The Lost Gods

Book Two: Burning Bright

Nine gods ruled the world. The Dragons of the Three Storms. Sacred Zhar Ptitka. The Basilisk. The Faerie Queen and Guardians. Holy Licht.

Pozhar is a land of prophecy. It is a land which has long worked to prevent the prophecy that says should the Sacred Firebird return, all of Pozhar with burn.

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Black clouds will fill the sky, and rain will cover the world, and the Sacred Storm Bringers will once more claim dominion over the oceans and sky.

~Sacred Prophecy of the Lost Gods, Section 1, Summary

Deadly magic will destroy and wake the Sacred Firebird, who in vengeance will bathe Pozhar in deadly flame and thus reclaim dominion over fire.

~Sacred Prophecy of the Lost Gods, Section 2, Summary

Prologue

The young woman trembled.

She stood before an altar. It came to just above her waist, carved from black marble, inlaid with gold and silver forming intricate, scrolling artwork all around the edge. The precious few to have ever seen it never felt less than awe. Once, when the occasional visitor was not uncommon, many suggested the scrollwork was not simple design, but words that none but a god could understand.

The rest of the room was just as dark and beautiful, made entirely from that same black marble, all of it covered with that elaborate scrollwork. It looked like a spell come to life.

A heavy feeling lingered, created by centuries of existence and the taint of magic far older. It smelled like fire, ash, and smoke. As beautiful as the room was, it was also hot - but not in such a way that anyone inside it was left gasping for breath and dripping sweat. It was hot, but no one who entered suffered the effects of the heat.

The girl at the altar was pretty. A peasant girl, from a humble farm to the far south of the country. She had fair hair and sun-darkened skin. Work-roughed hands fisted in a simple green homespun dress. Pretty but ultimately rather ordinary.

Except for her eyes. They burned as gold as the sun at midday, then seemed to shift to a rich yellow-orange, almost to red before shifting again to gold. Seven days ago, when they'd found her in a small market two hours from her family's farm, her eyes had been blue.

She was oblivious to the splendor around her. When she had first been led into the room it had briefly stolen her interest, but her attention now was solely for the man before her.

High Priest Dym.

"I don't want to die," she said, eyes wide as she looked at him. She bit her lip to hold back whatever else she might say. She had already begged, already pleaded. Her family had said they loved her as she bid them goodbye, and she had said she loved them too.

"No," High Priest Dym said. "I'd imagine not." His voice was cool, but not in an unkind way. It was more like a voice that couldn't help but be cool. His skin was pale, a strange contrast to the dark marble room. Short hair cut close to his head, leaving his green eyes stark and bright. "All will be well, zolotka, I promise you. There is no need to fear."

"I know," she whispered, gold eyes locked to his green. She bit her lip, leaving marks, then sighed softly and finally spoke. "Will I be forgotten?"

High Priest Dym shook his head. "Never. Those who are loved are never forgotten." The words felt unfinished, like there was something more than should have been added. But the High Priest said nothing more.

She smoothed her dress and then clasped her hands modestly in front of her.

The High Priest smiled, but it was full of sadness rather than joy. He reached out and caught a stray curl in his long, thin finger and tucked it behind her ear, then cupped her cheek. His hand was cool against her hot skin. "Forgive my impertinence, Eminence," he murmured softly as he bent down and kissed her, briefly, softly. The girl gasped but didn't full away, and when he pulled away her trembling had stilled. "Go in peace, burn bright…" Like his earlier words, the prayer felt unfinished. Incomplete.

He lifted his other hand and pressed gently against the space just above her breast.

Another gasp, slightly of pain, mostly of wonder, as the magic of the fire feather pressed to her skin flooded her body, consumed her. A last soft sigh, and the light in her gold eyes died.

High Priest Dym caught her as she crumpled and lifted her to the altar, laying her gently down.

For a second, all was still.

Then the body on the altar burst into flame. The fire consumed it rapidly. In second there was nothing but ashes left. Throughout the burning, High Priest Dym stood impassively. His eyes, a bright, clear green, turned dark while he watched.

Somewhere, as if very far away, the cry of a bird sounded. Sad. Angry. Lost. Then silence.

The ashes shifted, stirred, and the room grew unbearably hot for a single moment. There, in the center of the altar, resting on a bed of ashes was a fire feather. It was long, the length of High Priest Dym's hand, and ranged in color from deep red at the base to fine gold at the tip.

High Priest Dym delicately lifted the fire feather from the ashes and hid it within the depths of his robes. Then he fanned his right hand out on the ashes. His green eyes grew bright, and they seemed to shimmer as he spoke. The words were old, forgotten by nearly all.

"Show me the next."

The Storm Bringers were the first to fall, and were by treachery Sealed. For days the winds and waters raged out of control, causing destruction across the five worlds.

Amidst the chaos wrought by the fall of the Sacred Storm Bringers, the people of Pozhar saw their own chance. Dissatisfied with their own proud and arrogant Firebird, envious of all he had and was, they attacked when he was most vulnerable - nothing but ashes, waiting to be reborn with the dawn. This happened only once a year, and last only through the dark hours of the night.

One man stood in their way, the priest appointed to guard the ashes of Zhar Ptitka, the Sacred Firebird. Brutally the people slew him, as much from fear as contempt. They left him dead and broke into the Chamber of Night.

The Firebird was nothing but Ashes awaiting resurrection. But merely scattering those ashes would not be enough to destroy the firebird. A God of Resurrection and Reincarnation, killing him was an impossible feat. Instead traitorous priests cast a spell, sending the ashes out to be reborn apart, separating the soul of Zhar Ptitka into a thousand pieces.

When the spell was cast the angry people turned on the priests. Across the country, priests and those who would not rescind their devotion to Zhar Ptitka were slain. No one who might know the key to resurrecting the Firebird was left alive. Magic was outlawed except where it was needed to administer justice and ensure that the new laws were not broken.

So the people of Pozhar moved on, free at last of their arrogant god.

But they lived in fear.

So the new leaders devised a way to seek the truth of the matter; to see if they were truly safe from the god they had betrayed. Pozhar became a country of prophesy, and the first prophecy to come of their efforts brought their every fear to life:

Deadly magic will destroy and wake the Sacred Firebird, who in vengeance will bathe Pozhar in deadly flame and thus reclaim dominion over fire.

Terrified, the people frantically sought a way to prevent their terrible fate. New priests were made, old magic resurrected, and at last a plan was devised.

They could not kill the Firebird. But they could kill the pieces. The ashes, the soul, of the Firebird had been broken into a thousand pieces. Those pieces could be found and finally destroyed, with no chance of rebirth. This would free Pozhar of Zhar Ptitka's control once and for all.

Finding the first was the hardest, but each piece killed pointed to another. Over years and decades and centuries, the people of Pozhar hunted down the pieces of the Firebird. These pieces, these people, came to be known as Candidates, for each in theory had the potential to become the Firebird. All they lacked was power, and Pozhar saw to it they never had that power.

The Candidates were killed, one by one, as Pozhar struggled to avoid the fate spelled out in prophecy.

Then one day the clear skies suddenly blackened with storm clouds. Thunder and lightning made the earth tremble, and rain poured down so that people at first feared they would drown.

In the hearts of those who knew what the storm really meant, drowning was not what concerned them. The terrific Storm was the first part of the Sacred Prophecy - it hailed the return of the Sacred Storm Bringers of Kundou. The first part of the prophecy had been fulfilled.

If the remaining Candidates were not soon found and killed, the second part of the Sacred Prophecy would come to pass. Pozhar would burn.

 

Part One

Blessing of the Morning. Strength of the Midday. Peace of the Evening.

~Old Pozharian greetings

Chapter One

"Good morning, High Priest."

Dym raked fingers through his wet hair and turned around. The waist deep water of the bathing pool sloshed around him, steam curling lazily up his chest and arms, beading on his pale skin and running down it to rejoin the water in the pool. "Blessing of the Morning, Princess. To what do I owe this immodest visit?" He made no move to cover himself, but stood as though fully dressed in the middle of court.

Princess Sonya Oranzhevy. Officially, she had given up that title when she married her husband, a mere Earl, nearly two decades ago. But though many still called her 'Countess' it was mostly out of affection - all still considered her a princess, and in the past year she had actively assumed more and more of the duties that went with that title.

She was a stunning woman, more beautiful at forty years than she had been in her youth. Her dark brown hair was twisted up on top of her head, woven through with a wide band of bright orange silk. The silk band matched the brilliant underskirt of her dress, setting off the deep jewel green of the dress itself.

If she was discomfited by visiting the High Priest of Pozhar in his bathing chamber, she did not show it. "I was hoping to speak with you, High Priest."

"I am told, Princess, that there are rooms specifically for that. Parlors, dining rooms, tea room, sun rooms…a few, no doubt, employ the bedchambers but I feel perhaps that might be a trifle too bold."

Sonya's laughter rang out across the bathing room. "Perhaps a trifle. Forgive me, High Priest, for disturbing you here. A man should be allowed to find peace somewhere. But I wanted to speak with you, and I wanted to be certain we would not be disturbed or overheard."

"It is certainly true that I thought never to be disturbed in my bathing chamber." Dym waded to the edge of the wide, white marble pool and hoisted himself out. He crossed to a chair where earlier he had laid a long, white linen robe and shrugged into it. "Apparently I was wrong." His lips curved in the ghost of a smile. "Best speak, Princess, before someone else thinks to come upon me at my worst."

"Hardly your worst," Sonya murmured, then turned and led the way into Dym's dressing chamber.

Shaking his head, attempting to hide his amusement, Dym motioned for her to take the one seat as he began to go about getting dressed. "What matter is so urgent that you would set the gossips to a frenzy?"

"A frenzy of jealousy. I do not think, High Priest, that you realize just how often the ladies talk about you." Sonya shook her head. "No doubt a few of the men. It is much bemoaned that you chose the religious path."

Dym said nothing, but his green eyes were bright with amusement. "So did you come to arrange an assignation, Princess? Enrage the court by securing the aloof priest for your paramour?"

"Would I stand a chance? Because I would gladly add that to my agenda."

"I have, as you said, chosen the religious path. But I thank you for the offer, Princess."

Sonya laughed. "Ever so gracious. Thankfully that was not my purpose in visiting you this morning. I have come to speak about my dratted relations - both the sick one and the angry one."

"It is not my place to speak about either the King or the Duke," Dym said calmly.

"But you do listen," Sonya said with a sigh, "which is more than I can say for every other idiot in this place. If they do not kill each other soon, I will take care of it myself." Her fingers fluttered briefly across her forehead.

Dym looked vaguely amused as he slid on his dark gold under robe. It was thin, suited to the late summer weather, with just enough weight to guard against nights that were beginning to turn cool. Over this he donned a robe dyed so deep a red it was nearly black. A slight 'v' cut at the chest and slits at the bottom showed the gold beneath, further enhanced by a plain gold chain wrapped around his waist. The sleeves were wide, deep, but Dym immediately tied them back so that his hands and forearms were free. Stitched to the wide throat was a hood, more decorative than functional. The days when Priests kept their heads covered when in the Holy Cathedrals were long forgotten. Around his neck he secured a more slender version of the gold chain around his waist, the only sign of his office. To the chain at his waist he attached a ring of keys and a small pouch the exact color of his robe

Next to all the red and gold, which further paled his skin, his jewel green eyes were so startling a contrast that many people had a hard time looking him in the face.

"You do cut a pretty figure," Sonya said wistfully. She shook her head impatiently. "I do not know what to do about them. My brother is like a cranky child these days. I am suited to assisting in the running of a country, not to the throne itself. Yet daily I feel that he is pressing me toward precisely that. Nor does my confounded cousin help." Sonya looked at her hands, the finely shaped nails painted a light green.

