Ferran's Map (18 page)

Twice they dropped anchor at small villages
to trade for fresh vegetables and live chickens. Silas unloaded
several barrels of limes, edible roots, dried seaweed and
seashells. “Best to stock up on supplies now before we reach the
bigger towns,” he said. “We’ll have less bargaining power as we
near the city.” He then launched into a long explanation of supply
and demand, and the value of limes in the country compared to
populated areas further south, but Sora had studied these things as
a noblewoman and found it tedious. She excused herself as soon as
possible.

They passed miles of barren fruit orchards
and muddy sheep pastures. Harvest had long since passed, and the
winter season had stripped the fields of fruit or leaves.

“These farmlands sustain the city,” Ferran
explained to Sora as they stood on the bow one day, watching for
the first sight of the City of Crowns. “The city needs a large food
source nearby. The Ebonaires own almost all of the west bank from
here to the city itself. Their taxes pay for a third of the
military’s wages.”

“Are they truly the richest family, next to
the King?” Sora asked.

Ferran looked uneasy at her question.
“Richer, in fact,” he said. “The King doesn’t control every aspect
of the realm. Politics are much more complicated than that. Many
First Tier families fund his interests. Their wealth is the
lifeblood of the kingdom.”

Sora considered that, wondering where the
Fallcrest family landed in comparison. She had been raised as
country nobility, the Second Tier, and although her father owned
many thousands of acres of land, they hadn’t harvested enough to
live in the City of Crowns. No, the Second Tier were thought of as
bumpkin nobility. Most earned their titles through military
service. They weren’t like the First Tier, who could trace their
lineage back centuries ago to the founding tribes of the
Kingdom.

As their ship sailed onward, Sora continued
her training with Crash. He took his role as a teacher seriously,
demanding rigid discipline and working her body until she ached. He
often assigned hours of menial exercises to strengthen her muscles.
He then streamlined her fighting techniques to waste less energy.
He took her small size into consideration and taught her
hand-to-hand combat in a style she hadn’t learned before.

“You are a river, not a mountain,” he told
her during one particularly challenging lesson. His words seemed
repeated from a distant past, perhaps something he had learned in
his youth. “A river flows downhill over rocks, using the path of
least resistance. This is how you fight. Have you ever held water
in your hand?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. Just that morning,
she had cupped her hands and splashed her face with cold
rainwater.

He raised an eyebrow. “And what
happened?”

She frowned. “Well…it trickled through my
fingers.”

“Can you break the water with a hard
punch?”

She grinned at that. “No.”

“Why not?”

Her eyes glinted with humor. “It gives way
beneath your hand.”

“Exactly.”

He demonstrated this idea in combat. If he
threw a punch, instead of blocking with her arms, Sora was to grab
his fist and pull him forward, putting him off-balance. Then she
could deal a swift kick to the ribs, the groin, the knees, or even
a jab to the neck. It was a smoother, softer way of fighting, one
that didn’t involve rigid blocks or tightened, heavy muscles.

“Most men, especially soldiers, learn to
fight by the King’s traditions,” he explained as they practiced.
“They use force against force, like stags butting heads. You want
to be loose and pliable. Flow, and they will never touch you.
Redirect their energy like a stream of water.”

It went against her basic instincts. She
wanted to brace herself for each blow. But over time, it became
easier and far more natural. Eventually she could spar with the
assassin across the deck like two well-trained dancers. Each strike
had a way of running into the next; each blow could be pushed
aside, pulled up or down, or evaded completely. And she learned,
over time, that his movement contained a rhythm. He favored certain
combinations of attacks, certain patterns of the body.

“When you fight like this,” he taught her,
“it doesn’t matter how strong or big you are. A child could defeat
a giant.”

Yes,
she thought privately.
But I
could never defeat you.
He moved so quickly, she couldn’t even
see his hands half the time. She learned to trust her muscles, and
rely on the slight impulses and intuitions of her body.

