Ferran's Map (26 page)

“Tell me,” he murmured, resonating his
voice. In his younger days, he would have abhorred the use of
voice-magic to manipulate someone’s mind and had refrained from
using it. But he was not so idealistic any more, and she was
nothing like the fragile girl of his memories.

Krait’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her
body convulsed, resisting him, but he placed his hand over her
chest. “
Tell me what you remember
,” he pressed.

Her jaw worked. Her eyes fluttered. “They
took me,” she rasped. “They stole me from the Hive. The light!” A
hoarse wail issued from her throat, a scream from long ago. “They
held me in their prisons…they took my demon…agh!” She cried out
again and thrashed her head from side to side. “Their voices! Stop
the voices!”

Caprion placed his hand on her forehead,
trying to calm her. Krait’s eyes fluttered back and forth, trapped
by some unseen torment. “What else?” he asked slowly.

Her eyes focused on his face momentarily. He
thought he saw some flicker of emotion other than fear…but it
vanished. “No!” she cried. “No—what they did to me—I can’t! I won’t
remember!” She clamped her jaw shut, grinding her teeth together.
Her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling.

Caprion sat back on his heels, suddenly
filled with doubt. He didn’t know for sure, but he thought, maybe,
she seemed familiar. He knew a young girl once, one of the Sixth
Race. But she was long dead.

This woman, too, had obviously been held in
the Harpy prisons on the Lost Isles. Her memory was badly damaged,
perhaps stripped from her the same day they stole her demon. He
found it surprising that she had survived the experience. Most of
the Sixth Race did not. She must have pieced together fragments of
nightmares from her time on the island.

He felt an old, familiar sickness when he
thought of what his race had done. The farther he traveled from the
Lost Isles, the more pronounced that sickness became. The Harpies
were no better in their cruelty to the Unnamed than the humans were
to their treatment of livestock. In fact, the sheer brutality of
The City of Crowns astounded him. The incivility of it all, how men
preyed upon men. But his race had no higher sense of morality. No
greater claim to mete out justice.

He placed both hands on either side of her
head. She twisted away, but he pinned her down with his knee on her
stomach. He tried to be gentle, but her resistance made it
difficult.

He had to know.

“Think back,” he said, his voice swelling
with the force of his magic. “I want you to remember all of
it.”

She coughed, her body shuddering. Her eyes
squeezed shut. “The light…” she moaned. “Please…no more….”

“
Remember me
,” he intoned.

She gasped brokenly. “I don’t,” she
whispered. “Please, I don’t know you.”

She weakened. He felt the strength drain
from her body. She fell back on the floor, unconscious.

Caprion released her and sat next to her
body. He rested his hand on her stomach, a natural touch, feeling
her chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. Most of her
memories had been stripped away by someone stronger than he. But
despite whoever had blocked her memories, their command still lived
inside Krait’s body, even after so many years. Who knew how else
the Shade had tampered with her mind? She didn’t seem at all like
the girl he once knew, causing him to doubt her identity, even as
he recognized her face.

This is folly,
he thought. Perhaps
he
was the one who didn’t remember. Perhaps he was so
desperate to see her again that he imagined this woman looked like
her….

He couldn’t reverse the damage. Her mind had
been stripped by magic, twisted and warped in ways he couldn’t
imagine. No matter who she once was, he couldn’t bring her
back.

Now what?
he thought. She was his
prisoner, and for the time being, he would have to keep her in the
cold, dank underbelly of the ship. How else could he restrain her?
He would do his best to provide small comforts. Meals. Blankets. At
least she wouldn’t be kept here as badly as in the Harpy dungeons.
He wouldn’t repeat the evils of his own kind.

That left a cold pit of guilt in his
stomach.
Moss,
he thought. He remembered her well, the young
girl he had met in the dungeons of the Lost Isles, meant as
practice fodder for the Harpy soldiers. He remembered her face in
the dark when they chose her name. He remembered defending her
against his race.

And he remembered the Matriarch’s words when
Moss died. He remembered his own brother Sumas, who had finished
the deed.

