Burning Bright (20 page)

"We still have no evidence, not even the mercenary," Dym replied.

"I am still annoyed they escaped," Krasny groused, reaching up to rub his forehead with one hand. "I put a very powerful spell on those cells; no one but you or I had the ability and knowledge to break it. So who did it? Zholty? That makes no sense; he would have simply killed them."

Dym shook his head, though he knew very well who had let them out:  Raz was the only one who could have done it.

Raz ...

His gut twisted just thinking about it. Raz had kissed him. Eminence had kissed him. Dym fought back the emotions that tried to well up again, the ones that had made it impossible to go back to sleep that night.

Why had Eminence kissed him? Dym had yearned for such attentions from Eminence far more times than he could count, had watched and wished and ultimately returned to his duties. Why would Holy Zhar Ptitsa ever regard his Priest of Ashes in such fashion? No, Eminence had always disapproved of the way his brothers and sisters took mortal lovers; whether it was for a night or for an age, Eminence had thought it trouble waiting to happen.

Eminence never would have kissed him, so why had Raz? Clearly he was confused about something, but that wasn't uncommon when someone recalled his past life memories. But it hurt, cut so deep he could barely breathe, to admit that Eminence did not really want him. Eventually, he would remember why looking at Dym caused him pain and that reason would not lead to kisses.

"So what do you suggest, Dym?"

He looked up, drawn from his thoughts and ashamed he had indulged in them when there were far more important matters. "I do not think there is much we can do until Zholty finally steps into the light of the flames."

Krasny grunted. "I wish he would do it soon before more people are hurt. I am half tempted to lock him up anyway just on suspicion and because I can."

"Don't cause trouble, Kolya. Don't we have enough right now? Zarya is dead, and we still must find and kill the last Vessel."

Nodding, Krasny stepped close and embraced her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Should I call you cousin or sister now, hmm?"

"Douse it," Sonya said, eliciting smiles from both men with her unusual use of crude language. "Let us go soothe my fiancé's feathers since I am stuck with him until he is hanged or a suitable time has passed. Krasny, are you going to speak at the burning?"

Krasny sighed. "I suppose I must." He lifted his hand, stared at the heavy ring on it, and then let his hand fall.

Sonya reached out and took it, running her hand over the rubi. "You'll be a good, Tsar, Kolya. You always should have been; we all knew that."

"Indeed," Krasny said, slightly bitter, but mostly just sad. He pulled his hand free and unlocked the bedroom door and slipped away. Dym could hear him speaking to everyone else in the room.

He took Sonya's hands and asked, "How are you?"

"Not well at all, but in some small way, it is at last a relief he is no longer suffering. I hope he is happier is his next life than he was in this one. He was never really happy, torn between too many things, not willing to take the one thing he really wanted. It is a shame."

"Yes, it is," Dym said. "But he will go to the fires having found some measure of peace, and so much suffering deserves happiness in rebirth. So fret not, dear princess.   One day you will perhaps see a familiar smile and know that he finally found happiness."

Sonya sniffled, and then leaned up to kiss his cheek. "You always know the right thing to say, Dym. Thank you."

"I am happy to do what I can," Dym replied and tucked her arm into his before leading the way back out into the main room.

Only Zholty remained, stiff and angry as he stood all but toe-to-toe with Krasny. "Did you trick him into, Krasny? Force him?"

"He was my best friend," Krasny said coldly. "Just because you slink around like a filthy shadow does not mean all of us do. He loved—" His voice broke, and Krasny stood back, turning away. "Get out, Zholty. My husband is dead, and I have a burning ceremony to prepare. I have neither the time nor the inclination to endure you."

"We aren't finished!" Zholty snarled. "Don't you think people are going to find it mighty suspicious that after years of antagonism you suddenly wind up married to him? No one will believe it and rightly so. Fire and ash, you should not be Tsar!"

Krasny whipped around, eyes flashing as he stepped closer, grabbed Zholty by the front of his jacket, and yanked him so close they were nose to nose. "Shut. Your. Mouth."

Zholty's mouth pinched together, and Krasny let him go, throwing him to the floor. "Get out," Krasny repeated. "Do not show your face until the burning ceremony. If you try anything I will not hesitate to throw you into the fire with Zarya."

