Breakfire's Glass Page 5

  Desire.

  Chornish and Nikolai sealed their lips together once more, their eyes closed as their hands tangled in each other's hair. They looked blissful as they did so. Desire. The spindle clattered to the floor and Nikolai and Chornish parted, their cheeks flushed, their eyes whirling with something foreign to her.

  She felt nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Openwork spires flashed steely gray, stabbing upwards into the sky, amid buildings so tall and close the streets became corridors. The roads were laid with dark gray and silver bricks, and at night the lamps cast ghostly blue light over the herringbone, creating writhing images in the dark. The facades of many buildings were dyed blue to match, or silver, or grey, and the city reminded Katerini of a cemetery filled with life. Solemn, yet festive, stuck in perpetual celebration for the dead. The paramount deity of Zhakieve was the Queen of Cold, yes, but her son Quiet Death had claimed the capital as his own. Every corner housed a small shrine to Quiet Death, with little candles and painted flowers carved from wood pushed respectfully into the nooks. It was in one of these shrines Katerini left a blown-glass rose, tinted black and the petals edged in delicate silver paint. Nikolai stood beside her, and he placed a black candle shaped like a wilted marigold next to her offering. A gentle sigh lit the candle with shivering blue fire.

  "Shall we depart?" he asked. He smiled, a little rueful, and Katerini was fascinated by how expressive his eyebrows were. Even through his wild black hair, she could see them. They looked painted, a thick brushstroke for each, and she was tempted to run her fingers across them. Undoubtedly silly—she wore heavy gloves meant for hard travel, wouldn't be able to feel a thing, much less the fineness of his eyebrows. She ignored the thought asking why she wanted to feel them in the first place. They looked enticing, that was that.

  "Yes," she replied curtly. She didn't want to leave and they both knew it. She was exhausted from traveling. Even wandering Darkrow needed rest. Her only solace was the rest she knew Ilya would grant her when she returned.

  They left the shrine and wound through the gridded streets to the outskirts of the city. Katerini lagged behind Nikolai, eyeing his gear. His pack had several empty distaffs tied to it—when and where he planned to acquire fleece, Katerini had no idea—and his satchel was filled with spindles, both with and without thread. He was humming as he walked, the only distaff with fleece clutched in one hand while the other held a spindle he twirled between his fingers. The fleece and thread were the ice-blue color he favored, and in the daylight it shimmered with gold and silver lights. She tilted her head to the side to watch as wafts of fleece were drawn out slowly and tightened into fine strings. Even with gloves and gear, he spun without hindrance.

  She had tried to make him leave the spinning materials behind, especially the spindles filled with finished thread, but Nikolai was insistent. Royally insistent. He would not budge, no matter how much she pushed, so she had given up. As long as he kept up and didn't overtax himself with the extra weight, she had no qualms. And he was quieter when he spun. A relief, because she didn't know how to talk to others very well. Especially with someone like Nikolai, who was so very the opposite of her. Zharva's words echoed in her head, urging her gently to give Nikolai a chance. Bah! She was trying!

  He stopped when they were in a snowy valley, Zhakieva a looming gray shape in the distance. Flurries drifted downwards and covered them like a second cloak. Nikolai turned to her, his eyes glittering with darkness. When he looked like that, with his strange eyes and sly grin, she felt uneasy.

  "Shadows until Svaroi, then," he said. Svaroi was the last outpost before the Svarinard mountain range, a tiny village stationed with a Darkrow named Silvia Elea. They had hashed out their traveling plans at the Wandering Wolf. She trusted Nikolai to know how to travel in heavy weather. They had barely said two words about it, other than the argument about the distaffs and spindles. With a flick of his finger, Nikolai had unwound his thread into a map of the Svarinen and known areas of the Svarinard mountain range. The Svarinard had three legs, gigantic ranges of jagged peaks, each larger than the last. After the third leg was the Top of the World, a vast area of unknown proportions. Nikolai acquiesced to her wish to be conservative of their powers. If a Darkrow, any Darkrow, had fallen to the elements, then they would need to focus all of their power on keeping themselves alive when they moved past the first volley of mountains.