But had the Matriarch deceived him?

Would this woman remember that name?

Perhaps he was a blind fool, seeing a
connection that didn’t exist. Krait didn’t bear Moss’s scars. Her
face was clean and clear, her eyes full of vision, though perhaps
her story was true, and her Grandmaster had somehow repaired her
eyes.

Or perhaps he was simply trapped by his
past, clinging to the dream of a now-impossible future.
She’s a
demon
, the Matriarch’s words still rang in his mind.
We put
her down. You caused this. You overstepped your bounds.

The guilt choked him as he stood up. He
turned from her prone body and headed for the stairs. Whoever she
was—Moss or Krait, or someone yet unnamed—he would not abandon her
again.

CHAPTER 14

Lori roused slowly from a deep, exhausted
sleep, awakened by her own discomfort. She didn’t know how much
time had passed, only that it was still night outside and torrents
of rain were lashing the window. The ship’s stove burned low and a
single, small lantern lit the cabin.

She lay on her stomach on the cot, listening
to the rhythm of raindrops against the wooden shingles above her.
Her wound throbbed stubbornly, barely manageable. She shifted and
winced. Her body felt limp and drained, unimaginably heavy.

“
Ferran,
” she
muttered, her throat hoarse. She dimly remembered her bout of
screaming before she passed out. “
Ferran.
”

A body stirred on the floor next to her.
Ferran sat up and ran a hand through his mussed hair, dimly
illuminated by the light from the stove.

“Ferran,” Lori repeated.

“What?”

“Water.”

The treasure hunter climbed stiffly to his
feet, stretching as much as he could in the cramped space. He
stepped outside and brought back a heavy wooden jug. It sloshed
visibly, splashing a little on the floor. Fresh rain water. Lori
licked her dry lips eagerly at the sight.

“Here,” Ferran said softly, and put a hand
under her, gently helping her to sit up. Lori moved in small,
painful increments. With each shift of her limbs or turn of her
head, pain flared down her back. She held the quilt tightly against
her bare torso, clamping it under her arms like a towel to retain
some decency. She couldn’t stand to lean back and allow her wound
to touch the wall. The burn was covered by a light, airy bandage,
giving it space to breathe. She could feel a sticky salve on her
blistering skin.
Not bad,
she thought. Ferran had obviously
tended several stab wounds over the course of his life. Not hard to
imagine, given his questionable activities during the last eighteen
years.

He sat next to her and held the heavy jug up
to her lips, allowing her to drink freely. Every breath, every
slight shift of her shoulders, pulled against her back muscles. She
winced. First thing in the morning, she would send Ferran to
retrieve poppy extract from her sickroom to take the edge off the
pain.

“How do you feel?” Ferran asked, once she
had finished drinking. He lowered the water jug to the floor,
lifted the bottle of whiskey and took a swig from it. The smell
assaulted Lori’s nose, reminding her of the entire ordeal. She
cringed inwardly.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Exhausted,” she admitted.

“And the wound?”

She grimaced at him. “Painful.”

He gave her a rather charming look, then
held up the bottle, shaking it slightly like a coin purse. “Best
cure I know,” he said. “Relaxes muscles, too.”

Lori considered it. She didn’t like to
drink. But the muscles of her back felt tight enough to snap. She
doubted she could fall asleep again like this. Finally she reached
for the bottle and gave him an exasperated look, then plugged her
nose and took several deep swallows, forcing herself to keep it
down. The liquid burned at the base of her throat, then settled
into her belly, spreading a warm glow throughout the core of her
body. On an empty stomach, the drink immediately went to her head,
and she felt her shoulders slump, her back ease immediately. After
the first two sips, the taste became less overpowering, and she
kept drinking until Ferran pulled the bottle away.

“Care to share, Healer?” he asked dryly,
then took his turn.