He turned away and started to speak to Sonya when Zholty moved—faster than Dym expected, faster than he should have been able to. His eyes glowed—violet.

Dym moved in front of Krasny and threw out his arms, throwing all of his power into a barricade. Zholty's spell struck him just as the barricade took, sucking the air out of Dym's lungs, knocking his feet out from under him, and making the world go hazy and dim at the edges. Dym tried to move, but he could barely even open his eyes, weak from the spell and from the magic he'd used—but his barricade had held. That was all that mattered.

Krasny roared and summoned a spell of his own, but even as he cast it, Zholty was gone, the door gaping wide behind him, and the four guards knocked out cold on the floor. Possibly dead, but Dym couldn't tell.

He tried to move again, heard someone call his name, and then knew nothing more.

*~*~*

Dym woke to darkness, and after a moment, realized he was in his own room.  What had happened? He started sit up, but his head began to throb with pain. He lay back down, remembering all that had happened. No wonder his head hurt. Whatever spell Zholty had thrown, it had been meant to kill.

It froze Dym's blood to think what might have happened if he had not been there. Zholty ... was he misremembering, or had Zholty's eyes turned violet? That shouldn't have been possible; the sorcerers of Schatten were long dead or sealed away. How could any of their magic get through the barrier erected by Teufel himself?

Of course, Teufel could have let someone through. But why? He had worked so hard to ensure that Schatten had no reason to believe that Zhar Ptitsa would never return.

Even as he asked the question, however, Dym knew the answer. That storm a year ago, the calming of the mermaids. He had not dared to believe it at the time, but with only one Vessel remaining ...

Perhaps that long ago prophesy was coming true, after all.

If so, of course Teufel would be stirring. Dym shivered and tried to sit up again. It was only then he noticed Krasny, fast asleep on the other side of the bed, a book in his lap and a forgotten cup of tea on the bedside table.

Dym smiled faintly and slid out of bed to go get cleaned up. If he had passed out then either the burning ceremony was close, or it had been delayed because of him. Discarding his dressing robe, he scrubbed himself clean, rinsed off, and then slid into the steaming bathing pool.

He sighed softly as the water began to soothe the worst of his aches and help to restore his lost energies. Zholty must have been exceptionally powerful to cast such a spell. It was little wonder he had been able to put the Kiss of the Basilisk on the mercenary.

Where had Zholty gone? Had they been able to capture him? Just how long had he been out? Dym made a face at himself, irritated that one death spell, even a powerful one, had been able to knock him out. He was clearly out of practice with too much of the higher magics. But with the fall of the sorcerers, he had hoped never to need such terrible spells again.

If Teufel was creeping out of Schatten, however, he would need every last bit of power at his disposal. His chest gave a sharp, painful twist when he realized that, when the last Vessel was offered to the Flames, he might not live much longer. Would he be around to help counter the machinations of Teufel?

Thinking of the last Vessel, of Raz, only reminded Dym all over again of that kiss. It had been hard enough hearing the confusion and pain in Raz's voice, of seeing Eminence acting like a lost mortal. He'd expected anger or to be attacked—even to be killed for all that he had done and must do one more time.

He had not expected Raz to comfort him instead. To kiss him and act as though it was what he most wanted to do. Dym curled his fingers into his palms, trying to erase the memory of touching Raz, wishing he had been bold enough to touch more and perhaps have something to remember when he finally died.

Tired, he was so tired. Dym closed his eyes, fighting the weariness and the despair. How much longer would he have to plod on, ultimately alone because no one could possibly know what it was like to be in his position? He was a relic, forgotten and only minimally useful, all his purpose brutally ripped away in a single tragic, bloody night.

All he wanted was to rest, to lie in the grass and listen to a soft, warm voice sing to him. The singing had stopped long ago. It had been the first thing to stop, the first sign that something was really wrong. He still remembered it, the memory all the more precious because it was so faded.

