Ferran's Map (13 page)

He tried to sweep her from his thoughts, but
kept returning to the wide curve of her lower lip, her short,
curvaceous body strengthened with well-toned muscles, her delicate
wrists, her long fingers clasped inside his own. She still poised
her hands like a Lady, the natural inclination of a highborn woman.
It didn’t matter that her blood was common; she carried herself
like a noble, whether she realized it or not.

He shook his head, trying to forget the
touch of her skin against his. He knew nothing could ever come of
this, not with the Shade watching. A touch, a look—where would it
end? Back on the Lost Isles, he allowed himself to pull close to
the sweet heat of her body and trace her lips with his own. He
thought of her clumsy, timid kiss—how she bloomed under his
guidance until her mouth grew soft and responsive.
Innocent
,
he thought, and grimaced ironically.
Too innocent for me to
ruin.

She was young. She would find another man,
like Tristan, to fill that place in her life.
Focus on that,
he thought. She deserved a man with simple intentions and an open
past, who wouldn’t drag her into danger, who wasn’t raised by a
people ruled by death. The simple truth? She was safer with
Tristan, and perhaps the Dracian had a greater capacity to love.
She deserved that.

But, he had to admit, the thought of sharing
her, of allowing another man to take that innocence, to draw those
sighs from her lips—it summoned an anger equal to what he felt for
the Shade.

He clenched his jaw.
No
. The Shade
was watching. And suddenly his Grandmaster’s voice resurfaced,
weaving through his thoughts, proof that the Hive still lived in
his mind—and always would.
Illogical,
he heard clearly.
Love has all the dressings and trappings of madness. It
dismantles your will, enraptures your mind and then, inevitably,
slips away.

But it’s natural, isn’t it?
he heard
a student ask.
All of the races love—even humans.

We are not like the other races—we are not
creatures of the Wind. Love, like fear, is a choice. It’s a
powerful emotion. It weakens our control, clouds our thoughts,
lowers our inhibitions. Never forget—we are the harvesters. All
that we touch is destined to end.

Crash remembered that lesson well. Over and
over, he had witnessed it.
Savants
occasionally fell in
love, forbidden trysts occurred, and harsh punishments were meted
out to those who disobeyed the will of the Hive. A man in love was
not himself. No, he was vulnerable, easily led and manipulated, and
that was unacceptable for an assassin. The Shade knew it—and he
knew it, too.
Don’t forget what you are
, he thought, and
slid his fingers intentionally over the blade of the knife,
allowing it to pierce the pad of his thumb. He watched a vibrant
droplet of blood blossom through his split skin.

A dark presence swam up inside of him,
responding to his mood.
You sound like a simpering child
,
the voice murmured.

No one asked you,
Crash thought.

The demon only laughed.
You can’t hide
from me, little snake,
it sneered.
Take her, if that’s what
you want. Spend yourself. I know what you crave—why fight
it?

Crash grimaced.
Silence, fiend,
he
thought coldly.

The demon showed its fangs.
So noble,
it mocked.
So sincere.

Crash turned away, staunchly ignoring
it.

The demon snarled suddenly, demanding his
attention.
Do it,
the beast pressed, climbing up his throat
to perch behind his eyes, furrowing his brow.
Take her. She told
you herself—she wants you.

Crash grabbed his dagger suddenly and flung
it into the wall—
thunk!
It quivered, embedded deeply in the
wood. He seethed for a moment, rage flickering behind his eyes.
Press me once more, and I will slit both our throats,
he
threatened. He meant it, and the demon hissed in reply. If anything
could hurt Sora—if anything could ruin her, could break her in
two—it was the malevolent and sick-minded beast that cursed his
body. He would not let that happen.

The creature shuddered, then slunk to the
back of his mind. It faded from his thoughts, though he still
sensed it just beneath the surface of his skin, taunting him,
biding its time. Since the Dark God’s weapons entered the world,
his demon had become increasingly difficult to control, and such
bouts of inner struggle had become commonplace. He trained each
morning for more reasons than to keep his skill sharp—he had to
remain strong to contain the beast within him.

