Ferran's Map (14 page)

She first came to know Crash in the depths
of Fennbog swamp, where he taught her to defend herself: to leap
nimbly over roots and through tree branches, to duck and weave,
block and punch, and kick with enough force to break ribs.
Now—after uncovering the truth of his race, the hidden darkness of
his past—she would come to know him again.

She approached him warily and decided to
attack head-on.
Best to get it over with.
She gave a swift
punch to his face. He easily swept her hand to one side with his
open palm, efficiently blocking her. One attack led into the next,
and she bowled into him, attempting to knock him off-balance. He
intercepted all of her blows.

Moving faster as her muscles loosened, she
caught him behind the knee with a deft kick. He fell gracefully and
rolled to his feet, coming up behind her. A quick volley of strikes
and jabs ensued. Now she found herself on the defensive, relying
purely on muscle memory and instinct. She tried to anticipate each
blow, but he moved too fast for her to watch his hands.

Finally she saw an opening. She lunged,
intending to upper-cut him in the jaw, but he caught her hand at
the last minute and spun her around, pulling her against his chest.
He locked her arms in front of her, tightly holding her wrists. She
gasped, surprised by this abrupt change of position.

“Softly,” he murmured against her ear, his
breath unexpectedly hot on her cold cheek. “You’re too rigid.”

“You’re too fast,” she countered.

“You’ll be faster if you loosen up.” He held
her like that for a moment too long, it seemed, or maybe she became
overly focused on the warmth of his skin, the tight coil of his
arms. Then he abruptly released her. “You’re worse than I
remember,” he mentioned.

She flushed. “I…I know,” she relented. “It’s
the Cat’s Eye. Usually it helps me.”

Crash raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been
cheating?” he asked with mock disapproval.

She wrinkled her nose, resisting the urge to
grin. While training with her mother, she had learned the Cat’s Eye
could aid her in hand-to-hand combat. The souls of past bearers
still resided somewhere deep in the stone, centuries of warriors,
their skills at her fingertips if only she had the control. During
battle, she could feel the old warriors stir; not as specific
people, but as a source of strength, a sixth sense to guide her
hand and improve her reflexes.

But now the necklace seemed stifled. It
offered no hidden power, no secret help. She was just a normal girl
with a few years of practice under her belt, sparring with a deadly
man. And Crash was more than just an assassin, but one of the
Named.

“Again,” Crash said, and returned to his
crouch. They repeated their brief battle, except this time he
critiqued. He never spoke harshly, but he called out her missteps,
her inconsistent footing and lack of balance. His words offered no
encouragement. Everything he said was coldly logical, without
flattery or pretense, but she knew this side of him. She understood
his method of instruction.

“You’re wasting energy,” he pointed out when
she overextended her reach. “You’re small. Get closer before you
attack.”

“But you’ll grab me!”

“Then wait for the right moment,” he said.
“Everyone lets down their guard, even a Grandmaster.”

She frowned, uncertain.
What’s a
Grandmaster?
Obviously someone far more skilled than she.
No
time to ask.
She came at him again, targeting under his ribs; a
swift punch to the abdomen could deal a lot of damage.

He trapped her arms again and pushed her
back against the railing of the ship, easily overcoming her. She
let out a breath of frustration.

“Will you at least let me try?” she hissed,
aggravated. How could she practice when he didn’t come down to her
level? This seemed less like training and more like flaunting.

She tried to escape his grasp, but he pinned
her in place. He used his body to trap her in a living cage. She
could feel his entire body against her. As her heart slowed and her
head cleared, she found herself completely preoccupied by his
closeness, his height and strength. The memory of their kiss was
fresh in her mind, and she tried not to weaken against him. She
glanced up and met his impenetrable gaze.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, hoping
he didn’t notice her distraction.

A small, teasing smile touched his face. “If
I were the enemy, you’d be dead right now.”

His words broke the spell. Her lips twisted
in defiance. She slipped to one side and ducked halfway under his
arm before he grabbed her again. He spun her around effortlessly
and locked her against the rail. “Wrong,” he murmured. “Try
again.”