Dym chuckled, the sound soft and cool, a refreshing sort of laugh. "I do wish we could learn that trick of freezing his veins. I did observe how improved his manners were while he thawed."

Sonya muttered something unintelligible. "I think I am grateful magic such as that is long gone from Pozhar." She shook her head and muttered something else. "Stop letting me get distracted. As already stated, my brother and cousin are driving me to madness. I think they are plotting to do something to one another at the banquet tonight, but I am confounded as to what. They whine and whine but no one actually ever tells me anything. I must always learn things the hard way." She sighed. "I have come to ask that you attend the banquet tonight and help me to keep everything civil. You have, if not a calming effect, a very distracting one."

"If you desired my company tonight, you had only to send a message." Dym picked up a small, flat leather case and then crossed the room to where the princes sat. He held out a hand and helped her stand. "Seeking me out here was an unnecessary step."

"On the contrary," Sonya said as she allowed him to escort her out of his private rooms and into the hallway, toward the main section of the palace. "You could have refused a note and then avoided me the rest of the day." A wink. "Besides, this way I am securing in the minds of everyone that I am in very good standing with the High Priest despite the growing tension between my cousin and him." Sonya looked up at him through her lashes. "Or did you think the gossips had missed that?"

Dym shook his head slowly. "Hardly. But neither do I think it particularly remarkable that we disagree. Always there are those who disagree with the method by which we handle the Candidates. The Duke and I are hardly the first noble and priest to argue the matter."

"Though you may very well be the last," Sonya murmured. "I cannot believe there are only two left to locate. Will we find them soon?"

"Beginning is the hardest part," Dym said levelly. "The end always comes swiftly. In a matter of months, perhaps weeks, there will be no more Candidates." He handed over the flat leather case he'd been carrying. "The newest Candidate."

Sonya opened it and hummed softly in appreciation. "He's lovely. But so young…" she closed the case with a snap and handed it back to him. "Tell them I expect five hundred images by sundown two days hence, and twice that in simple sketches by end of week."

"Princess," Dym said and bowed his head in acknowledgment of the order.

"Will you join me for breakfast, High Priest?" Sonya asked congenially as they reached the more populated sections of the palace. Servants and nobles alike took note of the princess on the High Priest's arms, and her friendly smile, and the fact they'd come from the direction of the High Priest's chambers.

"If you so desire, Princess," Dym said agreeably. "Though I cannot stay long; my morning duties must be tended."

"Of course," Sonya said. They entered the breakfast room together, and Dym escorted Sonya to her seat. Unlike the dining room, the private breakfast room was relatively casual. The table was large and round, the room decorated in pale blues and greens, transitional colors between winter and spring.

Usually the table was filled with a handful of nobles who saw much merit in rising to join the Princess, who favored rising unfashionably early. This morning, however, only one other person was in attendance - Duke Nikolai Krasny, Chief Advisor to his Majesty Zarya IX. He stood as Sonya entered, and nodded in greeting. A moment later he offered a stiffer nod to Dym. "Sonya. High Priest."

"Kolya," Sonya greeted, using the pet form of his given name. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Nikolai said, more to his teacup than to the princess.

"Blessing of the morning," Dym murmured quietly as he sat. A servant quietly moved about the table with plates of food and cups of tea for the princess and High Priest. Dym sipped his in silence as the Duke and Princess quietly fell to discussing more mundane matters.

At length Sonya handed over the picture Dym had drawn of the latest Candidate.

Nikolai grimaced. "A child, or he may as well be."

"If I could choose, I would kill myself a thousand times," Dym said, looking calmly at Nikolai.

The Duke dropped his eyes, which were a dark version of the Princess's pale amber. His hawk-like features and dark-red hair would have been stunning if not for the hardness that froze them. "No doubt," he said, tone stating very clearly that he did doubt. "So this makes the next to last?"

"Yes," Dym said.

"I will believe it when I see it," Nikolai said.

"Please," Sonya said wearily. "It is far too early to be arguing about this. Save it for lunch, at the very least."

Nikolai reluctantly subsided. "How long do you think it shall take to find this latest candidate?"

"As I told the Princess," Dym said, "the end tends to come swiftly. At worst, it will take a matter of months."

"Hmm…" Nikolai murmured. He picked up his pale green tea cup and drained the contents. "I find it hard to believe. Surely killing a god is not so easily done."

Dym set his own teacup down sharply, eyes bright as he stared coldly at Nikolai. "Yes, quite easily. Nearly a thousand men and women killed over the course of as many years. So very easy indeed."

"Do not preach to me, High Priest," Nikolai replied with equal chill. "I might be party to the scheme, but I am not the one with blood on my hands."

"No, you keep your hands quite clean," Dym said. His voice was level, but it had weight. "So that they're free to assault foreign royalty."

Nikolai turned red. "He was a possible threat," he hissed. "And that was more than a year ago - let the matter drop!"

Dym nodded. "As you wish, your Grace." He stood up. "I have duties to attend, if you will forgive me. I bid you both good day." He bowed and slowly walked from the room, letting out a soft, slow sigh once in the hallway.

He traveled in silence, undisturbed by the people around him. Many looked at him, and nearly all of them immediately looked away.

Killing the Candidates was necessary. Only the priests of old had known enough about the Sacred Firebird to know how to kill the divided pieces of his soul. Only priests could create the lesser fire feathers needed to wake a Candidate, as well as hunt for strains of forbidden magic when it showed up. Only a High Priest had the training to perform the Burning and read the ashes to locate the Candidates. When the decision had been made to restore the priesthood of the slain god, many restrictions had been put in place. Only one hundred priests were permitted at any time, and there was only one High Priest.

Never again would Pozhar permit the Firebird to obtain a hold, even if it was merely priests who followed the path of fire. More than one priest had been dismissed, a small handful put to death, for being more ardent in their following than the Crown thought wise.

High Priest Dym was the most recent priest, and he had been in office ten years. The task of actually killing the Candidates rest solely in his hands.

People kept their distance. Those who were brave enough to risk an attempt to draw closer were immediately scared off by the intensity of his jewel-green eyes. Whispers about the aloof High Priest never ceased, especially as he was favored by the Princess Oranzhevy but loathed by the Duke Krasny.

Loved, hated or simply feared, the fate of Pozhar rest with him. No other priest was yet fit to assume the cumbersome mantel of High Priest, nor was it one many took willingly. The majority of the priesthood was made up of men who had few options left to them. No one could remember a time when women had been permitted.

Dym gathered his robes close as he ascended the few short steps into the Royal Cathedral. There were two primary cathedrals in the country, and both were located in the royal capital. All other cathedrals had been burned to the ground or put to other uses when Pozhar had turned against its god.

The Royal Cathedral was the primary, and took up most of one wing of the palace. The entirety was made of some pale, gold-brown stone the like of which had never been found in the centuries since the fall of the Firebird. The main part of the cathedral must have once been grand, but when the people attacked Zhar Ptitka they had destroyed much of the cathedral.

Nowadays most of the smaller chapels had been closed off or turned into storage. The hall where Priests of the Sacred Flame once helped the people had been turned into an over large work room. It was filled with worktables, desks, shelves and work chests. Throughout was the smell of paper and ink, paint and turpentine. Beautiful floors were stained with the evidence of the priests' work.

But the windows, beautiful works of colored glass, had somehow escaped the neglect which had fallen across the rest of the Cathedral. Sunlight poured through them, sending rainbows across the floor, lighting up images of glass that were no longer understood..

Nothing else remained of the Royal Cathedral's former splendor except a door at the back of the main altar. Rather than the instruments of ceremony, the massive altar contained shelves of books and a large desk. It was here that Dym spent a goodly portion of his day, tending always to the search for Candidates and ensuring that his priests did not travel too far down the path they dared to walk.

Religion was strictly forbidden in Pozhar - they did not need it, except to finally rid themselves of it. When all the Candidates were dead, these priests would be turned out, and the Royal Cathedral at last destroyed

But at the back of the altar, nearly out of sight - for no one felt quite comfortable looking at it - was a large, heavy door, painted black. Across the top half was a fanciful, scrolling design made with inlaid silver and gold. Examined long enough, the scrollwork began to take on the image of a beautiful bird with bright silver and gold plumage.

Dym stood at the steps of the altar and clapped his hands briskly three times. The priests on the floor all stopped what they were doing and looked up.

Within the priesthood there were no ranks - there was the High Priest and the other priests. 'Priest' was used mostly to indicate they held a very particular, unwanted office. There duties included nothing related to priesthood at all. All answered to High Priest Dym, no matter how long they had been there.

However, behind closed doors the priests had developed a silent system of their own. The ranks were not official, or even much talked upon, but they were there. Dym motioned his most senior Priest, an older man named Akim, and presented him with the leather case. "The Princess has commanded we finish five hundred images by sundown two days hence, and twice that in sketches by end of week."

"Yes, High Priest," Akim said and accepted the drawing.

Always after the ceremony, Dym drew the Candidate that had been show to him. A simple sketch at first, but over the course of a day he had elaborated upon it. After it was finished, copies were made by the priests to be dispersed throughout the country. Most of the men in the room would, when the images were complete, depart to disperse the images and hunt for the Candidate.

It could take anywhere from a day to a decade to find a single Candidate. Only a priest could identify a Candidate for certain by waking the dormant power of the Firebird within the Candidate with a lesser fire feather. Priests were the only ones outside a precious few nobles who were allowed to use magic, and that only with express permission.

Dym watched his priests work for several minutes, then turned and approached the door in the back. Unlocking it, he slipped inside. He closed the door behind him, blocking out all sound from the room beyond.

The Chamber of Night - one of the few rooms whose original purpose and name were still remembered. The gold and silver scrollwork seemed to shimmer with a light its own; even the black marble did not seem to be mere stone.

As always, the room was hot without causing the discomfort associated with extreme heat. Dym walked down the middle of the room, feet soundless on the marble floor. The room smelled of smoke and ashes, like fire on a summer evening. The altar table was the only piece of furniture in the room, the rest of the room bare because once those few permitted to enter the Chamber of Night all fell to their knees, faces averted, before the presence of his Eminence, Zhar Ptitka.

Dym approached the altar table and ran one hand gently across the surface, which was as smooth and bright as polished glass. There was no trace of the ashes that had been there a day ago. Softly Dym began to speak, the word so soft they were indistinct even in the silence of the dark chamber.

Before he got very far, there was a sharp knock at the door. Without pause, Dym withdrew his hand, ceased speaking and smoothly turned to walk back across the room. He opened the door and stared at Akim, who took a step back - not only from the ill-favored room but from Dym, whose green eyes had darkened with some unnamed emotion. "Word has come that his Majesty is on his way."

"Thank you for informing me," Dym said levelly, and stepped out of the Chamber of Night. Locking it, he followed Akim into the cathedral proper and began to dispense orders to see that all was perfect for the King's unexpected visit.

When he arrived nearly an hour later, Dym greeted him with a deep bow.

His Royal Majesty Zarya IX was clearly related to Princess Sonya. Her older brother, he showed every bit of his forty-one years. His dark brown hair was already predominantly gray, amber eye faded though the sharpness behind them had not dulled. Most of his bulk, for Zarya IX had often been compared to a bear in size and occasionally temper, had been ravaged by illness. Even now he shuddered with suppressed coughs, and shoulders usually straight drooped slightly. Though he strove to hide it, the strange illness he'd contracted was slowly killing him. "High Priest," he greeted.