Beyond their sparring sessions, the assassin
kept to himself. But at times, she caught him eyeing her with a
thoughtful, lingering look. He didn’t turn away when she met his
eyes, but would hold her gaze with a hidden promise.
I am still
here.
He wasn’t hiding, but his silence had always intimidated
her. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for his thoughts.

Despite Ferran’s guidance, her meditation
sessions felt less productive. She dreaded those hours spent
delving to the roots of herself. She pushed through clots of fear
and the rocky resistance of countless worries: the plague, the
journey ahead, memories of her battle with Volcrian and the looming
Shade. Slowly, she was able to reconnect with the necklace and draw
its power to the surface. But the long period of separation left
her timid and a little doubtful. Progress felt slow.

“Keep with it,” Ferran encouraged, after a
markedly strenuous bout of visualization. This time, she climbed a
tree in her meditation exercise and tried to drop the noose around
the
garrolithe
’s neck from above. Sensing her intentions,
the beast pulled her down from the tree and dragged her halfway
around the corral before trying to bite her head off. All
symbolically, of course. Ferran assured her the beast couldn’t
actually harm her in a meditative state…though Sora didn’t know if
she believed him. The
garrolithe
seemed very determined.

She held her head in her hands after their
session, her temples throbbing. “How much longer will this take?”
she groaned, waiting for her stomach to settle. Meditating wasn’t
supposed to feel this violent.

Ferran could only shrug. “Everyone is
different,” he said. “There’s no perfect method. Just keep
trying.”

“It keeps fighting me,” Sora groaned in
frustration. “It doesn’t want to be controlled.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t try to control it,
then,” Ferran suggested as he climbed to his feet. He offered her a
hand up, and she took it gladly.

“Then what exactly is the point of this?”
she muttered.

“Don’t force it,” Ferran said gently.
“Perhaps you’re trying too hard. The
garrolithe
can sense
your frustration. To the beast, it’s another sign of weakness.” He
poked her in the forehead. “Monitor your thoughts, Sora. Next time,
stay calm and assertive.”

Sora reflected on her struggle with the
garrolithe
. No one could stay calm and assertive in the face
of that beast. Each time she challenged it, the
garrolithe
came one snap closer to eating her.

“Worrying about it is the worst thing you
can do,” Ferran repeated. “Let it go for now. You’ll regain your
control over the necklace with time.”

Sora sighed, feeling even less inspired.
I really am terrible at this,
she finally conceded. She
would just have to meditate regularly and hope the beast rolled
over on its own. Neither her bond with the Cat’s Eye nor her own
will could tame it.

She headed above deck, more than ready for
sleep. Tomorrow, they would reach The City of Crowns.

CHAPTER 9

Sora stood on the bow of the ship in the
pale light of dawn. Gauzy mist rose from the cold water of the
Crown’s Rush. She eagerly looked into the distance as they rounded
a bend in the river. The storm clouds had dispersed several hours
ago, revealing crisp, clear skies of pastel hues, from rose pink to
robin-egg blue. The sun climbed gently over the hills to the east
as they traveled downstream.

Now, in the light of dawn, the waterways
were far more populated. Small riverboats skimmed the wide river.
Fishermen chugged upstream, searching for trout or catfish. Sora’s
ears strained against the still air, and she thought she heard the
distant tolling of a bell. Her fingers dug into the wooden railing
of the ship. She held her breath in anticipation. The
Dawn
Seeker
rounded the bend, and the City of Crowns came into
view.

A curtain of mist rose from the cold water,
casting the city in a hazy glow. It spanned both sides of the
Crown’s Rush. A tall sandstone wall rose up on the eastern bank,
blocking half the city from view. The western bank had no such
wall. Spiraling towers, chimneys and belfries stood as thick as a
forest. Tiled rooftops all seemed to overlap each other, staggered
like a tightly packed bookshelf. She saw taverns, street vendors,
fishmongers, warehouses, and there were countless people walking
alongside the river. It reminded her of the crowded docks of
Delbar, but everything seemed more compact, the buildings all
strung together in a long row, like beads on a necklace. The
western half of the city stretched on and on, seemingly endless,
disappearing into the misty horizon.