  With this in mind, Katerini shattered into shadow, streaking over the snowy hills and valleys. Nikolai collapsed into coiling clouds of black, following behind her. Their speed was neither fast nor slow, a steady line cutting through the landscape. Nikolai was too close, she thought multiple times, his boiling shadows brushing against the edges of hers. She almost snarled when he veered into her once, her hair yanked from the force. Faint laughter reached her ears and she realized he was goading her again. After that, she ignored him.

  The hum of travel, of shadows breaking and cracking like glass, cooled her thoughts. Her hands pressed tightly against her chest to prevent molten power from spilling out, she closed her eyes to feel the magic working in between her fingers. It bubbled and popped, quick moving liquid inside her, then cooled so rapidly when it hit the frigid air that it burst into shadow. Exactly how she wanted. Porfiry and Vasiliy had their scorching magic which burned white hot, and Nikolai had his tangles of thrumming thread, but Katerini—Katerini had glass magic, which she poured out, molded, and reshaped whenever and however she pleased.

  She sank into thinking about the mission. She knew she should be focused solely on the task assigned, yet a nagging itch persisted that something wasn't right. She doubted Ilya withheld from her. Of course Ilya trusted his Darkrow completely—if he didn't, he'd have nothing but his title and an Empire full of strangers. Rather, she knew Bravka had lied, hiding a something which her instincts told her would be much more serious than anyone anticipated. Nikolai had hummed and grinned when she expressed this. Bah. He seemed to think Bravka was only missing, nothing worse, though he did not doubt subterfuge was involved. He talked as if they would walk into the Svarinard, right to the edge of the Top of the World, and find Bravka admiring the view. Ridiculous. Even if the area circling the Top of the World was unknown, Ilya would have still seen the marker for him. Bravka was dead. She was sure of it.

  She lulled into the sleep state meant for long travel. Her mind drifted, though her speed never slowed, and she didn't protest when Nikolai's shadows looped around hers to hold them together. She felt him tug on her hair again. Irritating as it was, they couldn't risk being separated while in the half-sleep of shadow travel, so she let him. She might've kicked him once or twice for the hair-yanking, however.

  When she woke, she was lying in a pile of snow on top of a hill. Her sense of time told her nearly a week had passed. Nikolai's arms were curled around her, her own arms still clasped against her chest, and his eyes fluttered open. They looked sharp, filled with tiny diamonds, then he shifted and his hair fell across his eyes. A grin stretched his lips and she grunted.

  "What an excellent morning," he greeted. "You look quite lovely, Darkrow Kater—mmf!"

  She pushed his jaw up and away from her face, grumbling, "Your breath smells terrible. I have mint in my bag. Chew it or don't breathe."

  He laughed and flopped onto his back in a puff of snow as she sat up and rubbed the ache from her muscles. They had made good time to Svaroi. She was pleased with their progress, and her magic still bubbled hotly within her. A night's rest, meeting with the Darkrow of Svaroi, checking their supplies—she began to formulate a list, her jaw ticking with each new task. She didn't notice Nikolai shuffling next to her.

  "Lovely Katya," Nikolai called gently. He stood in front of her, holding out a hand, and she blinked. Without thinking, she clasped hands with him and was hauled out of the snow. Her black cloak fanned out in the winter wind, powdery white streaming from it in rivulets. "Svaroi is right over the next hill, a little valley village."

  She
scowled. "Do not call me Katya again. You may address me by name in private, but my name is Katerini." She stalked him past him.

  He gave her an astonished grin. One side of his mouth pulled up a bit more than the other, and it made his handsome face look comically lopsided. "Why?" he cried, laughing. "Not a moment and I've offended you again! You have to give me more chances, Katerini!"

  "Not even my father called me Katya. It is hideous," she snapped. "Stop asking questions."

  He caught up to her, leaning forward to catch her gaze as they slipped down the first hill. "Just lovely, then?" He jumped back when she rounded on him, snarling. Laughing, he held up his hands. "Well, then, what did your father call you, Katerini?" She rolled her eyes and resumed walking. "And why did he name you Katerini instead of Katerina? Or Ekaterina."