"Blessing of the Morning, Majesty," Dym said politely. "To what does our humble place owe the honor of this visit?"

"I cam to apologize on behalf of my sister," the king said with dry amusement.

The ghost of a smile flicked briefly across Dym's pale lips. "No apology necessary, Majesty."

Zarya nodded and let the matter drop. "She tells me you believe we will find the next Candidate soon."

Dym nodded slowly. "Yes. All know the Sacred Storm Bringers returned to the world a little more than a year ago. Our time is rapidly approaching - the Candidates will appear in unconscious of hope that one will become the Firebird."

"An empty hope," the king said with satisfaction.

"Pozhar will lead its true destiny," Dym said quietly. "Not that which is writ in stone."

"Yes," the king said, and settled a hand on Dym's shoulder, regarding the reserved High Priest intently. "Your role will not be neglected, when all is finally finished."

"My eternal thanks, Bright King," Dym replied. He looked directly at Zarya, one of the few who would meet his gaze and hold it. A daring few whispered, when they were safely locked away in their rooms, that the Princess Sonya was not the only whose thoughts strayed to the improper when it came to the High Priest.

Princess Sonya was a widow, however. The King had never married, and he was male. Too old now, those few said, to actually do anything improper - but his support of High Priest Dym was not purely because he thought the man a good priest.

Or so the whispers went.

But those same whisperers also liked to say the High Priest, who was only thirty-six, was far too pretty for simple skill to account for his rapid rise to the most notorious position in the country. Quiet, aloof, and reserved, those qualities only seemed to enhance the High Priest's pale, slender beauty.

Despite the rumors, no one could come up with any possible lovers. If High Priest Dym had, in fact, slept his way to the top, he and his lovers had been amazingly discreet even in a country where loving someone of the same gender was ill looked upon.

Perhaps, those whisperers said with finality, he had simply used forbidden magic to bespell them.

Be the rumors true, false, or a little of both, no one would ever depose him. There was not yet another priest capable of the performing the ceremony, and so close to the goal that had taken a thousand years to reach, no one would chance the mistakes of a new High Priest.

"We look forward to your presence tonight, High Priest. I especially will be grateful to see the Duke flay someone else."

Dym bowed his head. "Always a pleasure to assist your Majesty," he said.

"Come by my office tomorrow, High Priest," the king continued. "You will update me on the progress with the Candidates and tell me more of what you think. We will also discuss your fate when we are finally free."

"As it pleases your Majesty," Dym replied. "Have you an escort waiting?" The King had entered the cathedral alone, which was not unusual. No one who did not have to ventured into it. "Shall I accompany you back to the palace proper?"

"I would like that," the King said, and permitted Dym to walk at his side as they left the cathedral.

Chapter Two

"Run! Run!" Pechal cried, but he barely got the words out from laughing so hard. He tripped over a tree root and began laughing all the harder.

Cursing, the man beside him grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up, never stopping as he ran, leaving Pechal to curse between laughs while he fought for footing and balance. "Stop laughing, you scorched fool, and run faster!"

"Run! Run!" Pechal repeated, and settled down to a wide grin. "Can you believe we got out unscathed?" he said between pants as they ran, dodging branches and roots, puddles of water and mud. "Did well, didn't we, Raz?"

Raz just shook his head and kept running, the bag thumping against his back spurring him to run even faster despite the fact that they'd probably lost their pursuers the moment they'd hit the woods.

They didn't stop running until they passed the lightning-struck oak, and even then continued to jog for some distance. When they finally stopped, both men were panting - and grinning.

"I told you we could do it," Pechal said. "Told you!"

"Yes," Raz said and made a face. "But I wish they'd told us about the innkeeper."

Pechal just grinned. "Put it on the tab." He raked back the tumble of dark blonde curls that had fallen in his face when his bandana slipped. Jerking the scrap of fabric free from where it had slipped down his neck, Pechal retied it securely around his forehead, forcing the errant curls into a tangled mess on top of his head. A spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks only added to the impression that he was incredibly young, though his age was somewhere around twenty-three. "Owe us at least another thousand, for not being straight with us about that." His blue eyes seemed to shine with the excitement of a job done well.

"Two thousand," Raz said shortly. "And they'd better be grateful I don't charge'em five. Let's get going, I want this job done before sundown."

"Sure," Pechal said agreeably. "Let's get to the mill." He set his clothes, which had been set askew by their wild run through the woods, and grimaced as he found a tear in his shirt. His pants were loose, the ends tucked into his worn, brown leather boots. The pants were dark brown and matched the vest he wore over an old, faded linen shirt. There was a small tear in the right sleeve now, and sighing he rolled his sleeves up so the tear wouldn't get worse.

Raz nodded. Making sure the bag was still secure on his back, he took the lead as they walked through the forest. It was a thick forest, easy to get lost in, but he and Pechal had made the forest their stomping ground years ago. No one knew it better.

"So what do you think-"

"What have I told you about asking questions?" Raz interrupted. "We've been in this business long enough you should know better. So stop asking." When Pechal nodded, Raz returned it with one of his own.

A stiff breeze blew through the forest, carrying a slight bite. Raz grimaced. "Autumn not too far off, now."

"We should probably start moving toward town," Pechal replied. "Don't want to be stuck here when the snow falls. Bad for business."

"Bad for living," Raz muttered. "There's the mill, let's get this over with." Without waiting for a reply, he began to jog out of the forest and into a clearing roughly two miles wide and three long. A stream cut through it, and once that water had been put to use at the mill built in the middle of the small valley. It had fallen into disuse years ago. Rumors in the nearby village - the one from which they'd just relieved the innkeeper of a particular possession - said that thirty years ago the miller's son had been taken for a Candidate. Days after his son was taken away, visitors to the mill found him gone, the house emptied of all effects.

Raz and Pechal had long ago realized it made the perfect meeting place. Any who wanted to engage their services knew to leave word at the old mill. The ones they trusted, like Ivan's gang, were permitted to actually meet them there.

Dangerous to have a regular meeting spot, but they were good at what they did and traveled too much for anyone to easily find them otherwise.

Raz slowed down a bit when they were halfway to the mill, combing through his thick, poorly-cut brown hair to try and settle it, pulling out leaves and a small twig. Beneath the mess, his eyes were the color of smoke. Like Pechal, his skin was darkened by the sun. But where Pechal was small, short and light - and very fast - Raz was tall and built strong but not bulky. He was dressed much the same as his comrade, but without the vest and all in dark blue rather than brown, the pants more snug.

"Welcome back," Ivan said, not bothering to stand from where he sat on a chunk of what had once been part of the mill. "Didn't expect to see you until after dark." Around him were gathered several men, some more threatening looking than others. Raz let his gaze linger briefly on one he didn't recognize, surprised that Ivan had taken on someone knew. The tall man stood behind Ivan but slightly apart from the rest of the group, remarkable only because his features were hidden by a deep hood. Raz flicked his eyes to Pechal, then to the hooded figure, back to Pechal, who nodded in understanding.

Raz smirked. "What do we look like, amateurs? Don't be insulting - I haven't handed over the goods quite yet." He slipped the bag from his back and held it lightly by the straps. "And I won't, not until we discuss an extra two thousand. You didn't tell us the innkeeper had weapons he knew how to use. Sloppy research or you lied to us."

Ivan lifted a brow. "That old fool can fight? What did he use, a rusty knife?"

"Crossbow," Pechal said. "And a sword. Fought like a soldier." Though he looked relaxed, as if he had not a care in the world, his blue eyes were hard as he regarded Ivan. "You're not that lazy, Ivan. Why didn't you tell us?"

Ivan shrugged. "Didn't know. Anyway, you seem to have come out unscathed so what are you whining about?"

"Two thousand, Ivan," Raz said. "You know it."

"How do I know you're not making it all up?" Ivan said, folding his arms across his chest, looking somewhat bored. "I think your price goes up every time I stop by."

Raz rolled his eyes. "That's because your jobs get harder every time we find your ugly mug here." Strictly speaking, Ivan wasn't ugly. The fact that he was rather good looking, in a dark, 'I'm thinking evil things' kind of way actually went a long way toward helping his business - something into which Raz never inquired too closely. Ignorance kept everyone happy, and happy meant people stayed alive. "Two thousand or I'll be more than happy to return this."

"Fine," Ivan said. "Always a pleasure to work with you, Razrusheniye." Dark eyes gleamed with amusement as they watched Raz.

"Indeed." Raz refused to react to the sound of his full name, which he hated. He would not give Ivan the satisfaction.

Ivan smirked and motioned lazily to one of his men, who tossed two bags in rapid succession at Raz - who caught them easily, and weighed them in his hand while smirking at Ivan.

"Going to count it?" Ivan asked, teeth bared in a challenging smile.

Raz bowed his head. "Of course not. Aren't we better friends than that?" He tossed the bag he'd been holding. "Until next time, Ivan."

"Yes. Now call out your strange little pretties." His eyes gleamed with appreciation. "Wherever did you find such specimens?"

"Call them that where they can hear, Ivan, and I'm not responsible if they gut you like a fish."

Ivan shrugged, eyes on the two women who appeared at a motion from Raz. "I think I would enjoy even that at their hands."

Raz laughed and caught the nearer of the two women who joined them in the clearing, having dropped from the trees in which they'd been hiding, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

The women were beautiful, exotic looking. Shinju was the one in his arms, and her hair was a pale, pale green, the color only visible because her skin was so strangely white. Her eyes were a shade of green he'd never seen before, set in a face as delicate and pretty as porcelain. Her hair was short, stopping just past her chin, a strange thing in a woman. Her ears were decorated with small white pearls and she wore a necklace of seashells.

Her sister, or so they'd always claimed their relationship to be, and Raz could find no reason to believe otherwise, was Shio. Her hair was pale lavender, kept back in a tight braid, woven through with bits of shell and black pearls. Where Shinju was tall and slender, Shio was shorter and full-figured. More black pearls and dark shell were made into a necklace and bracelet.

Between the two of them, the sisters wore a rather tidy fortune's worth of pearls. Their hair and obvious love of the sea marked them as Kundouin, but Raz knew better than to ask what two Stormlanders were doing in Pozhar.

They'd met the sisters on a rare visit to the harbor, a place their 'profession' seldom took them. But a merchant had paid handsomely to have something retrieved from a certain ship and so they'd agreed.

Unfortunately, the merchant had left out pertinent details and the situation had deteriorated. Raz and Pechal had found themselves in something of a quandary - and suddenly saved by two gorgeous women.

Who had, themselves, recently had their own problems. Strange, beautiful women often found themselves in places they didn't want to be if they had nowhere in particular to go. Raz and Pechal had helped ensure no one tried such a thing again. Everyone in the harbor and surrounding area now knew the two women were off limits.

The four had been a team ever since.

Raz let go of Shinju to give Shio a peck. "No trouble then, my beauties?"

"None, Raz." Shio smiled. "Sounds like some found you, though."

"Nothing we couldn't handle, and I'm certain you would have come to my rescue had it turned into a real problem. Shall we leave this wretched lot and go find food?"

"Not so fast," Ivan said. "Notice my new member?" He pointed a thumb at a man behind him.

Raz lifted a brow but obediently took a look at the man. "Is that supposed to be remarkable?"

Ivan grunted. "Only because he isn't actually one of mine. We just helped - for a price of course."

"Of course," Raz murmured, barely hearing as the man in question shoved back the hood that had been obscuring his features. "Highlander. What a party we've got going here."

