Ferran's Map (4 page)

According to her mother, Lord Fallcrest
married Lorianne within a few weeks of meeting. Eventually he
discovered Lori’s common bloodline and gave her an ultimatum—either
disappear, or face the King’s law. She was forced to leave her baby
behind, however, as Lord Fallcrest still believed the child to be
his own.

He always doubted me,
Sora thought,
caught up in memories. She would never know for sure if he saw her
as his true daughter. He always remained distant, especially in
those final years, traveling often to the City of Crowns.

She thought back to her Blooming ceremony
and the end of her stepfather’s life. The Blooming should have
attracted hopeful young suitors. Instead, her stepfather was
murdered and she was kidnapped and taken on an unanticipated
adventure—which eventually led her to Lorianne’s doorstep.

It all left a strange taste in her mouth.
She didn’t always understand her mother’s decision to leave her
with the nobleman. For seventeen years she believed she was a
Fallcrest, a noblewoman born into Second Tier nobility. It was hard
for her to see herself any other way.

“Come,” Lorianne said, interrupting her
daughter’s thoughts and releasing Sora’s freshly bandaged hand.
“Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Sora asked, nonplussed. There
weren’t many places to go for a walk aboard the
Dawn Seeker
.
She had been circling the top deck for weeks now.

Lori nodded firmly and waited for Sora to
climb down from the wooden bench. Then they walked together out the
door, arm in arm. “I’m composing a letter to Cameron,” her mother
explained. “I thought you might like to add something to it.”

Sora shrugged. She doubted her mother would
go to all this trouble to compose a letter. No, something else was
occupying Lori’s mind, and thanks to Burn, she thought she knew
what it might be.
Maybe, hopefully, the whole thing won’t come
up.

Once outside, they circled the deck slowly,
their arms linked. The two women had similar physical
characteristics, even if they were eighteen years apart in age.
They shared the same blond-colored hair, her mother’s
straw-straight and worn neatly above her shoulders, Sora’s hair in
long, heavy waves down her back. Sora had her mother’s blue eyes,
if a little darker, less like the sky and more like the deep, cool
water of a lake, a wider mouth, a slightly more pronounced chin,
and a few inches more in height. Still, anyone who looked at them
could see they were related.

As they walked, several Dracians hailed Lori
with various greetings.

“Fair morning, Healer!” one called.

“And the day just got fairer!” another
added.

“Your hair is like the dawn!”

Sora resisted the urge to sigh. Healers
commanded a lot of respect from the different races. Sometimes it
was useful—but the Dracians’ blatant flattery grated on her
nerves.

“Ahoy, mistress!” another sailor hailed Lori
as they rounded the aft of the ship. “Do you have time for an
appointment this afternoon? Got a terrible fungus on my toe.”

Lori nodded graciously. “Of course,” she
said. “Come by the sickroom after lunch.”

The Dracian dropped the rope in his hands
and gave an exaggerated salute. Their race came from a union of
Wind and Fire, and they were theatrical to the bone. Sora grinned
at his antics, but the sailor didn’t return her smile, and instead
turned quickly back to his job.

Her mother noticed the interaction. Lori
spoke casually as they continued to walk. “I’ve heard some strange
rumors flying around the ship,” she began.

Sora considered a number of responses, but
remained silent.

Her mother gave her a sideways glance. “The
Dracians like to embellish,” she offered. “But it
does
make
me wonder….”

“Rumors…?” Sora fumbled. “I’m not sure….”
Then, just as they rounded another corner of the deck, she came
face-to-face with the last person she wanted to see and almost
tripped over her own feet.

Crash stood there, with his shirt in his
hands and damp hair. A series of wet footprints led to a large
water basin on the deck. By the looks of him, he had just rinsed
off. Lori recalled his fierce regimen of exercises in the early
morning fog. He looked fit and bristling, his shoulders straight
and wide, his arms powerful, his chest hard and defined. His hair,
the color of deep-forest moss, fell in front of his eyes. His face
always reminded her of a wolf or a jackal, sharp and cunning, with
a straight nose, a defined jaw and firm mouth that rarely cracked a
smile.

