Rise of the Firebird Read Free Page A

had died with a look of fear and pain on his face. Trajan appeared to be sleeping, making the painful task easier.
    Anya watched the bodies burn, one hand being held tightly by Yvan, the other held by Aramis, their magic linked and alive between them. Aramis’s wounded arm had been tied up in a sling of grey silk and if it pained him, he gave no indication.
    Anya hadn’t held a proper funeral for Eikki and as she watched everyone speak good things about the deceased, she regretted the oversight. They all spoke their peace, Cerise singing a Glen Miller song that was Trajan’s favourite, and Mychal said a prayer before the fires were lit. Anya watched the flames for a long time until only she and Yvan remained.
    “I wonder how many more of us will burn before this is done,” Anya said softly.
    “There are always casualties in war, Anya. That can’t be helped. I’m sorry that I have no words to comfort you, but I won’t lie to you either.”
    “I value your honesty, Yvan.” She looked up at his sombre face, flakes of snow falling in his black hair. “Don’t make me stand through your funeral. I could not bear it.” He put an arm around her shoulders and looked back at the dying flames.
    “I’ll try my hardest for you shalosť, and you make sure you extend me the same courtesy. I’ve seen too much death in both of my lives. I wouldn’t wish to suffer yours also.”
    ***
    Ruthann arrived before midnight. He travelled the conventional way, if being escorted by an armed guard was conventional. Anya hadn’t quite figured out if Ruthann was a king or some sort of leader, but she knew he definitely commanded a much higher position than the other Álfr she had met. She watched numbly through one of the high glass windows in her room as his convoy drove into the courtyard. She was drunk and had abandoned the others to their mourning. She needed to be left alone to cry, curse, and drink.
    A woman getting out of the long limousine caught her attention. She was tall in a black suit. Her hair was black except for wide streaks of white at her temples and was done up in a neat French roll. Anya knew that she’d never seen the woman before but there was something about her that seemed oddly familiar.
    Yanka’s runes sat on a small table next to her. She hadn’t touched them since she saw the vision of Yanka searching for them. Clearly, they had more power or significance than first imagined. A vague memory of Baba Yaga wanting them passed through her mind. Anya had been getting used to using them and now she was too nervous even to touch them. The drum was another matter. She hadn’t used it in weeks and when she took it out that night, she had noticed a new symbol. It was shaped like a stag antler, a mirror to the brand that the Groenn Skær had placed under her left breast. The drum had come from Baba Yaga, so she didn’t want to use it either in case it was spelled so she could be tracked. She was back to square one.
    ***
    “The truth of the matter is that her idiocy should be punished,” said Vasya Melenko. She was sitting in a chair in Ruthann’s temporary office smoking one cigarette after the other. The smoke was annoying Søren but he didn’t let it show. Søren had met her a few times and still didn’t like her. She’d power but she tried to shield it as much as possible. Søren hadn’t seen her for many years and she hadn’t aged a day past thirty. Ruthann had told him that she was the shadow head of the Illumination, but Søren still didn’t trust her.
    “What would punishing her achieve?” Ruthann countered.
    “I didn’t say you must punish her, only that she should be.”
    “It is hardly her fault. It is not like Aramis or Anya was aware of Yanka’s true involvement with Vasilli or the Darkness,” Søren found himself saying before he could check himself.
    “Aramis should’ve come to us when he found out that she was still alive,” Ruthann said.
    “Of course, he wouldn’t have come to us!