Lori felt lush and lightheaded. She allowed
herself to relax into his shoulder, a much better alternative than
pressing her back against the wall. Ferran corked the bottle after
a moment and set it back on the floor, then turned slightly,
allowing her to lie more fully against him.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly, running
his hand over her hair. He had large palms, dry and warm, wider
than her cheek, long fingers and thick, heavy knuckles. Lori
glanced down at his hand lying between them and held it up,
inspecting it in the firelight. She imagined his hand could punch
through wood. Her own hand looked delicate by comparison, like the
hand of a doll.

She glanced up to find him watching her. The
dim light turned his eyes the color of wet stone, as gray and muted
as the storm outside. His warm brown hair hung loosely across his
brow, long enough to run her fingers through. He looked handsome
and roguish, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

“Did you break your nose once?” she asked,
noting the slight crook in it.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever stop
diagnosing people?” he asked.

She shrugged, then sucked in a breath as she
remembered her wound. The alcohol made her thoughts fuzzy and
forgetful. “I didn’t notice before,” she explained.

“I was fifteen. Got in a fistfight with
Richard LeCroy. ‘Little Dicky,’ we used to call him. He broke my
nose—and I broke his arm.” Ferran wrinkled his nose slightly, as
though testing it. “Our family Healer set it. Made sure it grew
straight.”

Lori nodded. Most First Tier families kept
an in-house Healer. Some had several, depending on the number of
sick relatives. She had once hoped to land such a position after
graduating from the seminary…but it hadn’t turned out that way.

The crook in Ferran’s nose was barely
noticeable—just enough to add to his rapscallion appearance. The
Healer had done a good job.

“How about you?” he asked suddenly. “Where
did you get those scars on your torso?”

Lori flinched. She hadn’t thought of them in
a long time and winced. “Someone tried to kill me,” she said.

Ferran frowned at her.

“Long time ago,” she added quickly. “They
failed.”

“Obviously.”

“I mean, I got them first.”

His frown deepened.

“I don’t think I killed them,” Lori
muttered, the words slipping out uneasily. “Maybe I did. I ran
before I could check.”

“I imagine you didn’t run far,” Ferran
said.

“No, I didn’t,” she paused. She had never
bled so much in her life. Three puncture wounds to the abdomen—it's
a wonder she hadn’t collapsed dead in the street. A slow, sick
feeling began to rise within her at the memory, and she shook her
head to clear it. The whiskey-fog cushioned her thoughts. “I don’t
want to talk about that,” she asserted.

“Hmmm,” Ferran murmured. He turned to face
her fully, settling his back against the far wall of the hut,
propping one leg up on the cot, bent casually at the knee. The
other leg rested over the edge, his foot on the deck. Finally he
placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer. It took
her a moment to realize what he was doing.

“Ferran…” she started, but didn’t attempt to
stop him. He drew her forward, draping her across his chest over
the soaring phoenix tattoo, his long legs cradling her on either
side. Her quilt was the only barrier between them. The smell of him
touched her nose: cinnamon, whiskey and old leather; the peppery,
masculine tinge of sweat. In this position, his body stretched
around her like a kingdom all its own, a lounging terrain of strong
limbs, wide shoulders, a corded neck and sweeping collarbone. She
slowly relaxed, her stomach pressed against his. She rested her
head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat.

“You planned this all along,” she said
wryly, too warm and comfortable to really care.

“Can you blame me?” he said, his deep voice
reverberating beneath her ear. “You keep men at bay with a ten-foot
pole.”

“A woman can’t be too careful,” she
replied.

His hand rested on her head again, stroking
her hair slowly and gently as he had before. Lori felt a wonderful
sense of peace overcome her, a security she hadn’t experienced in
many years.

“It’s hard,” she murmured drowsily, “living
alone as a woman. You can’t trust people the same way. There aren’t
many good men out there.”

Ferran snorted. “Aye,” he agreed. “And there
aren’t many good women, either.”

“Says the man who sleeps with whores.”

He glanced down at her, his eyes briefly
searching her face. “What happened to you, Lori?” he asked softly.
Usually he said it as a joke, but this time he meant it.

She bit her lip, thinking back to the day of
her stabbing in the City of Crowns. More happened in that alley
than she cared to remember. She curled her hands on his chest and
remained silent, unable to find the words.