Crash stood up, anger still surging through
him, and struggled for a moment to rein in his emotions.
Eventually, the blank, cold mask of the assassin fell back in
place. Then he pulled his knife from the wall and headed out the
door.

He slipped down the hallway past several
cabins. For such a narrow ship, the
Dawn Seeker
contained a
lot of rooms. Most cabins held no more than a small bunk and a
porthole window, barely bigger than a closet. Noise traveled an
exceptional distance through the walls, though at this late hour,
most of the crew were asleep, except for the handful manning the
sails.

He counted the doors as he went by and soon
arrived at the one he sought. Soft gold light shone through a crack
under the door.
He’s awake.
He paused, glancing around to
make sure the halls were empty.

A thick wall of shadow stood to his back,
swirling behind him like a dense cloak. He glared at
it—
dammit.

No one will see you,
the demon
whispered in his thoughts.

My threat still stands,
he
warned.

The demon shied away, but couldn’t resist a
response.
Are we having fun tonight?
it murmured, eagerly
prancing against the bars of its cage, contained somewhere deep in
his gut.
Shall we eat him? Shall we twist his bones and peel his
flesh?

No,
Crash replied, forcefully turning
away from the darkness. He faced the cabin door, leaving the shadow
to his back.

Inwardly, the demon glared—another surge of
anger rose in Crash’s throat.
He dirtied her name,
the demon
said in a toxic whisper.
A name is a precious thing. He deserves
my fire.

He deserves a lot of things,
Crash
agreed dismissively.

Let me out,
the demon whined.

Silence,
he ordered. His body
shuddered slightly. The dark presence gave up and crawled away,
fading again.

Crash waited until he was certain the beast
wouldn’t interfere. Then he turned the doorknob. The door opened
halfway and bumped into the side of a cot. Lantern light spilled
into the hall.

Immediately, a man’s voice cursed. “By the
six gods, Joan! I told you not to bother me this late!”

Crash stepped into the room.

Tristan froze when he saw the assassin. His
face drained of color. The Dracian stood half-clothed in his
undershorts, literally caught with his pants down, his shirt
half-unbuttoned and trousers tossed thoughtlessly on the floor. He
was a hand shorter than the assassin and a few years younger. His
coppery hair looked tangled and greasy, his cheeks flushed from
drinking, eyes hooded and bloodshot. He had probably come from the
mess hall and was about to go to bed. Crash didn’t care.

In two steps, he grabbed the man by his
collar and heaved him effortlessly into the air.

“Aye!” Tristan yelled. “Aye, put me down!
Help! Help!”

Crash slammed him against the wall. “Shut
your disgusting mouth,” he hissed.

Tristan’s eyes widened and his mouth snapped
shut. The assassin hauled him around by his shirt and forced him
out of the room, half-dragging him down the hallway. The Dracian
stumbled. Pathetic whimpers issued from his throat, which is
embarrassing for a full-grown man, but Dracians weren’t known for
their courage.

“Wh-where are you taking me?” Tristan gasped
as Crash shoved him into the night. The assassin spun him in a
half-circle and rammed his back against the railing. He pushed the
Dracian until he was halfway over the side of the ship. Tristan
almost screamed, but Crash’s knife-like glare shut him up. The
Dracian glanced over his shoulder at the black water of the Little
Rain tributary. Goosebumps rose on his skin. Crash knew the scent
of fear like a predator on the hunt; Tristan reeked of prey, of
undisciplined, weak-minded cowardice.

Crash didn’t draw his dagger; he didn’t need
the man pissing on his boots. He spoke directly into his face.

“If you say anything more to hurt Sora,” he
threatened venomously, “I will slit you navel-to-jaw and tie your
intestines in a wreath.”

“I-I-I’m sorry, sir, I won’t, I swear it, I
won’t say a word.”