The man was hard looking, as though he'd been carved from stone and whoever had done the carving had no patience for soft and pretty things. Pale brown eyes regarded Raz levelly, calmly, framed by hair that looked too fine and soft to actually be part of those hard features. It was also a pale, pale, gold, pulled loosely back, a few strands slipping to caress and soften the hard lines of his cheekbones. And if the pale features were not enough of a giveaway, the finely-pointed ears were a clear sign of his origins. There was no mistaking a Highlander.

"What are you doing so far from home?"

"Looking for something," the Highlander said briefly. He was nearly as tall as Raz, but slightly more bulky. "I have located it, I believe, but have not the skills for retrieving it. Your team comes highly recommended."

"As it should," Raz said with a grin. "Come on, I'm hungry and don't fancy making do in the forest tonight. We'll go on to the next town over - it's about two hours from here. I get the feeling whatever you're going to ask will require a pint or two."

The Highlander's lips twitched. "Perhaps."

"We'll leave you gentlemen to it." Ivan murmured. "A pleasure as always, Raz. Pechal." He clasped wrists briefly with both, then turned to the women. "Ladies, if you ever tire of these fools…" He grinned. "You are always welcome in my band."

"Of course," Shinju said, and gave a toothy grin. For a moment it almost looked as though her teeth were pointed. "We'll keep you in mind."

"Do that," Ivan said, still grinning. He motioned to his men. "Let's move!" He turned briefly to the Highlander. "It was a pleasure, Ailill." He spoke without mockery, and regarded the Highlander with genuine appreciation. "Always, you are welcome."

"Thank you for the assistance," Ailill said with a nod. "Someday I hope to return the favor."

"You already have." Ivan waved the words away, hesitated, then moved on, urging his men to move faster with sharp, barking commands. In minutes the mercenary band disappeared into the forest, leaving no sign they'd ever been there.

"Ailill?" Raz asked.

"Yes," Ailill said.

Raz nodded. "I'm Raz, that's Pechal, the girls are Shinju and Shio."

"How come Stormlanders to be so far inland on Pozhar?" Ailill asked, looking genuinely curious. "I did not think anyone from Kundou wandered further from the water than absolutely necessary."

Shio laughed, the sound of it pretty, alluring. Her eyes, dark violet, flared bright. "We are…doing something for our father, I suppose you could say. How comes a Highlander to be in Pozhar?"

Ailill gave a genuine grin. "Doing something for my mother, I suppose you could say."

Raz snorted. "What a scorching riot, this lot. Let's go get food and that pint or two. He abruptly turned and began to walk away from the mill, back toward the forest, opposite the direction in which Ivan had gone. Shio fell into step on his right, and he could hear Shinju's soft steps behind him. On his left, Pechal appeared, though his eyes were solely for the Highlander.

"So is it true Highlanders can turn into animals?" Pechal asked.

"Pechal!" Raz snapped. "What have I told you about being rude to customers?"

"Wait until they've paid?" Pechal returned tartly, making Shio and Shinju laugh. He turned back to Ailill, eyes wide with curiosity.

Ailill laughed. "Yes, quite true. But Pozhar does not like magic, yes? I have suppressed mine, which is part of the reason I need help in retrieving what I have finally located." He grimaced. "I have heard many rumors of what happens to those who possess magic, and I am not eager to discover which are true."

Raz shrugged. "Foreigners just get kicked out, maybe get a little shaken up first. It's only natives that have anything to worry about." He and Pechal both fell into a somber silence. Magic had been forbidden in Pozhar for so long, no one could remember a time when it was allowed.

All knew the stories; impossible not to when stories of the Candidates were always on the tip of tongue - especially the one that had died only days ago.

Those who were somehow in possession of magical ability had it Burned out of them - Raz had never witnessed it being done, but stories of the pain inflicted by a fire feather were nearly as common as stories of Candidates.

According to the rumors, those born with magic were becoming more prevalent. It was an easy thing to spot, as magic of any sort made Pozharians sick - they had lived so long without it, their bodies no longer knew how to cope with it. Raz's eyes flicked to Ailill, who had said he'd suppressed hi magic.

Raz knew nothing about magic, but he rather suspected that suppressing it took a great deal of skill. Perhaps he'd been too hasty to take on this assignment - though, technically, he'd only agreed to listen so far. "All right, you've got me curious. What's a magic-user doing risking himself in Pozhar? Must be quite the prize if your precious mother sent you all the way over here."

"It's a comb, actually," Ailill said.

Raz stopped, and his team immediately stopped with him. "A comb?" he repeated.

"Yes," Ailill said. "Made from silver, set with esmeralda and rubis. Quite old, and something of a family heirloom. It was stolen, traded about. I am attempting to get it back. Fair means have failed, so I am going with foul."

"Silver," Pechal said, rolling his eyes. "Silver he says."

Raz grinned. "Typical Highlander."

Ailill lifted one fine, pale brow. "That's what it is." But his lips twitched. "And I am willing to pay, quite generously, in the same."

"Then, my fine new friend, consider your heirloom as good as reclaimed. How much silver are we talking?" Raz grinned, and Ailill returned it. They fell into debating money and the job, details and risks and time.

Around them the forest was growing dark as afternoon turned to evening. Dusk fell as they left the forest, hitting at last a road that clearly saw frequent use, curing along the edge of the rest, running right along side it where Raz and the others came out of it. Keeping to the side of the road, they reached town just as it grew too dark for traveling.

"Here we are," Raz said with a happy sigh. "Good food at good prices." The group stopped in front of a large inn and tavern. It was two stories high, and one of the largest buildings in town. In daylight, the wood would be grayed with age but clearly well-maintained. In a country where the snow could bury houses, the people knew how to build them strong. A sign above the door was just visible by way of a lantern hung about it - The Roasted Goose.

Raz led the way inside and found a table large enough for them near the center of the dining room. The inside was just as neat and tidy as the outside, furniture old but sturdy. A small fire kept out the chill that had fallen with evening, and the unpleasant smell of lots of people was mostly drowned out by the smell of ale and hot food. "Ale," Raz told the barmaid as she came up. "Except the ladies"

The barmaid spared a glance for the 'ladies,' immediately decided they weren't, and ignored them. "What else can I get for you?" she asked.

Pechal grinned. "Food would be good."

Raz nodded absently. "Stew. Bread. Anything good from the stream?"

The barmaid nodded. "Caught fresh this morning."

"Bring that for the ladies, then," Raz said, winking at the sisters. He smiled at the barmaid. "Plain, mind you. Nothing on it."

"I know what plain means," the barmaid said with a brief smile. She looked again the too-pretty girls, but bit back the questions she obviously wanted to ask. "Anything else?"

"Anything sweet?" Pechal asked wistfully.

The barmaid grinned. "Sure. Molasses pie and I think there might be some sugarbread left."

"The pie," Pechal said happily.

"Sure," the barmaid said. "Back with those drinks in a moment." She smiled, then left to attend to other patrons.

The group spoke idly of the day and weather while they waited. Raz smiled at the barmaid when she returned several minutes later with their drinks. "Thanks."

"Pleasure," the woman said with a smile. But she didn't linger to chat as she might have normally, instead taking the remaining tankards from her tray and depositing them on a table in the corner. Raz followed her movements, more out of boredom than interest, and watched as she spoke to the couple at the table.

He frowned as he took a closer look. The couple was crying - or the woman was. Obviously the man had been crying, but at least for the moment had stopped. They looked miserable, not even able to summon a wan smile as the barmaid attempted to cheer them. She patted the woman's hand before walking away. Raz caught her eye and looked at her in question. Raising a brow at his curiosity, the barmaid nevertheless nodded behind him. Raz turned and looked at what she'd indicated - the fireplace. More accurately, the fire.

Comprehension flooded Raz and he winced.

"What's up, Raz?" Pechal asked, noticing his silence and the expression on his face.

Raz pointed his head toward the couple. "I think their son or daughter was the most recent Candidate. From the looks of it…"

"They're leaving," Pechal said grimly. It was how the Candidate stories always ended - with someone dead and their family leaving the country.

It was necessary. All of Pozhar knew the prophecy. If they didn't kill the pieces of Zhar Ptitka, the Firebird would eventually return and destroy them. There was no choice. But it didn't mean that people were happy to lose their children, their husbands, wives, friends, knowing that they were fated to be burned to death, reduced to nothing but ashes. That by some unfortunate twist of fate, their loved ones had to die.

In Raz's lifetime, this was the second candidate to die - the first had died when he was still a small child, scrounging for a living with other homeless children. He looked at the couple, the woman crying quietly while her husband looked on, his own face filled with anguish. Word had spread days ago that the Candidate had been found; meaning she'd probably been burned only within the past couple of days.

Which meant that there would be new pictures passed out soon of the latest Candidate. Priests, dressed in robes the color of blood pouring from a deep wound, would begin to show up everywhere with detailed paintings, searching and asking. They would leave sketches hanging up everywhere, and people would live in nervous, guilty fear until the Candidate was found and dealt with - unless that Candidate turned out to be a husband, a wife, a son, a daughter or a lover, in which case the loved ones fought.

They always fought. They always lost.

But rumors abounded that there were only a precious few Candidates left. Then there would be no more murders. Pozhar would be safe.

Raz looked at the couple, who would take no comfort in such empty words. Had they lost a son? A daughter? How young or old? He wished he knew what to say to them, ached with the need to tell them something. But there were no words, other than the flat, hollow comfort of knowing the loss had helped to save the country.

Once, he thought, there would have words. Prayers they were called. Pozhar did not believe in such things. Pozhar had no need of religion. Worshipping Zhar Ptitka had brought only trouble. Even know the fallen Firebird lurked at the edges, waiting his chance to exact revenge against the people who had dared to put down their proud, arrogant god. He had deserved to die, as had all the gods across the world.

Prophecy was Pozhar's only religion, and it made clear that the religious path promised only their death.

Anyone caught practicing any form of religion met with severe punishment - fines, imprisonment, even death. Prayers, chants, all of these were forbidden.

Raz wished he knew them anyway, watching the sad couple in the corner. He was a thief, an excellent one. He made a living taking things away from people. But he'd never carried a weapon, and had never hurt anyone. Objects, after all, could be replaced.

A person couldn't.

"Raz!"

Raz jumped. "What?" He blinked at Pechal and the others, who looked torn between amusement and frustration. "What?" he repeated.

"Stop going all mopey. Let it go. Nothing we can do." Pechal, always so playful and cheerful, looked at him solemnly. "Let it go."

"Whatever," Raz said. "I don't care. So we have to obtain this comb from a place in the royal capital. Obviously a night job, and it'll take a lot of work. We're looking at weeks here, not days." He looked Ailill. "You staying with us? It's going to be boring - the capital isn't a place we work often. Too much risk involved; profit isn't worth it. We'll have to learn the territory, all of that. It's incredibly boring work, really. If you prefer, we can meet you somewhere when we're done."

"I'll stay with you," Ailill said, his lips curving up in thoughtful amusement. "I am curious to see how it goes, and perhaps I can help if things get too difficult. If we obtain the comb, then the worst they can do is kick me out of your country."

Pechal grinned. "That would be fun. So what sort of animal do you turn into?"

"Eat your food," Raz said sharply. "Stop being rude."

"Fine, fine," Pechal said, disappointed when Ailill did not give an answer. He made a face as Shio and Shinju laughed at him.

Raz tore into his bread, dunking it in the hearty mutton stew set in front of him, and attempted to focus on the mission in front of him. But as appealing as the thought of a real challenge - and one that paid in Highland silver - was, it did keep him from hearing the occasional sob, and feeling like there was something he should say.

 

Chapter Three

"No," Raz said, and grabbed Ailill's wrist. "Don't interfere."

Ailill frowned. "You would leave two women to fend for themselves?" He glowered across the pavilion to where Shio and Shinju were being hassled by a group of men who looked as though they probably had wanted posters up somewhere.