She twisted her arm inward to break his
grip, then threw a punch at his exposed neck. He trapped one hand
and she attacked with the other, aiming for his solar plexus. He
blocked her again, easily deflecting each blow until her arms felt
tied into a sailor’s knot.

Finally they stood face-to-face, locked
together, noses inches apart. “Better,” he said briefly.

“You’re enjoying this,” she murmured, her
voice huskier than intended.

His lips twitched. He watched her.

She cleared her throat self-consciously. She
waited for him to release her, but he didn’t. Finally, she asked,
“Why are you doing this?”

“To gauge your skill.”

She blinked at him, mildly surprised. “I
thought you were just trying to humiliate me,” she said.

His sudden smile stole her breath. “And why
would I need to taunt my own student?” he murmured.

She paused, uncertain. “Then…you’ll teach
me?”

“Of course,” he replied, as though she were
a fool to doubt it. “Soon you will need to defend yourself against
the Shade, with or without a Cat’s Eye.”

Sora hesitated. She hadn’t encountered the
Shade before, but if they were anything like Crash…. “Are the Shade
as skilled as you?” she asked slowly.

“Some of them,” he said.

Her face turned stubborn. “Then I will have
to try harder!” She used that moment to slip from his hold, drop to
the ground and roll between his legs. She leapt to her feet and
dashed across the deck before he could catch her. “Ha!” she
exclaimed. “I win!”

He turned to watch her. She paused at the
row of cabins and danced lightly from foot to foot, her heart
hammering with exhilaration. She laughed at his bemused expression,
her breath rising in small puffs of mist in the cold air. “Be on
guard, Crash!” she called. “I’ll have your back against the railing
next!”

He shook his head slowly, like he was trying
not to laugh. “Weapons?” he offered.

Sora took a deep, refreshing breath of crisp
morning air. Then she unslung her staff from her shoulder and held
the weapon crosswise in front of her, all too ready to continue.
Dawn light brightened the sky, summoning a chorus of birdsong from
the forest. A variety of hoots and trills rose from the dense pine
trees.

Crash drew his thin-bladed sword and assumed
another fighting stance, clasping his weapon lightly in one hand,
his wrist strong and flexible. They began to circle each other
slowly, responding to each other’s movements.

Sora felt much more at ease with her staff.
When they finally clashed, she was able to hold her own for several
minutes. Crash paused every now and then to adjust her hands and
show her subtle techniques, ways of blocking and striking in one
smooth motion. Sora lost track of the number of rounds they
practiced; over time, she could feel her muscles strain, her hands
ache with each strike of his sword. The exertion felt
good—addictive. Before she knew it, the sun was high in the sky and
the ship was bustling with activity. A few sailors watched from the
rigging, munching on sweet rolls for breakfast.

Then a furious voice roared across the deck.
“Sora!”

She stopped mid-swing, almost dropping her
staff. Crash halted as well, his sword inches away from her left
ear. She looked up in bewilderment, and then a terrible thought
struck her.
Oh, no!
She had completely forgotten about her
shift in the crow’s nest!

Crash seemed to read her mind and allowed
the point of his sword to touch the deck. He didn’t seem terribly
surprised by the interruption.

Sora scowled, suspecting he had kept her
late on purpose. “Why didn’t you remind me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Why didn’t you remember?”

She gritted her teeth, unable to think of a
response.

Captain Silas rounded the corner of the
ship, descending on them like a storm cloud. “
Sora!
Dammit,
I told you not to abandon your post! By the four winds, do I have
to chain you up there myself?” His eyes looked bloodshot in fury,
or perhaps from a late-night bottle of wine. He paused when he saw
her, red-faced from exertion next to Crash. He sized up the
situation in two seconds and rolled his eyes heavenward, releasing
a loud, exaggerated groan.

“I take it you’ve found a better use of your
time?” he demanded.

Sora stuttered at first. “I…I didn’t
intend—”

“Well?” Silas snapped.

She straightened her spine. “Yes,” she
replied. “I have.”