Her eyes returned to the eastern bank with
its tall sandstone wall. She thought she caught a glimpse of the
King’s palace, but the giant towers were like pitchforks on the
horizon, half-hidden by the wall and countless arching rooftops.
Far in the distance, she could see foothills rising up behind the
city in a steep slant, crossed by small tributaries of water.
Countless windmills dotted the hills. Sora had never seen so many
windmills before, perhaps hundreds of them, all shapes and sizes.
She stared for a long time, watching the distant wooden arms spin
lazily in the wind.

“Leaves an impression, doesn’t it?” Burn
asked. He sat next to her on the bow, chewing a roll of sweet
bread.

“Can’t see much yet,” she said. Her gaze
returned to the crush of people on the western shore. “Why is there
no wall on this side?”

Burn considered the tangled mess of
buildings on the western bank. “The city was originally built
around the King’s palace. Eventually the city grew until it crossed
over the river,” he explained. “The west side is home to less
attractive types, the lowest of the tiers all fighting for a place
to belong. Lots of crime.”

“It looks a bit run-down,” she agreed. A
forest of blackened chimneys tainted the sky with smoke.

Burn snorted with humor. “The riverside is
the nicer district,” he said. “The deeper you travel, the more
lawless it becomes.”

Sora smirked. “You certainly seem familiar
with it,” she teased.

“I’ve spent some time there,” Burn laughed.
“I’m no stranger to the lower quadrants of the city.”

She glanced at him, curious. “Did you used
to live here?”

He grinned at her disarmingly. “Long ago,
before I met my wife. More years than I care to count,” he
replied.

They sailed farther through the city. The
river narrowed and widened at intervals. Silas guided their ship
toward the south gate at the lower base of the city. It was the
cheapest place to dock.

Eventually Burn pointed down the river. “See
that line across the horizon?” he asked.

Sora nodded.

“That’s a bridge connecting the two banks,
newly constructed. It’s more than a half-mile long. King Royce
designed it himself. He’s a brilliant inventor. He also built the
windmills and much of the plumbing beneath the city.” He whistled
slowly through his long, sharp teeth. “It will be a sad day when
his reign comes to an end.”

Sora stared at the dark, distant line on the
horizon. The bridge crossed a narrow point of the Crown’s Rush,
tall enough for a five-masted vessel to pass under: the largest
bridge in the Kingdom, spanning almost a quarter-mile. She vaguely
recalled stories about it from her days as a noblewoman. Her
father’s footmen brought news of the bridge from the city.

They passed under the bridge and continued
to the southern docks, where the Crown’s Rush expanded into a large
lake. The Bath, Burn called it. Sora didn’t expect the river to
suddenly expand outward, becoming placid and smooth. The opposite
shore appeared small and gray in the distance. “At the far end of
The Bath, the river begins again. It all spills over a large
waterfall and continues to the south, branching and narrowing until
it reaches Fennbog swamp,” he explained, and nudged her shoulder.
“Sorry place that is,” he muttered.

Sora grinned in humor, then her eyes turned
to where the eastern side of the city piled up against the river.
Shops and merchants had accumulated outside the southern gate on
the boardwalk, their stores supported by stone blocks and wooden
posts. An expansive marina sprawled out over the water.

“Best prepare to make land,” Burn said, and
stepped back from the bow. “You should gather your things.”

Sora left the bow quickly and headed to her
cabin, an excited spring to her step.

* * *

Docking the ship took twice as long as
anticipated. As Silas found a vacant spot on the southern wharf to
drop anchor, Sora readied herself in her room. The majority of her
belongings would stay on the ship, but she made sure her blades
were clean and secured to her belt. She braided her thick blond
hair and washed her face. Then she tucked her humble coin purse
inside the pocket of her cloak.

Finally, she carefully removed the Dark
God’s sacred weapons from a locked wooden box under her bed: a
rapier hilt and a spearhead, both icy-cold to the touch. Her Cat’s
Eye stirred uneasily as she held them; the artifacts gave off a
queer, uncomfortable energy.