  "I do not profess to have ever known my father's thoughts," Katerini said. Not true. She knew why her father had named her Katerini instead of Katerina. One of his romantic notions about her voice sounding like bells or some nonsense like that. Nikolai didn't need to know, and she pressed her lips tightly together to show she wouldn't say another word. Instead she focused on tromping up the final hill. Svaroi was a small blot of silver and brown in the distance, the massive hill hiding most of the village from view. She quickened her pace, Nikolai right beside her. She gritted her teeth. He was going to pester her, she could tell.

  "And if not Katya, then what?" he asked again. When she didn't answer, he smirked and looked ahead, humming. "Let me think…" After a minute, he let out a whoop of laughter. "Please, did he call you Rini?" Her cheeks reddened and he laughed again, echoing in the snowfall. "Rini! How cute. Like wind chimes tinkling. May I call you Rini?"

  She glared at him, mortified. "You think being polite will get you a yes? I will decapitate you, Blue Prince or not, Darkrow Nikolai."

  He whistled. "All right, all right. Ilya warned me you would hate informality, but I can't help it. So vicious! I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of being threatened with decapitation." He chuckled. "I'm so used to getting my way without anyone knowing. If they knew, they'd make a fuss about it, you see." He peeked at her from the corner of his eye. "You did say you had practice with Ilya. He's even sneakier than I am." She gave him a flat look and he laughed. "I would like it very much if you would call me Nikolai. You said it was fine in private."

  Many Darkrow dropped the title in private, amongst close kith or kin or fellow Darkrow. She knew she was being stuffy by using it, and conceded. "Very well, Nikolai. Though—I know laziness when I see it. Darkrow do their own work; we don't con it out of others." She caught his astonished smile as she surged ahead, sliding down the last hill to Svaroi. She could see its Darkrow waited at the edge for them.

  "Ilya warned me about that too," she heard him mutter. "Though con is a very strong word…"

  The Darkrow of Svaroi, Silvia Elea, blinked sleepy brown eyes at Katerini. Her face, nearly the same color as her eyes, was bland and forgettable. Nikolai and Katerini strained to hear her doleful voice, until she raised her weak chin to say, "You have beautiful hair, Darkrow Katerini. Mind the little ones," before trudging away. Her fluff of curly black hair, powdered with snow, bobbed as she did. Katerini was abruptly reminded of Porfiry, whose hair always seemed to flounce when he walked. She shoved away the thought with a sneer. Bah. Porfiry. Bah!

  "What 'little ones?'" Katerini hissed to Nikolai as they started after her. "You are acquainted with Darkrow Elea, Nikolai—"

  "You'll see," he replied with a sly grin. Katerini scowled. "She's an odd one. Be patient with her."

  Katerini harrumphed. "As long as she does not touch my hair," she growled. She shook out the sheets of her hair, which fell below her waist, while Nikolai made a noncommittal noise. They followed after Elea's bowed form until a lopsided cabin came into view, hugging the village's pale, weak firelight filtering from its crooked windows. Katerini jerked to a stop, red flashing in her eyes, then jerked again when Nikolai gripped her elbow gently and tugged her forward.

  "I know," he muttered. "She's a toymaker. This is how she protects the village."

  Dolls. Eyeless, half-formed, grotesque little dolls crowded the surface of the cabin. Katerini gritted her teeth and walked past them, shaking off Nikolai's hand with a grunt. She wasn't a pathetic weakling. Inside the cabin was nothing like the eerie facade: it was small, cozy, barely three rooms. Elea ushered them to sit while Katerini glanced around the interior, spotting a cluttered room.

  The workroom. It was filled with wood carvings, strange metal contraptions, and tufts of fabric. Paint smeared the walls and benches, even the lamps. Katerini went to stand in the doorway while Nikolai peered into the room curiously from a chair, distaff and spindle already under his arm. The spindle he used this time was different. He flicked it and it spun downwards, pulling the fleece into thread. A drop-spindle. Katerini, too antsy to sit, wandered around the cabin while he chatted with Elea, stopping only to eat. Katerini sneered at his ease. She couldn't stand to chat. On the verge of the Wastelands, so close to the Svarinard—her blood boiled and popped like her molten magic, restless, ready.

