to find Krasny waiting for him in the sanctuary, standing before the stained glass windows that seemed to fascinate him so much. "It would seem our good Minister is attempting to prevent the sacrifices," Krasny said, slowly looking away from the windows to face Dym. "I hope you locked the latest one up good and tight."

"I did," Dym said. "We need to go speak with Sonya."

Krasny made a face and said, "No, we need to go speak with Zarya."

Dym looked at him in surprise. "You want to speak with his Majesty?"

"You know my feelings on the matter," Krasny said irritably, and looked at the windows again, the sunlight painting a rainbow of colors across his figure and splashing the floor around him.

"Yes," Dym said softly. "Do you, finally?"

"I know when duty must be done," Krasny said flatly, but Dym did not miss the pain and longing that flickered across his face before he turned away to start walking. He paused by the door that led to the palace. "Are you coming?"

Dym's mouth quirked. "Whatever you wish, your grace."

"I wish—it doesn't matter, does it? It is what it is. Come on, I want to have done with the matter." Krasny walked on quickly, but Dym kept pace easily. He was not at all surprised that nobody stopped them or even acknowledged them much.

When they reached Zarya's bedchamber, Sonya was sitting beside him quietly reading a book of poetry. She dropped the book when she saw Krasny. "Kolya, what are you doing here?"

"I need to speak with him," Krasny said, biting the words out. Sonya's mouth dropped open. "Now, please. Move."

Hastily obeying, Sonya rose from her chair and stepped aside. Krasny kicked the chair out of the way and stood over Zarya. Dym moved to stand with Sonya, taking her hand when he saw it trembling. He smiled at her and handed over his handkerchief when she started to silently cry.

By the bed, Krasny began to speak. "You wanted to see me, Zarya. Here I am."

"Kolya ... I'm sorry."

"Your apology is too little, too late, and you know it," Krasny said, voice harsh. "What good does your apology do me now when you can't act on it?"

Zarya began to move and after a moment Dym realized he was trying to sit up. Before he could move forward to help, however, Krasny assisted him—and swore softly when Zarya grabbed tightly to his hands, showing a startling strength for a man who might die at any moment. "Kolya, I'm sorry. Please."

"No," Krasny said, but Dym could hear him begin to fray. "You ruined both our lives with your choices, and I forgave you every time. You don't get it again. I'll do what I must, Zarya, but that's it."

Zarya sighed and fumbled beneath his pillow, finally pulling out a thick vellum envelope. Krasny's sigh was just as heavy when he took it and broke the seal, and then pulled out the papers within and unfolded them. "Do you think this fixes anything?" he demanded harshly.

"Should have been yours all along. I was a coward. I can't fix the rest of it, Kolya. But let me fix this much. I hope, when I'm gone, you can—" Zarya broke off in a coughing fit, covering his mouth with his hands, sighing and slumping when the fit finally passed. His hands fell to the bed, covered in blood.

Krasny's mouth tightened. "This was never what I wanted, Zarya."

"All I have left. It's the only reason you're here."

"Because I have to be," Krasny said curtly, but even as he spoke he was setting the papers aside to pick up a cloth by the side of the bed and clean the blood from Zarya's mouth and hands.

Zarya took his hand and looked at him, and for a moment he seemed every bit the smiling Tsar that Dym best remembered. "Kolya," he whispered, and the way he said the word hurt Dym all the way down to the marrow of his bones.

He remembered what it was like to want someone that badly, to yearn and yearn for more years than he cared to count while knowing the whole time that nothing would ever come of it.

Krasny did not reply, just looked at Zarya and the hand holding his. He half-turned and said, "Get out."

Dym tugged Sonya into motion before she could say something, closing the door quietly behind them. Sonya moved to the small sofa by the window and collapsed down on it, skirts of her heavy gown settling around her. She wiped tears from her face and finally looked up at Dym. "What changed his mind, Dym?"

"Zholty is trying to prevent the sacrifices, and he cast a death curse on a mercenary to ensure it," Dym said quietly. "Krasny probably fears what will happen to you."