Raz laughed. "Two women? No. Shio and Shinju are different. I don't know how, but I know. I would never scorch myself by daring to come to their rescue. Even when we did help them, it was more just reaffirming what they'd already established." He shook his head. "Don't ever piss them off."

"So I see," Ailill said softly as he watched the spectacle that unfolded before his eyes.

Five men had wound up hassling the two sisters. It what seemed a matter of seconds, all but one was on the ground, contorted with pain. Silver flashed as daggers once more vanished into hidden folds in the sisters' clothing. Both wore pants, their shirts rolled up to bare their arms. Strange ensemble for women, but Raz had never been able to imagine them in dresses.

Raz grinned and pecked their cheeks as they sat down with a paper wrapped fish each. Around them, the pavilion returned to a bustle of noise and chatter - complete silence had fallen when two women trounced five men.

For a moment it looked as though the men wanted to push their luck. Raz glared at the only one they'd left standing, though not unscathed - his arm was bleeding badly enough it would have to be bandaged.

In any other part of the city, the women would find themselves under arrest, but at the edge of the capital life was more lenient and a great deal went unseen.

Ailill nodded at the women, surprise evident on his face. "Where, if you'll pardon my asking, did two such beauties learn to fight like that? I account myself a fine combatant, but I feel you would probably teach me a thing or two."

Raz threw his head back and laughed.

Shio shrugged, looking bored. "Sharks do not differ much from place to place."

"They're all dumb, ugly and taste terrible," Shinju agreed, lip curling in disgust.

"Sharks?" Raz asked. "What are those?"

Shinju looked at him a moment and then laughed. "Land-locked," she said, shaking her head. "Um…think of a very big fish. They get about as large as small rowboats, some of them. Lots of teeth, love to eat basically anything they can get their mouths around."

Raz grinned. "Good description. Of course," his face fell into an expression of utter seriousness and gentle reprimand, "it's your fault for looking good enough to burn all common sense away."

Shio threw a piece of fish at him. "Quiet."

"Yes, ma'am." Raz said, and saluted. He glanced around the pavilion.

It was massive, a large open courtyard surrounded by various shops and inns, a few stray stalls selling jewelry, food and other miscellany. Tables and benches were scattered all over the old granite tiles that laid out the pavilion, surrounding a large marble fountain. The fountain statue was of an apple tree, beneath which slept a young boy, an overturned bucket spilling water back into the fountain below.

All manner of people milled about the pavilion, minus the affluent. No one with money would ever show himself on the poor side of town unless he needed something that good little rich people couldn't provide. It was late afternoon and ordinary business was peaking. Once the sun went down, the interesting business would begin.

"What did you two do with Pechal?" Raz asked, frowning when he could not locate his friend anywhere in the crowd.

"He's a big boy," Shio said, nibbling on a bit of fish with obvious relish.

Ailill stared at them. "Are you eating raw fish?"

Shinju gave him a smile and simply kept eating.

"I think they are fish, personally," Raz said absently, still searching the crowd for his friend. "Did you guys lose him on purpose?"

"No," Shio said. "He saw something and wanted to go check it out. Said he'd meet us back here. I'm sure he'll come back mostly free of harm." She rolled her eyes. "And probably starving."

Raz laughed. "Very true. All right, we'll start reviewing without him. Stop mutilating the poor fish and tell me what you've got."

Shinju glared at him and took another bite, chewing it slowly. "Tricky," she said at last. "The house in right in the middle of all the townhouses, that silly little circle where they can all stare at each other. Blue, three stories, very little room between it and the other houses. Probably have to go in from the back."

"Very busy area, and always people snooping into one another's windows. Have to be very late, on toward early morning. It's quite annoying all these city people keep our hours." She grumbled quietly and ate more fish, somehow managing to pick out ever bit of bone. "Did you learn anything useful?"

Raz shrugged and listed all that Ailill had already told them, but supplemented it with what he'd gleaned. "The Earl Zholty is the Chief of Magic. He's in charge of keeping track of all magic within the country, as well any magic that tries to enter - and how to cope with magic when we go abroad. Or at least when royals and nobles go abroad. He's generally regarded as a good man, but more than a few on the pavilion say he has a taste for objects a man in his possession should not be interested in." 'On the Pavilion' was slang for the criminal and questionable elements. "Items contaminated with magic, if not magical outright. No one knows why." Raz flicked his smoke-gray eyes to Ailill. "Is this comb magic?"

"No," Ailill said. "It is valuable monetarily, certainly. But the value to my mother is primarily sentimental. Any magic associated with it is residual. It truly is nothing more than a pretty, quite expensive trinket for my mother's hair."

"All I have to say is that it better be one scorcher of a mother," Raz said, grinning. He was interrupted from saying more by the sudden appearance of Pechal, who sat down in a flurry of activity, seeming to do a million things when all he really did was sit and begin to eat. "Hey, all. Have any fun?"

Raz laughed. "Always. What have you got for us?"

Pechal grinned.

"Oh, no," Raz said, and opposite Pechal the sisters groaned.

Ailill looked at them. "What is wrong?"

"He only looks like that when he's about to give us bad news. The Very Bad kind." He glared at Pechal. "Tell."

Pechal gobbled up his meat pie instead, and licked his fingers before finally speaking. "Got into some servant gossip at the market. Word on the nice side of town," Pechal was cute enough, and good enough, that he often got away with hanging around places the rest of them would never get away with. "Is that the Earl Zholty is planning to make a bid for the Princess."

"Aren't they both a bit old for those games?" Raz asked, frowning in thought. "The Princess is a widow…Zholty never married. I hear she's quite scorching, but…"

Ailill chuckled. "Do I know more of your politics than you, Raz? I have heard much about how sick your King is - they say the Princess might be a Queen before too long."

Raz grunted. "Politics bore me. But I guess they just became relevant - what's up, Pechal?"

"Like I said, the Earl wants the Princess. Servants say he just spent a tidy sum on a handful of exotic gifts for her - apparently the Princess loves foreign things. Among those was a comb made from Highland silver." He smirked and began to dig into his second meat pie.

"Fire and ash!" Raz swore. "That means we have precious little time to relieve him of it. Not even I will attempt to steal from the royal palace. Fire and ash!" He glared at his own food, black bread and sausage, and could not summon the interest to finish it. "I guess this means we're pulling a long night. Do you know long we have, Pechal?"

Pechal shrugged. He hastily finished eating. "No idea, but probably soon. I mean you don't buy presents and then let them sit around for months on end.

"All right - everyone finish up, then its back on the streets. If we're going to do this, it'll have to be within the next few days unless we get information that tells us otherwise. Pechal, way to ruin the fun."

Rolling his eyes, Pechal got up and wandered across to a vendor and bough two more meat pies. "I'm going back down to the south side, then. When do we meet? And where?"

"Midnight," Raz said after a moment of thought. "We've got rooms at the Dancing Snake for the rest of the week, so meet up there. If you need me before that, I'll stick close to the pavilion. I'm still trying to see if there's a simpler way to get into his house. Stay alert. If things are this complicated already, then more is bound to go wrong. Shio, Shinju - try to avoid beating anyone else up." He winked at them, and received twin snorts of contempt in reply.

Shio and Shinju vanished without further comment.

"So what other ways are there to break into a house?" Ailill asked.

Raz grinned and cleaned off their table before motioning for Ailill to follow him from the pavilion "Hopefully there's a servant we can bribe to leave a door open, or to tell us where we can find the comb - though that will fall to Pechal. But we may learn which servants to approach, or at least which ones to avoid. Maybe other people with a grudge that might be able to help us." Raz shrugged. "You never know what will turn up, good or bad - though most often it's bad."

Ailill nodded, and brushed back the loose strands of hair that fell forward into his face.. "I am curious to see how it all goes."

Raz slid him a thoughtful look. "You're a curious one." He slowed to a halt. "Your speech, movements - obviously you belong with the Earls and Dukes and Princesses, not on this side of town plotting to steal from them."

"Oh?" Ailill asked. "Maybe I prefer this side of town." His eyes strayed toward the south side of the city, where even at a distance the wealth of the large houses was apparent.

Towering over everything was the palace itself, brilliant white, leading up to colorful, twisting spires and domes - the Royal Palace was centuries old but showed very little of that age. Many whispered magic held it together, and that it would be the first thing Zhar Ptitka destroyed should he come back to life.

"I think maybe if I asked a lot questions, I'd get some rather interesting answers," Raz replied. His grin flashed. "Assuming, of course, that you answered them."

"Assumption is a dangerous thing," Ailill said casually.

"Quite," Raz agreed. He slowed down as the street they were on spilled into a massive courtyard. It was nearly the size of the pavilion and laid with white marble tiles, each cut into a hexagon and meticulously laid together. Though old, the tiles did not show as much wear as they should. Like the palace, the Old Cathedral seemed timeless.

"What is this?" Ailill asked. "It's beautiful."

Raz looked askance at him. "Don't say that too loud," he said quietly, tilting his head back to gaze up at the twisting spires and domes of the Old Cathedral. "It's called the Old Cathedral now. No one remembers what it was really called. The only reason it's still standing is that no one quite has the nerve to destroy it." He shrugged. "My theory anyway. Plus, it would make a huge mess."

"No doubt…" Ailill agreed. "So strange, really, that the gods are so feared." He shook his head. "Everywhere, the people fear their gods."

"Oh? What have the mighty Highlands to fear?"

"With us, it is more despair…" Ailill sighed. "But I will not bore you. What purpose does this cathedral serve now?"

Raz shrugged. "A reminder, mostly. The priests work here, drawing and using it as a base for their searches."

"For Candidates, yes?"

"Yes," Raz said. He began to cross the courtyard, to a small side street on the far side. "Come, we're wasting time. I want to track down who is selling all these things to the good Earl. Perhaps we can find a way inside, or at least learn something useful, by way of the merchants in question. Worth a try, anyway." He spared Ailill a glance. "If we do turn up lucky, try to stand around looking menacing, or at least condescending. It might help things along if they think they've incurred the wrath of an evil, transforming Highlander."

Ailill's lips twitched. "Duly noted."

Raz passed through the courtyard and onto the street beyond with his gaze only for the area in front of him, mind wholly on the job. But almost reflexively, not quite realizing what he was doing, he turned to look over his shoulder, smoke-gray eyes tracing the lines of the colorful domes, the white marble that had not aged more than a few days.

As they turned a corner, he brought his head back around and began to talk, plotting how they would go about things, and forgot all about the cathedral.

"Raaaaaz," Shio complained. "It's time for bed. Not talk. Bed." She gave him a look that generally ended with men bleeding profusely on the floor.

"Talk," Raz said firmly, though he looked as though that was the last thing he wanted to do. "At the very least, give me the bare bones. I don't want us all sleeping and forgetting all those pesky little details that keep us from getting locked up." He looked sleepily around the room. "Where the devil is Pechal? Only he would be late to a meeting that's going to end in us going to bed." Raz glared out the window.

Shinju glared with him. "Shall I go out and look for him?"

"Only if you bring him back alive and not bleeding."

"Never mind." Folding her arms across her chest, Shinju slid down further in her seat.

Shio looked more thoughtful. "What about bruises?"

"That's fine," Raz said. "He's going to get a few from me anyway if I wind up having to go find him." He massaged his forehead. "Fire and ash, we do not need this right now. When is that man going to learn that time matters just as much outside a job as in one?" He loved Pechal, really he did. They'd grown up on the streets together, gotten into thievery together, everything. He would do anything for Pechal.