Silas’ mouth opened, then clicked shut. Sora
expected the Dracian to release one of his infamous tantrums, but
he remained quiet. As his eyes shifted behind her to the assassin,
his brow grew dark and his lips pulled into a distracted frown.

“A certain son of mine told me a strange
tale this morning,” he said gruffly.

Sora had no idea what he meant. She looked
at Crash for an explanation, but the assassin simply shrugged.
“Your son enjoys spinning tales,” he replied. “Someday it will get
him into trouble.”

Silas hesitated once more, as though
considering any number of responses; then he pointed his finger
directly at Crash. “That may be true,” he said viciously. “But if I
hear of one more incident aboard my ship,
you’ll
be the one
left floating downstream.”

The assassin didn’t reply, but swung his
sword in a lazy circle. His eyes said it all—
try me.

Silas pointed for another moment, then
flicked his hand dismissively. “Fine. Sora, you’ve been switched to
lunch duty. You weren’t much of a lookout, anyway. Go to the
kitchens. Now.” He whirled around and headed back toward his cabin.
He stalked off, yelling more orders at his crew, reassigning her
hours in the crow’s nest.

Sora turned back to Crash. “I guess I should
head down to the galley,” she said self-consciously. She felt a
little embarrassed about forgetting her duties that morning, but
not too much. The time spent with Crash had been worth it.
“Tomorrow, then? In the morning?”

The assassin nodded. His eyes glinted in
amusement, holding her gaze for a moment too long. And perhaps she
saw his expression soften…but she didn’t want to read too much into
it. She gave him a little wave and turned to leave, her heart
pounding strangely in her chest. She remembered the brush of his
strong calloused hands, his long and nimble fingers, and his arms
trapping her against the railing. She thought of his full attention
upon her, observing each small movement, every flaw and breath.

Tomorrow they would train again. Her stomach
tightened at the thought. She hoped he didn’t notice her response
to his touch—but deep down inside, she knew he saw everything.

* * *

In the evening of the next day, Sora left
her staff and daggers in her cabin and climbed on deck. She met
Ferran near the figurehead of a charging horse on the bow. His
houseboat drifted at the rear of the
Dawn Seeker
, towed by a
long piece of rope, unmanned for the moment.

Ferran sat on the railing with his broad
back to her, his long legs dangling over the river. A half-chewed
cinnamon stick was tucked behind one ear, obscured by his unkempt
brown hair. He had on a tattered leather greatcoat with a stained
tunic underneath, worn black pants and no boots. She knew her
mother had taken Ferran’s shoes for mending the day before. He
didn’t seem in a great rush to replace them.
Better for balance
this way,
he told her mother knowingly.
Less smell,
too.

She paused next to him and looked out over
the water. In the distance, she could see a growing ridge of tall
mountains stretching upward like jagged teeth; the tallest was The
Scepter. Rumor had it that the mountain was cursed, and that long
ago in the time of the Races, Kaelyn the Wanderer had killed a
great demon and buried it among the massive cliffs. All who
traveled there were destined to perish.

At the foot of The Scepter resided The City
of Crowns. Sora had never been there before. As she gazed at the
gray mountains, a cold, moist wind swept up behind her, blowing
strands of hair across her face. Full winter would come soon.
Captain Silas predicted it would rain tomorrow, and perhaps for the
next week. If she turned to look over her shoulder, she could see
glowering storm clouds heading inland from the ocean, hiding the
vivid sunset. Rain would soon overtake their little ship.

Ahead of them to the East, the sky was a
deep, swelling indigo, and she could see the first stars of the
night peering over the mountains.

“We’ll reach the City of Crowns just in time
for the winter festival,” Ferran said, as though reading her mind.
He didn’t seem excited about it and studied her from the corner of
his eye. “Have you been?”

Sora shook her head. “No,” she replied, “but
I’ve heard of it.” Who hadn’t? Young noblewomen planned year-round
for winter solstice: a two-week festival of elaborate feasts, fine
wines, unforgettable scandal and legendary debauchery. It marked
the end of the year when accounts were closed and profits made. A
marriage proposal at winter solstice was immensely good luck,
heralding a lifetime of fortune and health.