Sora’s heart thudded awkwardly in her chest,
missing a half-beat; she came to a dead halt, her mother pausing
beside her. She became aware of a lull in the activity of the ship;
a few nearby Dracians cast curious looks in her direction.
Don’t
feed the rumors,
she told herself firmly. She raised her head a
notch and gave the assassin a warm smile.

“Training?” she asked, trying not to stare
at the water droplets trickling down his chest.

He raised a dark eyebrow.

“Walking?” he asked in return.

Sora flushed.

He pulled his black shirt over his damp body
and turned to walk away. Sora shot a glance at her mother—who
watched both of them closely.

In an attempt to appear normal, Sora tried
to speak again. “Uh…nice day out, isn’t it?” she asked, stepping
after him. She winced.
Much too forced!

He glanced at her briefly as he kept
walking. “It’s fine.” His voice held a rough edge. Only a month
ago, he was imprisoned and tortured by Harpy soldiers. They placed
a sunstone collar around his neck; the light of the stone had
burned into his flesh. The scar still showed on his collarbone, and
his voice had never fully healed.

Sora didn’t feel like giving up quite yet,
so continued, right on his heels. “The fog burned off,” she
offered. “Nothing like a clear winter sky!”

Crash looked upward. “Funny thing about
fog,” he said.

“Oh?”

“It plays tricks on your ears. Sounds tend
to carry.”

“Oh?” she repeated softly.

“Aye,” Crash murmured. “Though I suppose
Burn knew that, hmmm?”

Sora opened her mouth, then shut it
abruptly. Her footsteps came to a halt.

Crash continued walking down the side of the
ship, heading toward the galley. She watched him. Her hands slowly
curled into fists.
He knows,
she thought.
He knows about
the rumors, and so does the whole damn ship.
Humiliating. She
had the sudden urge to throw herself into the river.

Her mother’s hand suddenly landed on her
shoulder. “Here,” Lori said, steering her toward the railing. Sora
leaned up against it, swallowing the frustration in her throat.

Lorianne cast a sharp look at the gawking
Dracians, who hurriedly ducked their heads. Her hand moved
restlessly around Sora’s upper back, massaging the stiff muscles.
“You’re awfully tense.”

“I’m fine,” Sora gritted out.

“What happened between you two?” Lori asked
calmly. “You barely speak to one another. You’ve been out of sorts
since the Lost Isles.”

“Nothing,” Sora repeated. “Nothing
happened.”

“You can tell me about it, you know, if
there was a disagreement, a fight of some kind….” Lori hesitated.
“Or if he hurt you….”

“Lori!” Sora snapped, turning to glare at
her. At times, the word
mother
still felt strange on her
tongue. “How could you think that of Crash? Just because he’s an
assassin doesn’t make him violent.” Goddess, it sounded desperate
even to her own ears—of course assassins were violent, especially
the Sixth Race. They were creatures of Darkness and Fire. They fed
on chaos. She tried again. “You don’t actually believe the
Dracians, do you?”

Lori gave her a searching look. “No,” her
mother finally said. “But I worry about you. Crash is…not very
approachable. The Sixth Race is difficult to read.” She paused
again and continued carefully. “We have a lot to consider about
him, now that the Shade is trying to summon the Dark God….”

Sora shook her head. “You can’t blame Crash
for that,” she said.

“I don’t,” her mother replied swiftly. “But
we don’t know much about him. We don’t know his previous
alliances….”

“Then you believe the rumors?” Sora balked.
“You believe Crash would hurt me?”

“No, I just want you to be cautious!” her
mother exclaimed.

Sora frowned stubbornly. Her mother’s lack
of trust bothered her more than anything else. Did the entire ship
see her this way? As a young girl in the thrall of a ruthless
assassin? Who knew what the Dracians were really saying? Burn said
“abuse,” but perhaps he had tried to soften the blow.
Used,
she heard in her mind.
Taken advantage of. Raped.
Any of
these concepts could be part of the rumor mill.

Her mother touched her arm, and Sora
couldn’t abide the sympathy, the distraught look, that crept into
Lorianne’s gaze.

“I’m not a defenseless victim!” she finally
exclaimed. “Crash saved my life countless times! I can’t believe
you would doubt him. Just keep out of my business, would you? I
know who my friends are.” Then she turned quickly on her heel and
stalked across the deck, thumping her feet as hard as she could,
wishing she could snap each plank in half. She was relieved when
her mother didn’t follow her.