But if the bastard did not get his ass through that door in five more minutes, he was going to find him, wring his neck, and let Shio and Shinju have at.

Not least of all because as amused as Ailill looked, it did not look good that one of the men he'd employed seemed to be so unreliable. There was no way Raz could convincingly explain that as flighty as Pechal could seem, when they actually went to work no one was more focused or efficient. He just couldn't manage it otherwise.

Raz sighed and stood up. "You guys just rest. We'll talk in the morning. I'm going to go find-" he stopped as the door opened. "Fire and ash, where have you been!" he demanded, grabbing Pechal and shaking him hard.

"Sorry," Pechal said quietly, seeming not to notice that Raz had all but knocked his teeth out.

"Pechal?" Raz asked with a frown. He let go of his friend and reached out to feel his forehead, suddenly noticing how pale and too-still Pechal was being. "What's wrong?"

"Can we go?" Pechal asked suddenly, looking up. "Just leave? Go home? Maybe, I dunno, go somewhere else? Somewhere not here?"

"What in the world are you going on about?" Raz asked. "Knock it off and tell me what's wrong. I can't fix it if you're going to be confusing." He ran his fingers through Pechal's hair to show he wasn't trying to sound harsh, then cupped his face in his hands and asked more gently, "What's wrong?"

Pechal only seemed to grow more fearful. He yanked out of Raz's grasp and turned back toward the door. "N-Nothing. I've got to go."

"What!" Raz frowned and grabbed him. "Knock it off, Pechal. What's wrong?"

"Let me go," Pechal whispered, bright eyes blue-gray with what Raz suddenly realized was real fear. "I have to go."

"No, not until you tell me-" Raz never finished, as Pechal suddenly lashed out, catching him to the jaw with a hard punch, then kicking his legs out.

"You always drop your guard around me," he said, smiling weakly, "Idiot." Opening the door, Pechal bolted before the others could react, the sound of his feet crashing on the stairs drawing angry shouts from the people roused by the noise.

"Scorching idiot!" Raz swore as he clambered to his feet, wincing at his throbbing jaw, and took off after him, making his own fair share of racket as he charged down the stairs after his panicked friend. He ran out into the pavilion, along which their inn was situated, through and out onto the streets of the city, but Pechal could have gone anywhere. Raz wasn't familiar enough with the city to know where Pechal might go to sulk. He glowered. Well, he'd just have to figure it out.

"What's going on?" Shio asked as the rest of the group came up behind him.

"Haven't got a scorching clue," Raz said. "Something has him scared bad." He frowned, thinking. "But there's no one that mad at either of us. He doesn't have the kind of past that waits to stab you in the back…scorching idiot!" He kicked the corner of the building he stood beside. "He was fine this morning, and this afternoon. What in the fires has him so upset he'd run away from me?"

Shinju gripped his arm and leaned up to kiss his cheek. "I'm sure he's just overreacting to something, Raz. He'll come back, tell us all about it, you'll clobber him and then we'll go lift the comb from that stupid Earl. Come back and rest. If he's not back by morning, we'll go look for him."

"You go to bed," Raz said. "I'm not leaving him out on the streets alone." He shook his head vehemently back and forth. "No way am I doing that. We promised." Promised they'd never live on the streets again, and that if they - they'd do it together. If Pechal was going to be a scorching idiot, he wouldn't do it alone. "I'll be back sometime tomorrow morning. Just…make sure everything is ready to go. If I'm not back by evening, do it all without us. Keep the money." His eyes flicked to Ailill, surprised that the man had followed them out onto the street. "Sorry about this. I promise we're worth the money."

"I don't doubt it," Ailill said, and then hesitated.

"What?" Raz said. "Look, you don't have to go anywhere else…"

"It isn't that," Ailill said. "Not at all. I trust a team like this more than one that appears perfect. My concern was for that." He pointed past Raz's shoulder, to a billboard next to a popular tavern. In the dark, the moonlight not offering much. Raz wondered that Ailill had noticed anything. "I cannot be sure in this light, but…"

Raz moved closer to see what he was pointing to, and swore he could feel the color draining from his face as he realized what he was staring at. "Fire and ash, no."

Pasted to the center of the billboard, impossible to miss in daylight, was a large piece of paper - about three hand lengths high and two wide - of an elaborate ink sketch. A man with thick, wild curls and bright eyes, a smile that made everyone around him want to smile back, a distinctive spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Below the portrait, in large, clear lettering were the words:

Candidate
If seen, notify at once

Once the signs had listed precisely who should be notified, but after so many years there was no need.

"That scorching fool," Raz said hoarsely. "Why didn't he just tell me?" He shook his head and looked at Shio and Shinju. "We have to find him, before they do. We can't let them-I don't want-"

Shio grabbed his arm, and Raz realized he was swaying. "We won't let anything happen," she said. "Come on, that idiot would only go to so many places. Probably somewhere dark with lots of food."

On Raz's other side, Shinju snorted in agreement.

"But probably where there aren't many people?" Ailill asked. "He must be terrified of being seen, from what I understand of things. Should we split up and look for him?"

Raz looked at him. "You'll help?"

Ailill shrugged. "You are…the closest I've had to friends in a long time, even if technically you're only being nice because I have lots of Highland silver." He smiled. "I would like to help."

Raz held out his hand, and tightly clasped Ailill's when it was excepted. "We're not nice unless we want to be. You're a good guy, for a Highlander." He managed a grin. "Let's split up. Shio, Shinju, take the north end. We'll go south. Meet here at sunrise, unless you find him - if you find him, take him to our room and then one of you come find me. All right?"

Shio and Shinju simply nodded, before turning and vanishing into dark. Raz worried for them briefly, then remembered just how capable they were. "Come on, Highlander. Let's go find that idiot and beat some sense into him."

"And what do we do when we find him?"

"Get your comb, and then get out of this country." Raz glowered. "I'm a criminal, not a hero. If the country wants me to save it by handing over my best friend, they'll have to come up with a hell of a temptation."

Ailill smiled. "I should have no trouble securing passage."

"Excellent. Then lets go find our missing passenger."

 

Chapter Four

"Good afternoon, milord." Ivan said as he straddled a chair, folding his arms across the back. "Didn't think you'd be a repeat customer." He stroked his goatee with the back of one finger. "What can we do for you?"

"Are you familiar with the High Priest Dym?"

Ivan looked at him like he was idiot. "Oh, yes. Quite familiar. We go hunting and take tea together all the time."

The man across the room chuckled, setting a delicate yellow and green teacup down with a clink. "I have thought of a new way to deal with you, Vanya."

"Do tell."

"Every time you say something I don't like, your pay goes down." The man's smile turned nasty. "So shut your mouth."

Ivan ignored him. "I'm not going to do the job if you're trying to cheat me out of what's due. Find someone else if that's the way this game is going. We're not short customers, milord." Rising smoothly to his feet, like a cat uncurling from a nap, Ivan motioned to his men and moved to the door.

"Given that I'm willing to pay triple your normal price if you keep that mouth shut, I think you'll learn a bit of patience - and silence."

Ivan paused. "Money isn't everything."

"But it's a lot."

"Yes." Ivan narrowed his steel blue eyes. "What's the job?"

Relaxing in his chair, the man sat back and sipped leisurely at his tea for several minutes. He smirked as Ivan waited, perfectly still but clearly impatient. "They've recently posted the latest Candidate portrait."

"Have they?" Ivan asked. "If you want us to find him, too bad. We don't get tangled in games like that."

"I do want you to find him," the man said, "but I also want you to kill him."

Ivan froze, eyes widening for a split second in surprise. "Impossible. Even if it were possible, no deal. I'm a merc, there's not much I'll refuse - but that's number one on the list. I don't mess with Candidate business, and I'm certainly not going to try and kill one. That's priest work."

"On the contrary," the man said calmly. He clasped his hand neatly over one knee, looking as though they were discussing a dreadfully boring bit of news. "I and an associate have decided the current High Priest is not to be trusted. He's too…well, that is of no interest to you." A patronizing smile. "Suffice to say that we do not trust him to simply kill the Candidates - we feel he is quite nicely arranging everything to put himself in power. We plan to prevent that. The first step is gaining control of the Candidates. That's where you come in."

"No," Ivan said. "Candidates are first on the list, politics is number two. A pleasure as always, milord." He motioned to his men.

"If you leave, Vanya," the man said quietly, but with an edge, "you will regret it."

Ivan stilled and slowly turned around. "Do not threaten me."

The man ignored him and held out his hand. Resting in his palm was a small, orange feather, the tips fading to gold. "Do you know what this is?"

"A fire feather?"

"A lesser fire feather," the man corrected. "Each Candidate's death results in one greater fire feather and enough ashes to create a hundred lesser fire feathers. We use them for a variety of purposes - mostly for Burning out magic in those who should not have it."

Ivan said nothing, but his hand moved to the sword at his waist as the man stood up and slowly moved toward him.

"But we can also use them to cast spells, to break spells, all manner of things."

"Magic," Ivan said, sneering. "How like a noble to forbid something and then make full use of it."

The man ignored him. "I will give you one last chance, Vanya. Agree to find and kill the Candidate for me." He held out a rolled-up scroll, bound with ribbon. "A portrait. It shouldn't take you long - everyone will be watching for him, to get it over with as quickly as possible."

"No," Ivan said, fingers flicking at his side, ordering his men to their places. His steel blue eyes never left the man before him. "We're not your lapdogs."

Smirking, the man held out the feather and spoke one word. "Umeraite." The fire feather flared, burned, vanished.

Ivan screamed and fell to his knees.

"Don't touch me!" the man snapped as Ivan's men moved toward him with weapons drawn. "Call your dogs off or I'll kill every last one."

"Back off," Ivan said between gasps of pain. "Stand down."

"Ivan," one of his men said in a rumbling voice. "Are you alright?"

"No, I'm not." Feeling weak, not quite trusting his feet, Ivan nevertheless forced himself to stand. He glared at the man. "What did you do to me?"

The man laughed coldly and returned to his seat. "In the old days of magic, it would have been called a curse. Do you know what a curse is?"

"No," Ivan snapped. "Of course I don't. Not all laws need to be broken."

"A mercenary pretending to have morals, how very quaint." The man laughed again. "A curse, my noble Vanya, is a magic spell that causes harm. Not simply fire magic or some such. No, curses are meant to hurt. Most of them were, in fact, forbidden. Such as the one I've just cast on you." He smirked. "It's called a death curse. One of the more entertaining ones."

"Death curse?" Ivan repeated, still holding a hand to his chest, which felt like it was being ripped apart, raked open by claws made of fire.

"Yes," the man said slowly. "You have one month to live, Vanya. If you do not kill the Candidate and send me proof the deed is done, that curse will kill you. Painfully. Succeed and I will lift it, and you will be alive, healthy, and free to take your money."

"Bastard," Ivan hissed. "You'll pay for this."

"Yes, I'm sure." He held out the scroll. "Get to work."

With a trembling hand, body still racked with pain, Ivan accepted the scroll. He motioned to his men, and actually had the door open before he was once more stopped.

"Oh, yes. One more thing you should know."

Ivan rolled his eyes and did not turn around, merely waited.

"You are the second band I've hired for this task. The other was more cooperative, and they've a three day lead on you. If they beat you to it, I see no reason to lift the curse."

Forcing himself not to slam the door, Ivan lead his men through the winding halls of the inn and down to the street below. Outside, he slid into an alley and collapsed with his back to the wall. He took a deep breath, one hand to his chest in unconscious hope it would slow the too-fast beating of his heart. "Scorching bastard," he hissed.

"Boss…" the rumbling voice spoke again.