“Oh, you’re going to speak,” Crash said,
cutting him off. He leaned Tristan farther over the railing until
he was completely off-balance, his arms flailing pathetically in
the air, one foot off the ground. “You’re going to tell everyone
you’re a liar. That you’ve wanted Sora since you first laid eyes on
her, but she doesn’t want you back. That she rejected you, and you
lashed out like a coward.” Crash loosened his hold slightly,
letting Tristan fall a few inches over the rail. The man let out a
short squeal of terror. “And if I hear you spinning tales again, I
will cut out your tongue and sew your lips shut. Are we clear?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“YES!”

Then Crash pushed him overboard.

Tristan screamed like a wounded sow all the
way down to the water, ending in a massive
splash!
The sound
drew another sailor’s attention. He swung down from the rigging,
landing on the deck nearby.

“What happened?” the sailor demanded.

Crash gestured over his shoulder. “I hope
your friend can swim,” he said. Then he turned back to the cabins
below.

The sailor ran to the railing and leaned
over the side, let out a colorful string of curses, then grabbed a
long line of rope and dashed to the rear of the ship.

Crash allowed himself a small,
self-satisfied smile. Then he headed below deck.

CHAPTER 6

Sora awoke naturally a few hours before
dawn. She lay in bed for a long moment, staring at the wooden
ceiling. The ship swayed peacefully. They didn’t seem to be making
much speed; today Captain Silas would most likely bring out the
sweeps, long oars used to manually row the ship upriver. He was
counting on the winter rains to begin; the storms usually blew
inland and would propel their ship up the Little Rain to the
Crown’s Rush.

Her mind traveled to her brief conversation
with Crash the day before. She flexed her injured hand to test the
wound beneath her bandages. Suddenly, she knew what she had to
do.

Sora stood up and dressed herself in a thick
woolen shirt, belted at the waist, and snug cotton pants. She
pulled her boots on one by one, stretching out her cramped legs as
she did so. She was used to spending nights under the stars, which
made sleeping in a small, cramped cabin difficult. She often felt
suffocated, as though shut in a tight box.

Finally, she strapped on daggers and slung
her staff over one shoulder, then climbed on deck. She exited the
row of cabins and walked down the side of the ship, where she
paused next to a large barrel.

Crash lay horizontally along the aft of the
boat. She knew he would be there, as he always was at this time. As
she watched, he finished a quick set of press-ups, then ran through
a series of sprints across the deck. His breath appeared in small
bursts of vapor and he had yet to break a sweat. These simple
exercises would warm up his muscles in preparation for more
strenuous training.

He finished his sprints and removed his
shirt. The sky held only a slight tinge of gray, but in the dim
pre-dawn light, she could see the scars that traced his powerful
back. They crisscrossed every which way, some long and thin where
blades had cut, or perhaps whiplashes. Others formed white, rough
craters—perhaps puncture wounds from arrows or daggers. They were
small but numerous and formed a fine web across his shoulders, like
constellations drawn on tan parchment.

She knew his longest scar began at his jaw
and cut down his chest in a jagged white line. The bloodmage
Volcrian had dealt him that wound many years ago. It should have
killed him, but Crash was not a normal man.

A new scar sat red and angry at the base of
his neck, partially healed from the Isles. It looked as though
someone had jammed a red-hot poker straight between his
collarbones. His voice still hadn’t fully recovered from the
sunstone’s burn. His tone sounded rougher, deeper than she
remembered. As an assassin, it only made him seem more lethal when
he spoke, like small rocks grinding behind his words.

He paused after another set of crunches,
then stood to face her, watching her quietly.

Sora left the protection of the barrel and
stepped into the open. She had prepared a little speech for this
moment, but now words failed her.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “A long
time ago, you called me your student,” she said.

He considered her for a moment, then
nodded.

“I’d like to be that again…if I could.”

Crash observed her, then a slight smile
crossed his face, a wry tug of his lips. Wordlessly, he sank into a
fighting stance, his knees bent agilely and his hands held
naturally before him, slightly below eye level. He beckoned her
with a quick flick of his wrist.

Sora felt mildly surprised.
Well, that
was easy.
Then she mimicked his position, but her stance was
not as smooth or comfortable. Her legs strained from her slight
crouch and she hesitated before putting her left foot first. It had
been a while since she practiced hand-to-hand combat and her
muscles were cold.