to undepress myself
Jun. 27th, 2006 07:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI'm almost done with this story. After ficathong I am bound and determined to finish it, Sandstorm, and Prisoner.
Reposting the prologue, since it's been slightly polished. Much love to Skylark and Sammie, who are the only ones so far to have read what I've written so far (I don't think ki-chan has...) and approved it. Still rough, as it's not gone through formal beta'ing. But I'm proud of it, verra, and want muchly to finish it.
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:
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.
“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 finally 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.
“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.
Reposting the prologue, since it's been slightly polished. Much love to Skylark and Sammie, who are the only ones so far to have read what I've written so far (I don't think ki-chan has...) and approved it. Still rough, as it's not gone through formal beta'ing. But I'm proud of it, verra, and want muchly to finish it.
Burning Bright
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
~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
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 finally 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.
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Date: 2006-06-27 11:57 pm (UTC)The Bright King? Whoa man. Owns me already.
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:33 am (UTC)Ze King? really? He's not in it much, really.
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:34 am (UTC)I will demand more of him at a later date.
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:19 am (UTC)But otherwise... *____________* Much luv for the yummy High Priest. Also luvings for the bleeding-heart thief. ^.^ And ooooh, shapeshifter... *.* Yum.
You taunt with the beginnings! It's all, "Here is goodness! No, you may not have more. Nyah!" *flailflail* It'd be enough to drive a girl insane... >.> If I weren't already.... ^^;; Heh.
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:32 am (UTC)I don't even want to know. *sigh*
Heh. You'll like Ailill more later. He's mad cool.
I've got up to chapter 24 done ^_~ So I won't be taunting you for long, this time.
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 12:35 am (UTC)Anything shapeshifter-y is mad cool. *___________* Drool.
O.O! WHA! 22 more chapters that you haven't shared?!?! TEASE!!! EVIL EVIL EVIL TEASE!!!
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:56 am (UTC)14. That should have said 14. Each part is ten chapters >_< I can't type.
But yes. Six more and it's done, and for once I won't keep everyone waiting forever and day =_=
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Date: 2006-06-28 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 12:45 am (UTC)And chapter one with Sonya walking in on Dym bathing? *hearts* I love the chick for that alone. ^______^ *hearts*
Squee! Dym and Pechal and Raz and Ivan and the twins....*tackle glomps* You're amazing and I so look forward to seeing you post more of this. *twirls you about* ^_____________________________________^!!!!
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 12:53 am (UTC)<3 I still am really grateful you read the first part for me. Sonya and the bath is one of my fav scenes ^_~
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Date: 2006-06-28 01:24 am (UTC)You have special authoring panties? THAT'S WHY MY MUSE IS NOT COOPERATING!
I don't own thongs. :(
Very nice. And the prologue grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. :)
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Date: 2006-06-28 09:59 am (UTC)Ahahhahahaha.
That does sound like something a few crazy authors would do. Not this one. My panties are all normal.
I have one. Somewhere. I don't remember why I bought it.
<3
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Date: 2006-06-28 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 09:59 am (UTC)^___^ Thankee.
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Date: 2006-06-28 04:59 am (UTC)and Dym sounds cool~!
I can't wait to read more of this.
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Date: 2006-06-28 10:00 am (UTC)It's not a super amazing verse, but I luffs it.
I'll post more next week.
<3
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Date: 2006-06-28 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 09:57 am (UTC)I'll post a couple more chapters next week, and work like a fiend to finish the other six in the mean time ^_~
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Date: 2006-06-28 09:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 09:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 11:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 05:44 pm (UTC)Respellings aren't really set in stone. There's no correct way to romanize any foreign word. Scholars argue it all the time. I went with what my sister gave me.
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Date: 2006-06-28 06:58 pm (UTC)But in this particular case... well, I gave you the right versions. That's the way any Russian would romanize these words, I dare say. You are of course free to ignore my words. It's not like anybody but your Russian fans (I include myself in this category, btw!) will notice the errors.
In the future, if you decide to trust me in this regard, I will gladly assist you with Russian language.
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Date: 2006-06-29 12:57 am (UTC)Eh. Sammie says Ptitka is correct, if a diminutive form. The other one is minor. I appreciate the corrections, and if I ever write something that requires a native knowledge of russian rather than just a fantasy that loosely pulls from it, I'll look you up.
Ah ha, though SAmmie is probably the only one I can text and go "hey! what's this word, slave? And how do you spell that?" at one in the morning ^_~ Also the only one who doesn't look at me weird when I go "what are some russian words for fire? As in inferno and such? And other words with fire and stuff." And she tolerates my obsession with russian names and diminutives. Honestly, I get kind of scary. Only my sister wouldn't kill me.
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Date: 2006-06-29 05:43 am (UTC)As for "zolotka", you wanted the diminutive form for "zoloto" (gold), I take it? Both "zoloto" and its diminutive form have neuter gender. Hence it has to end with "o".