Ivan looked up and attempted to smile. Six faces watched him anxiously, and the ox-sized Maksim, so steady in a fight, looked ready to panic. "I'll be all right…for a month anyway. So long as it doesn't always hurt this scorching much. Fire and ash!" He banged his head against the wall, riding out a sudden wave of pain. "No wonder the ancestors wanted magic gone. Help me up." A slender hand reached out, rough with a bowman's calluses, and Luka helped Ivan to his feet.

"What are we going to do, boss?" A man nearly as large as Maksim, but much shorter, frowned in worry. His lips were over-large, giving even his most serious expressions a somewhat comical air. Beside him was a man as small as Maksim was large - Gleb had a talent for sneaking into places most men couldn't go.

Ivan grunted. "Good question." He looked to the last three men in his group. Isidor, his primary swordsman, and also gifted with horses. Karp was also handy with a sword, but his real talent was in finances. Ferapont could find his way home if you blinded him and left him in a desert across the ocean. "Let's get back to our rooms."

"Are we going to kill the Candidate?" Isidor asked, leading the way from the alley and ensuring the streets were clear of possible threat - not that there was much that could challenge them for threatening.

"Fire and ash, no." Ivan forced himself to walk steady, hand sliding away from his chest thought it still throbbed and ached. "The scorching bastard will just have to hope that other band comes through for him."

Maksim frowned. "Boss…"

"I'm not going to die. Scorch them all, I won't be dying from magic. Fire and ash, no." He shook his head vigorously back and forth - but stopped when it made him dizzy, one hand moving reflexively to catch the man nearest him before he recovered himself. He let go of Gleb and righted himself, glaring away attempts to assist. "We're going to figure out how to get rid of it ourselves."

"How?" Ferapont asked. "It's not like anyone but another noble would know what to do. Correct me if I'm wrong, but if a bunch of mercs go knocking on doors in the south end, we'll all wind up dead - and from good, plain steel or rope."

Ivan made a face. "We'll start figuring it out tomorrow. Right now all I want is a bed, maybe some ale. Fire and ash, how did we get into this one?"

"I told you we shouldn't have taken another job from that scorching earl," Luka said, voice calm but with a note of reprimand.

"It was worth investigating," Ivan said firmly. "Wasn't really expecting to be cursed. So now we know to just ignore him next time."

Around him, all six men rolled their eyes.

Isidor looked at him from the corner of his eye. "I wonder if there's a curse that forces bosses not to be scorching, smart-mouthed, idiots."

"If you find it," Ivan said. "I know plenty of people you can try it out on."

Laughing, Isidor yanked open the door of the tavern they favored, though they didn't visit it often enough to be considered regulars - not a smart thing to be in their business. The Singing Fox was packed, all of its patrons questionable in some way. A few flicked a glance at the seven men - an unusually large group for the hour - but rapidly looked elsewhere.

Ivan dropped heavily into the nearest chair once his men had hassled away enough people to obtain a table large enough. He let his head hit the table, groaning in pain. "As soon as this is fixed, I'm going to skin that bastard alive."

"We'll hold him down," Maksim said. He twisted in his seat to catch the attention of a barmaid and ordered a round.

Karp took the scroll Ivan still held in one fist. Sliding the black ribbon off, he slowly unrolled the scroll. "Fire and ash," he hissed, and dropped the scroll as if it burned. It fell to the table and rolled itself up.

"What's wrong?" Ian asked.

Luka snatched the scroll up and unrolled it, then spread it out on the table so everyone could see.

"Fire and ash," Ivan said, echoing Karp. "I wonder if they know yet."

All seven men stared in silence at the flawless painting of Pechal staring up at them from the table. Ivan muttered a curse and drained the tankard of ale set down in front of him and ordered the barmaid to fetch him a second and third.

"What are we going to do?" Gleb asked.

"Do?" Ivan snorted. "Are we supposed to do something? I don't recall those idiot thieves being our friends, or anything more than an occasional associate."

Luka gave him a hard look. "The good Earl said he hired a second group. The only other band in the city recently is Vladimir's bunch."

The men exchanged glances, none of them reassuring. Ivan let of a long sigh. "This means what to me?"

"They'll kill all of them. Not just Pechal. They'll kill Raz just for fun, as well as the Kundou girls." His look grew more pointed. "They're solid, and they put up with all your scorching crap. Like not telling them everything they need to know."

"Challenge is good for them," Ivan said with a brief grin. "They can take care of themselves," he continued, but his men could tell he was wavering - that he'd likely already decided, but needed to be pushed. "You're not convincing me I should waste valuable time to go help those idiots."

Isidor smirked and moved in for the kill. "They'll still have Ailill with them, and Vladimir won't leave him alive just because he's easy on the eyes and foreign."

Ivan barely hid a wince. "Why should I care about a stupid Highlander?"

"Do you want us to list the reasons, boss?" Luka asked, and around the table the men chuckled. "Because you can admire pretty women all you like, we know what you really look at."

"Fine. All right. Fire and ash, I think I need to get rid of all of you and get a new team." He finished off his second ale and started on the third. "We rest. Tomorrow we go hunt down those idiots and tell them what's up. Then we go figure out how to get rid of curses." He lifted his tankard, signaling his men, and seven tankards banged together

"Feeling any better, boss?" Luka asked, looking up from his bread and sausage breakfast as a shadow fell across the scuffed, shaky table.

Ivan sat down hard across from him. "Not really, no. If I'm going to die soon, why do I have to feel like someone let a pissed off cat loose in my chest in the meantime?"

Luka choked on a bit of sausage and went into a coughing fit.

"And now you're laughing at me." Ivan fought a grin. "Where is everyone?"

"Out looking," Luka said when he could talk again. "Didn't see any point in making them sit around, and you obviously needed your sleep. Kept crying out last night, boss."

Ivan shrugged. "How long they've been searching?"

"About two hours now," Luka replied. "If Raz is anywhere in the city, we'll find him before too long. He may be on the pavilion, though I guess someone would have found him by now if he was."

"Depends on what the job's demanding," Ivan said, and stood up. "I'm going to the pavilion. Keep the men searching. If you see Maksim and Gleb, send them out to the harbor. Make sure Karp is checking the south end."

"Sure, boss." Luka looked at him pensively. "Take it easy, yeah?"

"Fire and ash, I'm not dead yet. I'm sure the angry cat will settle down eventually." Ivan grimaced and turned away. "Stay out of trouble, find me around midday if you don't turn up anything by then."

"Whatever you want, boss."

"Not to be cursed," Ivan muttered as he left the inn and joined the throng on the street. Weaving his way through the crowd of merchant, shoppers, children and visitors, gradually Ivan reached the pavilion.

So early in the morning it was largely deserted. A great many of the people who would dwell here often didn't finish working until about the time most people were beginning to stir.

Picking a table that gave him the best possible view of the large pavilion, Ivan motioned to a girl at a nearby stall. He held out two silver coins when she drew close. "Bring me tea and a hot meal, sweet, and I'll give you another one of these."

"Yes, sir!" The girl snatched the coins away and darted back to the stall, speaking animatedly to a man that was clearly her father. A few minutes later she brought him a mug of tea and a bowl of porridge sweetened with a bit honey. She'd also thrown a sausage on top.

"That's a girl," Ivan said, and handed over the promised extra coin. He ate slowly, in no hurry to go anywhere and the food was better than he'd expected. The tea was strong but sweet - obviously the vendor believed in earning his coin.

Ivan watched the people who passed through the pavilion, ever alert for a familiar face. Strange that he hadn't seen Raz at all; he knew the man was in town. He always kept track of who was where, and Raz's team was always handy when something needed to be snitched without fuss.

There was always the possibility they knew Pechal was the Candidate and had already fled - in which case Gleb and Maksim would find them at the harbor. But Raz had probably taken the job Ailill had offered, and Candidate or no he wouldn't leave a job unfinished. If for no other reason than they'd need the money to flee the country.

Because he just couldn't see Raz turning in Pechal. Those two were brothers in everything but blood. He skimmed the crowd from east to west, searching for Pechal's familiar curls, Raz's quick, cat-like way of moving, the smooth forms of the strange Kundou girls…and felt his chest tighten when he suddenly spotted the person he least - and most - wanted to see. When Ailill glanced in his direction, Ivan caught his glance and motioned for him to come, gratified to see the smile that broke across Ailill's face.

"Ivan," Ailill greeted, sounding pleased to see him.

"Morning," Ivan said, and bit his tongue on saying something stupid, forcing his mind to business. "Look, I've got to be brief. Have you seen Raz and Pechal? The girls?"

The good mood vanished from Ailill's face like sunlight behind storm clouds. "Pechal ran off. We've been trying to find him. Shio and Shinju went to check out the harbor this morning, Raz is searching the south end again." He shook his head. "Are you asking for the reason I suspect?"

"Yeah," Ivan said grimly. "Tell them to stay alert. Nobles are playing politics with the Candidates as game pieces. Earl Zholty has hired a merc band to get to him before the High Priest does."

"Hired you?" Ailill asked carefully.

Ivan shook his head, pretending it hadn't stung to be asked - it was a more than fair question. "I said no."

Ailill seemed to relax, and only then was it obvious he'd been tense. "You look like you were dragged through the streets, Ivan."

"Just a long night," Ivan said. "It's nothing." He allowed himself ten seconds to think of a good excuse to stay. Unfortunately, all his reasons were appealing but not necessarily good. Stifling a sigh, Ivan climbed to his feet. He couldn't quite suppress a wince when his chest flared with pain, heart still beating too fast. Suddenly one month seemed far too long. "Got to go. It was…" Ivan shook his head. Fire and ash, he was only thirty-three. Why did he feel twice that? "Take care of yourself, Highlander."

A strong hand caught his wrist, and Ivan let Ailill stop him. He turned to look at him.

"You too," Ailill said quietly. "I…are you certain you can't stay? Speak with Raz yourself?"

Ivan shook his head. "Time is precious."

"Until we meet again," Ailill said, and slowly let go of his wrist.

The feel of his fingers lingered. Fire and ash, he was an idiot. "Goodbye." He thought for a moment that Ailill called his name again, but didn't look back and didn't slow until he was well away from the pavilion, when the clawing, burning pain in his chest forced him to slow.

"You need to lead a less exciting life, boss."

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Ever the witty one, Luka." He pushed off the wall he'd leaned against until his chest settled a bit. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking about retiring in a month or so."

"Now who's being witty?" Luka asked sourly.

"I made contact with Ailill," Ivan said. "Find the others, tell them we're moving out. Any ideas where we start?"

Luka shrugged. "Not a one. Don't exactly know a whole lot of magic users, do we?"

"We'll figure something out," Ivan said, hoping he didn't sound as weary as he felt. Taking a deep breath, he pushed on through the crowded street, striving to ignore the pain in his chest, focusing on the lingering feel of fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist.

 

Chapter Five

"I don't understand - where could he be?" Raz buried his head in his hands, more tired than he could ever remember being. "Scorching bastard, why does he think he has to run from me?" His voice was rough, and he buried his head in his arms before he could give more away.

"Raz…" Shio said softly, one hand soothing up and down his back. But she offered no comfort.

"That stupid bastard," Raz said, sitting up. "I'm going to kill him myself when I find him. I know he's still around here somewhere." He glanced at Ailill, who sat quietly on his bed, drinking tea from an old, earthen mug. "I can't believe someone tried to pay Ivan to kill him. And that someone else agreed. Fire and ash, this is becoming a huge mess."

Ailill gave him a wry look. "Should killing a god be a simple matter?"

"If I were a god, I'd insist on everything being simple. This no sleep, barely eating, worried sick arrangement is no fun at all. Definitely not how I'd want my murder to go if I were the god in question."