* * *

Deep underground, Krait knelt on one knee
and bowed her head. Above her, the sound of the ongoing churn of
gears grated through heavy granite stone.

Shadows filled the domed, circular chamber.
Summoned by Grandmaster Cerastes, she was transported under the
earth by a shadow portal, an instant doorway. She didn’t know where
this chamber resided, perhaps deep beneath the City of Crowns, or
perhaps buried under a mountain range hundreds of miles away. It
made no difference. Cerastes had called, and she had come.

To her left knelt another assassin, clothed
similarly in plain black garb: a member of The Shade. She had yet
to meet him. Cerastes kept their order hidden from the world, even
from each other. Higher-up members rarely gathered together except
for training or to study the Dark God’s lore. She wasn’t sure why
Cerastes had summoned them both, but as she raised her head, she
thought she might know the answer.

At the center of the chamber hovered an
eerie, nightmarish apparition. The creature made her skin crawl and
adrenaline rush through her blood. It seemed molded out of mist and
shadow. A tattered black cloak was wrapped around its evanescent
form, creating the illusion of a body. Beneath its hood, only empty
space stared out. It shifted back and forth, flickering in the air,
as though it might vanish completely.

A circle of fine chalk on the ground kept
the creature contained. Krait didn’t know much about magic, but she
knew this was an ancient spell taken from
The Book of the
Named
. Her master had imprisoned this thing for his own dark
purposes.

“Cobra tells me that the Viper is indeed
alive and has returned to the mainland,” Cerastes remarked from
behind them. He stood to their backs, though the chamber seemed
filled by his presence, as foreboding as the wraith. One long,
calloused hand rested on each of their shoulders, connecting the
two assassins. Krait forced herself not to shudder beneath his
touch. “For the past month, Cobra and his team of
savants
have kept watch over the minor tributaries branching from the
Crown’s Rush. He tells me the Viper and his ship have returned from
the ocean.”

Her heart quickened at Cerastes’ words. She
first encountered the Viper almost six months ago in the port city
of Delbar. Before that, Cerastes’ infamous protegé was thought
dead. Their fight was fast and violent, and she had barely escaped
with her life.

Then Krait felt a twinge of
uncertainty—almost jealousy. The Viper was
her
discovery. So
she dared to speak. “Master,” she murmured, “you assigned me to
watch for him at the gates of The City of Crowns—”

“And Cobra found him first,” Cerastes cut
her off. “We can’t afford to wait and let him slip past our ranks
unnoticed. Winter solstice will soon be upon us. I must ensure that
the Viper arrives with the weapons on time. And if we can persuade
him to do so willingly…even better.”

Krait ground her teeth. Her thoughts made it
imperative that she speak. “He has more than one weapon?”

“Yes,” Cerastes said. “He carries the sacred
spearhead and sword hilt. He has already killed the bloodmage who
initiated the plague. A pity, but not detrimental to our plans.”
His voice turned deceptively soft. “Does that ease your mind?”

Krait bowed lower and pressed her lips shut.
Clearly, she had overstepped her boundaries.

“You and Cobra have been of great service
these past weeks,” Cerastes continued. “With
The Book of the
Named
, I’ve been able to harness the last of the wraiths, the
keeper of the third sacred weapon.”

Krait’s eyes slid over to the phantom, which
gave off a cold, deathly energy—unnerving, even to one of the
Shade’s elite.

“The Viper travels with a group of others,”
Cerastes explained. “We have yet to discern if they are a threat. I
want to see what they’re capable of. To that end, you and Cobra
shall be my trusted eyes and ears.”

Krait’s gaze went to Cobra's kneeling form.
He was a slight man, narrow-shouldered and unassuming. A long scar
mutilated half his visible face. A black cowl obscured his nose,
mouth and lower features. His green eyes remained focused
intently—almost fervently—on the stone floor.

This time, Cerastes’ silence seemed to
encourage questions.

“Exactly what do you wish from us,
Grandmaster?” she asked softly.

“Observe them from a distance. I want to
know what Viper’s allies are capable of.”