The word you used for "fire" - I assume you mean "pozhar" - is used to describe when something that's not supposed to be burning, is on fire. As in, "the building's on fire".
Considering the time difference, you never know - it might be 1 am where you are, and daytime here :) Anyway, my offer stands.
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Date: 2006-06-29 08:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-28 05:10 pm (UTC)I don't have time to read it now...got study issues to deal with. **glares at the army crap she has to learn** I figure I'll read it tomorrow and report back later. Seriously, though. Made. My. Day.
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Date: 2006-06-29 05:22 pm (UTC)I love it and look forward to the next chapters eagerly. And yeah, normally I'm a shameless lurker but...well you really made my day yesterday.
And it was kind of funny reading the spelling arguement up there with d_moonchild. Normally, I don't notice the weird spellings when reading the stuff that's ethnically oriented. This would be because I don't know how to spell them either. I did notice the very weird spellings for names in Sandstorm. They're fine to the casual observer but after dealing with Iraqis for a year, they made me flinch a little. I can't complain on this one though because I can't pronounce Russian to save my life.
**sweatdrops** I'll...um...go back to lurking now....
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Date: 2006-06-28 06:07 pm (UTC)in a dark, ‘I’m thinking evil things’ kind of way
Ahahaha! I love that! You are a genius! Can't wait to read more! ^_^
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Date: 2006-06-28 07:25 pm (UTC)Love this (love most all of your stories, of course. xD;), it's prettiful and fantastic~
I just can't decide if I should dislike Dym and the rest of the responible ones for the killing of the Canidates or stay sympathetic towards him. xD;
I just can't stomach the killings. D: It's all beautifully done, but all those killings...
Eee. xD Don't mind me while I stew in the background while madly loving this. I can do contradictions, see? x3;
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Date: 2006-06-29 01:01 am (UTC)Hee. urkers should come out and harass me with the rest of the peanut gallery.
Thankee ^_~ I like this verse liek whoa. There must be about two notebooks full of notes on all the stories and countries and gods.
You make a feeble writer happy. This story was hard to write, for that very reason.
Thanks for commenting. <3
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Date: 2006-06-30 01:54 pm (UTC)Yeah, it's hard, but I think you're doing fine with protraying the "reasons" and whatnot.
(And at the same time, most of me is going 'Don't trust prophecies! Or at leats question them! They're more complex than they look! Double-edged sword and all that! >O'. All that fantasy and whatnot and each time prophecies are mostly bad business... or not as clear as it seems (damn you, Tad Williams. :( )
Long parantheses, yay.
:D
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Date: 2006-06-28 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-30 05:15 am (UTC)About the story! First I want to say that I'm enjoying it so far, and now I really want to know what's going to happen! I have so many theories and suspicions already... oh, it's going to bug me.
I like the prophecy set up. It worked well. The beginning though? Was- hmm, don't know how to explain it. Creepy, really. I felt very eerie, when I realized what was going on, the sacrificing and everything. Blah. That's so terrible. But I just couldn't be completely horrified, for some reason. I mean, yes, they're killing so many people, but it's in an effort to save everyone... mleh. Not the best way to go about it, but- still, it feels like there should be a better way. And I don't know whether to dislike Dym for doing what he does or sympathize and feel bad for him being shouldered with the responsibility of it. I'd almost lean to the latter, if only because it feels like he feels guilt over it, or something to that effect. Like he's not completely callous towards it, all the killing does bother him, he just endeavours not to show it- am I making sense? I'm sorry, I have a habit of going very in depth trying to figure out the motivation/tought process of fictional characters; I just like analyzing people, and I always love stories that are detailed enough to allow analysis of the characters. Anyway. Moving on. I liked Raz and Pechal from the moment they appeared in the story. Oh, randomly, I just want to say that I really like that you set up worlds for your stories; it makes a big difference when there is clearly some thought and detail to fantasy worlds. Especially detail; things like recounting history and past events of the world, distinct different races, and even the smaller scale things, like the set-up for Raz and Pechal's operations. Little details can make a big difference, in my opinion. Back to the story, though- Shio and Shinju were honestly quite unexpected, for me. They seemed to come out of nowhere, until you added the bit of background, but it was interesting to have it that way- their introduction was like a surprise. And- hum, do I have anything else to say? the highlander character, Ailill (oh, that's another thing I wanted to say, I really like some of these names)is interesting thus far. I'm interested to see more of his character. And AGH I want to see how all these twists are going to connect and come together!!
... Sorry. I have a habit of going very in depth sometimes, when I comment on stories- okay, fine, I have a habit of rambling. But only if it's someone I'm less afraid of, because I'm horribly paranoid that people will find my incessant rambling obnoxious- but, well- Oh, psh. Please do tell me if you don't care for my overly-wordy commentary, I'm quite capable of cutting it down.
^-^;; Anyway. The point of it all? Is pretty much that I really like your story. That's about it.