"No doubt that's why you're mortal," Ailill said, laughing softly. "I'm sure we'll find him, Raz. If Pechal is staying away, no doubt it's to protect you - or so my impression, in the short span of time I have known all of you."

Shinju nodded. "Sounds like Pechal, and we've only known him a year. Not the brightest, but he's got a good heart."

"Not the brightest," Raz repeated with a snort. "He's darker than a cellar at midnight in the middle of winter."

Ailill choked on his tea. Next to Raz, Shio looked torn between violence and laughter. "Be nice."

"No," Raz petulantly. "Pechal started it."

Shio and Shinju rolled their eyes as Ailill chuckled.

"We've looked everywhere," Raz said. "I'm out of ideas." He stared glumly at the table. "He couldn't have left the country already."

"Doubtful," Shio said with a frown. "I mean, they'll be looking for him at the harbor more than anywhere else, right? No where else to go, unless he wants to go all the way north and try to make it through the Jagged Mountains."

Ailill shook his head. "Even assuming he was stupid enough, he wouldn't make it. Schatten has been cut off from the world for centuries - he tries to go through the Jagged Mountains and he'll die for sure. If death didn't bother him, he'd just turn himself in."

"He has nowhere to go," Raz said. "He must be hiding in town somewhere. Fire and ash!" He slammed his fist down on the table and stood up so fast his chair nearly fell over. For several minutes no one said anything. With a sigh, Raz sat back in his chair. "All right. We've got to do the job tonight. If we put it off any longer, we're all scorched." He eyed Ailill. "I am sorry. If you never want to do business with us again, I understand completely."

"Do not worry about it. As I said, it is this aspect that assures me I can trust you." He motioned with his hand, as if brushing it all away. "I wish I could call off the assignment, but I have been hunting this comb for many years. It is imperative I obtain it."

Raz shook his head. "We'd never call off an assignment, especially when a third of the money is handed over at start. All right - Shio, Shinju, I want you two on the street. Cover my back. If things seem to go wrong, do whatever you can to cause a distraction."

The sisters nodded.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Ailill asked.

"No," Raz said, and grinned. "This is what you're paying us for, so just sit back and let us do it." He drummed his fingers on the table in thought. "Best to leave town after the deed is done - we'll travel separate and meet at the old mill. Something like that comb, we don't want to be anywhere around here when he realizes it's missing - and if things go wrong, we definitely don't want to be in town. So - if you don't see me before three bells, head for the old mill. I'll see you there." He glanced at Ailill. "You can stay and wait for me, or head there on your own."

"I'll wait here, and if you are not back by three bells…" Ailill shrugged and grinned. "I believe I remember the way. I do not know how you say it in Pozhar, but in Verde we would say 'Blessing of the Faerie Queen'." He laughed and looked at the sisters. "Come to that, I don't know how you'd say it in Kundou either."

Shio laughed. "We say 'May the Three Storms favor you."

"May the fires serve you," Raz said. "That's what we say."

Ailill's mouth curved in amusement. "As in, do not be consumed by flame?"

"Exactly," Raz said. "All right. It will be late enough to do this in about two hours - everyone rest, or go get ready however you want. I expect you to be in place in two hours. If you're not…" Raz didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to - Shio and Shinju would be in place.

He just wished he could say the same for Pechal. They'd each done their share of solo missions, but they preferred to work together. A job as hard as this, he would have felt much more comfortable, even if two people were more likely to get caught than one. "I'm going for a walk, maybe to grab a bite to eat. Ailill, I'll see you here no later than three. If I take longer than that, move out on your own. Be ready to leave immediately."

"As you say," Ailill said.

Raz grinned. "May the fires serve us all, then." With a wave, he departed, too restless to rest as he probably should.

Outside, the anxiety he'd shoved came back in force, and he fought the urge to send his fist through the wall. "Scorching idiot," he whispered, "where could you be?" Heaving a long, heavy sigh, Raz stepped out into the street and let his feet lead the way, staying just alert enough to avoid having his pockets lightened.

When he finally looked up several minutes later he realized he'd wound up at the Old Cathedral. It really was a beautiful building - so different from the ugly granite and quickly-weathered wood that were more common.

Every time he visited the royal capital, he avoided this area if he possibly could. Something about it always made him uneasy, like he was about to get caught doing something he shouldn't. Which was rather amusing, as he only visited the capital when he had a job to do. Maybe it was just a lingering fear of a god who hadn't been alive in years.

Too bad it wasn't the sort of place Pechal would hide - far too close to the enemy.

But the idea refused to let go now that it had taken seed. Surely it wouldn't hurt to at least look around - visitors were allowed in the Old Cathedral. It wasn't really used as much more than a fancy boardinghouse for priests while they worked to hunt down Candidates and magic-possessed.

Shrugging off his trepidation, Raz forced his feet to move and slowly climbed the steps up to the cathedral entrance.

The door opened soundlessly into a room that was nearly empty - a few people here and there, priests and townsfolk, a couple of men that looked like merchants. Voices carried but not the words. Ignoring the few looks sent his way, trying not to attract more notice than he must, Raz moved to the edge of the large room and tried not to gawk.

The ceiling was high, paintings and images done in gold painted all across it, in the hollows of the domes, filling every available inch of space. He wondered what they all meant, but was too busy looking at everything to stay on one image long enough to puzzle it out. Long forgotten stories, no doubt. The floor was black marble, a strange contrast to the white walls and colorful ceiling. Windows lined the walls, filled with colored glass depicting more stories he didn't know, people and figures he didn't recognize though he had a strange feeling that he should.

Raz shrugged it off and went back to staring, this time at the work tables scattered across the room, the men bent over a few of them. He felt suddenly sick - these men were drawing more pictures of Pechal. These men were helping to kill his friend.

Hands clenched into fists, Raz turned away and stared at a window until he trusted himself not to do something stupid. He couldn't help Pechal if he tried to beat up priests. He had to figure out if Pechal might be hiding here, maybe in an empty room or somewhere above the ceiling - in the rafters or something. He and Pechal had made homes in stranger places as kids.

Closing his eyes, Raz took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did it twice more, then opened his eyes and turned around, ready to hunt for Pechal in earnest. His eyes landed on a priest.

Oh, fire and ash, the man was beautiful.

It felt like something inside him broke, as he watched the man walk down the center of the room. He was tall, pale, hair as black as coal. Slender but not sickly looking. His face was as beautifully made as the paintings on the ceiling, the colored glass in the windows. So solemn looking - he should smile.

Why did the sight of the man make him ache? Like…like…Raz didn't know. It felt like anguish…anguish and…shame.

Then the man turned, idly looking around the room as he headed toward the door, and faltered to a stop. He stared at Raz, face draining of what little color it had.

Raz stared back. Green. His eyes were as green as an esmeralda struck by sunlight. "Why?" he asked, barely realizing he spoke, voice rough with strange emotion. "Why does looking at you hurt?"

The man flinched as if he'd been physically struck.

Seeing the look made Raz feel worse. He strove to say something else, to clear up that he hadn't meant-

"High Priest," a priest said, coming up behind the one with green eyes.

Raz didn't hear what else the priest said, eyes only for one man. Fire and ash, this was the man who would kill Pechal. High Priest Dym. Raz stumbled back, breaking contact with those green eyes and feeling like he'd lost something. "Why?" he asked no one in particular. He had to go. Get out. Get away.

There was a sudden commotion from the back of the room, and Raz looked out of habit, taking in changes in environment in case they proved threatening.

"High Priest!" A priest said, dragging a kicking, twisting, terrified man forward with the assistance of two other priests. "We found him hiding in the rafters."

"No!" Pechal screamed. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Use a fire feather," Dym said.

The smooth, cool voice ran made Raz tremble. Something was wrong. It wasn't right. He didn't understand why. But he knew he wasn't going to stay around along enough to find out. It didn't matter. - what mattered was his friend.

He started moving closer, using the upheaval to slip around unnoticed. If the High Priest had been shaken, for whatever reason, by Raz, obviously the discovery of the Candidate had made him forget.

Raz fought back a scream of rage as Pechal howled in pain and fell to his knees. Then a priest stepped forward, and there was flash of light, then suddenly the cathedral felt too hot.

Almost…mere steps away, as several priests finally took notice, Raz gave up sneaking around. "Pechal! Run!"

Hearing his voice, Pechal jerked his head up, eyes wide with disbelief as he saw Raz - then he sprang into action, throwing off the nearest priest and shoving two more aside before bolting for the door from which they'd come.

Raz knocked out two more, threw a third into a wall before following after his friend. "Go, go!" He said. "How do we get out?"

"This way!" Pechal said and took off running, earlier panic falling away as he fell into the rhythm that made he and Raz such a perfect team.

Raz followed him, knocking over furniture and closing doors, anything to slow down their pursuers. "You scorching idiot!'

"Later!" Pechal countered, leading them down a narrow hallway and into a pantry, on into the kitchen proper. Out the back door and into a garden, climbing up and over the high wall rather than waste time with the locked gate door.

Raz followed, landing neatly on his feet on the opposite side. He didn't stop, but leaped over another fence into the yard of a house. Pechal ran alongside him, and together they raced through the city, hoping to get out of it.

While they seemed to be outrunning the priests, Raz found he could not outrun the pain, the anguish, that haunted him in the form of a pale, beautiful face and jewel-green eyes.

"We have to get out of the city," Pechal said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Really?" Raz demanded. "Why do you say that?"

"Shut up," Pechal managed before he scaled another gate, leaping down into the yard on the other side. "Come on, this way."

"Since when do you know the city so well?"

Pechal didn't reply, too busy weaving and bobbing through all the backstreets.

Minutes seemed like hours, and near as Raz could figure nearly an hour passed before they finally managed to get out of the city. They didn't stop until they'd reached the forest a mile outside the city; a thin forest, not much more than an over-large copse of trees But with the late hour, it would do.

Raz rounded on Pechal, temper flaring. "I'm going to kill you!" He emphasized the threat by sending Pechal to the ground with an aching jaw. "You stupid, scorching idiot! What were you thinking! You could have gotten yourself killed!"

Pechal hunched his shoulders and stared at the ground. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough!" Raz grabbed Pechal by the shoulders, hauled him up, and proceeded to shake him to death. "You. Are. An. Idiot. Fire and ash, Pechal, what were you thinking!"

"I just thought-"

"You weren't thinking!" Raz let him go, watched him fall back down to sit on the ground. "Why did you run from me? From me?"

"I didn't want you to have to deal with it."

"Deal with it?" Raz looked at him in disgust. "There's nothing to deal with. We're friends. Brothers. Never alone, yeah?" He dropped down next to Pechal. "Scorching idiot. You shouldn't have run. We could have slipped out of the country all quiet like - Ailill even said he'd help."

"What?" Pechal's brow furrowed. "Why?"

Raz cuffed him lightly. "Because he's a good guy," he winked, "for a Highlander." His momentary levity faded. "Look - I've got to get back. We're set to steal the comb in about an hour, and it'll take me most of that to get back into town. Lay low here, don't run off, and I'll be back later with supplies and everything. We're headed for the mill; after we get there we'll figure out what else to do. All right?"

"All right," Pechal agreed meekly. "I'm sorry, Raz."

The last of Raz's anger drained away and he tugged Pechal into a tight embrace. "S'okay. Just don't be stupid again." He ruffled Pechal's curls. "We're not going to let some stupid High Priest burn you." His voice caught as he said 'High Priest,' and he pressed on before Pechal could comment on it, ruthlessly shoving away the memory of green eyes. "Stay out of