Prologue

Look through the heavy pine forest and see a fire glowing. Beside it sits a bear of a man, knife in one hand, a clay bowl on the ground in front of him.

It has been a long time since he last shed blood for his gods. Tonight would satisfy them a little longer.

The screech of a doomed animal is cut short, and the bowl fills with steaming blood. He puts it on a flat stone by the fire before he cuts his scarred wrist and lets his blood drip into the warming mixture.

He has thrown his runes for many days and has had no clear sight. He has marked each one with his blood, and still, they reveal no new secrets to him.

A tune starts deep in his gut. It stretches and twists like an unborn child, traveling up like a snake through his chest, making his bones shake. He grinds his jaw shut to keep it from escaping as it creeps up his throat.

The bowl is steaming heavily as he leans over it to breathe in the blood fumes that will give him visions. His lips vibrate as the magic tries to push its way out. The man is well-learned in the ways of the song and knows how to control it.

The magic of the song works through him, pulling him under the power of the trance, dragging forth memories that he always does his best to keep buried. He tries to breathe as the visions begin hitting him thick and fast.

The secrets in his blood demand to be heard, each turning over in his mind like rune stones spelling out his past and future: the lost princess, the witch, the game, the bloodline, the curse, the gates, the firebird. Over and over, they turn. Lost past and broken present and a future that would burn the world in blood and fire.

The magic tells him the war he"s been waiting for is almost there, and he is not ready.

He grinds his teeth together. He will possess the firebird"s magic and break the threads of fate around him, even if he has to wade through a sea of blood.

This man"s name is Vasilli, and he is trying to find his brother.