  Elea shuffled between rooms, bringing out her latest creations, while Nikolai looked on with distant interest. Hmph. Royalty. Katerini wandered away from the window to slump down next to Nikolai, who flashed her a grin. Elea jiggled a clanging metal—something. Katerini eyed it. Eyed her. A Darkrow toymaker. Katerini had never met a toymaker, and Elea—Katerini clenched her fists. Elea reminded Katerini of her idiot father. Clyish. The thought should have annoyed, but Katerini felt an ache grow in her chest as Elea's fingers fluttered through the air. Clyish had been grand, sweeping hand gestures, but their faces were the same as they described their latest creation: shining. Katerini's jaw ticked.

  Bah.

  This Lonely Winter had been nothing but grief, and Katerini wanted it over.

  Nikolai flicked the spindle and it made a breathy whirring noise. Katerini watched him, waiting while Elea fetched the next toy—then glanced away from the ice-blue thread when Elea announced in a flat tone, "My newest little one." Katerini recoiled, trembling. "Crafting the eyes is the hardest part," Elea explained as she held up the eyeless doll. Katerini felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands itched, burned, slick with—she hunched over, clenching her fists into the fabric of her shirt. Elea took no notice, returning the doll to the workroom.

  "Katerini," Nikolai whispered. He had moved subtly to shield her from Elea's view, the drop-spindle swinging unsteadily between his legs. "Was it the eyes?"

  "Yes," she said before she could stop herself. Grimacing, she glared at him. "Stop. Asking. Questions." She hunched, hiding her face behind sheets of hair. He didn't say anymore, which surprised her, though he watched her from the corner of his eye for the rest of evening. She didn't know whether to be grateful he had hidden her distress from Elea, or ashamed he had seen it in the first place. Bah. It was a kind gesture, one she hadn't expected. She glared thoughtfully at him a few times, and he grinned every time he locked eyes with her.

  Bah!

  They retired at a nearby inn, Nikolai insisting they share a room to get used to sleeping around each other. Katerini agreed because she was too tired to argue, nor did she care. They dropped their packs, Nikolai's thud considerably louder. Easily two dozen spindles of thread rolled out, and in the dim light of the lamps she was sure they glowed. Faint blue light pooled around them. The fleece on the distaff leaning against wall glowed too. She looked at Nikolai. He smiled at her, his eyes glittering like the stars in the sky.

  "My special thread," he said. He stood beside his bed.

  "I didn't ask." She jerkily threw off her cloak, then began the arduous process of removing the uniform. The fur-lined jacket, the gloves tightened around her upper arms, the boots strapped around her thighs—she took them off and shook them out, laying them out neatly on a small table by the empty fireplace. Then came off the vest, shirt, pants and stockings, all thin yet meltingly warm
. She sat on the bed in her underclothes, combing her fingers through her hair, sleep heavy on her eyes.

  Nikolai undressed across from her. "Perhaps you should ask. I would tell you." He dropped his clothes messily on the floor, smirking when she hissed. "So fussy. Like your siblings, hmm? They seem fussy, for demons."

  "What did you expect them to be like?" She frowned, twirling her finger. His clothes laid themselves neatly over the bedposts. Airing out the uniform was important—they would be weeks without a wash, probably worn to pieces by the time they returned. "They are not omniscient. Not even omnipotent. Demons are just bigger and meaner than humans. Bullies. And do not compare me to them. We are nothing alike."

  "Demons or your brothers?"

  "Both," she snapped. "Enough. I want to sleep. This will be the last time we'll have a decent rest, and I plan to savor it." They would be sleeping in caves or, if they were particularly unlucky, snow for the foreseeable future.

  Nikolai sat on his bed in his underclothes, the distaff and spindle flying into his hands. He leaned against the headboard as he spun, not bothering to slip under the covers. "You hate them, don't you? Your siblings. You truly despise them. You are civil to them, but it is the worst kind of the civil. The sort of tolerance one uses with the ugliest sort of people, those with wicked hearts and tongues. You have to deal with them, of course, because you have no other choice."

  "Despise is too—" She bit her lip hard, annoyed. Punching her pillows, she said, "They ate my father, then act like my siblings and become Darkrow for the Empire." She lay down, grabbing the covers and pulling them over her body. "Stop your stupid spinning and sleep, Nikolai. This'll be the best you get for a while."

  "It lulls me, Katerini," he replied. She heard a flick, a soft whirr whispering through the air. She grunted, turning her back to him.