Dym forced it back and returned his thoughts to the present. Climbing out of the pool, he returned to his dressing chamber and selected formal robes for a funeral:  deepest red, so dark they were nearly black with an under robe of deep orange. He pulled on his usual belt, and then stepped into black slippers and attached a hood to his robe that was the same deep red on the outside and deep orange within. Leaving the dressing room, he returned to the bed to fetch the keys beneath his pillow. When he rose he saw that Krasny was awake.

"You seem to have recovered," Krasny said gruffly. "Good."

"How are you?" Dym asked softly, noticing that Krasny had been crying.

Krasny shrugged and turned away, shoving back the loose, messy strands of his vibrant hair. "I'm fine. You've only been out a few hours; the ceremony is ready whenever you are."

"I am ready," Dym said quietly. "Would you like to prepare here? I can have your clothes brought."

"Yes, please," Krasny said, looking relieved by the suggestion. He dredged up a wry smile. "I admit I have been hiding in your chambers. Zholty killed two of the guards and of course no one wasted any time whispering about the fact I am the new Tsar." He looked at the ring on his finger and sighed. "The ceremony is going to be unpleasant, completely ignoring the fact that it is a burning ceremony and therefore unpleasant by its nature. I hope you are recovered sufficiently."

Dym smiled back. "Of course. I will support you however you like, Majesty."

"Oh, douse it," Krasny said. "Zholty is missing. I've sent soldiers out to find him and forced the other magic users to their feet to be of some scorching use for once, but Zholty is clearly too powerful for any of them so I hesitate to make them do much more than cast."

"He's dangerous," Dym murmured. "Very. Do not let anyone get too close. If they even suspect they have found him, they are to tell me at once and stay well away. I threw all of my power to counter him, and it only barely worked."

Krasny frowned and met his eyes, seeming to examine him. Finally, he just nodded. "So noted. Have my clothes brought then, Dym, and tell someone that the ceremony is to be in two hours. That should be enough time for everyone to gather. The Heart has already been informed. Tomorrow is the coronation, but after that I can put you more firmly on the hunt for Zholty—and the Vessel. I wish I could help more, but I feel the royal chains are firmly around my ankles now."

"It is for the best, however much you hate it," Dym said. "Go, rest in the bathing pool for a bit. I sense it is the last time you will be able to do so." On impulse, Dym stepped close and gripped Krasny's upper arms. "For whatever it is worth, you have done the right thing—for Pozhar, and more importantly, for yourself."

"I know," Krasny said. Freeing one arm, he covered one of Dym's hands with his own. "Thank you, Dym." Not waiting for any reply, he strode off toward the bathing pool.

Dym sighed softly and went to go find a priest or footman.

Raz sat beneath the petrified apple tree and tried to figure out what he was supposed to do. Days had passed since that moment in the garden and still he did not have an answer. Why had he kissed the High Priest? Why had he betrayed Pechal that way?

Why did it still feel as if it had been the right thing to do?

Worst of all, he wanted to do it again. To do more.

Raz leaned his head back against the tree and stared up through its branches to the clouds high above. Snow would start falling soon, and it would be a blizzard. He was starting to think it was true when people suggested that Pozhar was slowly freezing to death because of Holy Zhar Ptitsa. Would killing him really solve everything?

He still found it hard to believe he was a piece of a god. How had Pechal felt about it? How had all the others?  Raz sighed. How much longer did he have before someone finally found him? He was hoping it would take Ivan, and Shio and Shinju a little while to figure out he had returned here. It was stupid to have come back to where he had been before, but the tree and the ruins of the manor around it felt safe where nothing else did.

There was also the fact that in the middle of the woods, at the base of the Jagged Mountains, his magic would not accidentally hurt and kill people. Fire and ash, how many people had died in the harbor? How many had been hurt in the cathedral?

His power alone was reason enough to surrender himself to the Sacred Fires. Looking back down, Raz drew one leg up and propped his chin on it, wrapping his arms around his leg. He should have felt the cold, he knew, but he didn't. Being a piece of a god had some benefit, though it wasn't enough to make it worthwhile.

What should he do?

Raz closed his eyes and relived that moment in Dym's rooms, the soft, hesitant way Dym had responded. How he'd tasted, and fires he would never be able to think of cinnamon again without recalling that moment.