Ferran's Map (15 page)

It didn’t seem so long ago that she lived as
a noblewoman herself. The ladies of the high plains had chatted
ceaselessly about the prestigious parties thrown by the First Tier,
especially those who ranked next to the King. Through stories and
gossip, she had come to know all the richest families in the
Kingdom as if they were outrageously dramatized characters in a
book: the Ebonaires, tall, sleek and darkly elegant; the
Seabournes, proud-chinned and staunchly loyal to the crown; the
fiery, ambitious LeCroys and the educated, silver-tongued
Daniellians.

And with all of the masquerades, young
ladies never knew who they might dance with. The prince could steal
a kiss on winter solstice eve, and a girl might never know.

So long ago,
she thought, and yet the
memories arose easily, as though she had sat in Lady Sinclair’s
parlor just yesterday. A tangled mix of anxiety and displeasure
settled in her gut.
I never want to go back to that
life.

Second Tier nobility were not as well off as
the First Tier, especially those Sora grew up around, who lived on
small estates in the country. If anything, they glamorized the
Winter Festival even more. The girls studied fashion, plays, topics
of note, First Tier etiquette and courting, courting, courting—all
in hopes of visiting the city and landing a rich husband.

But the festival spanned the entire Kingdom,
not just the wealthy elite. Last year for the first time, Sora had
celebrated among the lower class with her mother. For farmers,
winter solstice marked the beginning of winter, when the sun
reached its lowest point on the horizon, signaling the dark, snowy
months to come. To avoid feeding unwanted livestock through the
winter, they slaughtered old and sickly animals and prepared large
feasts of beef, pork, goat and lamb. Barley and fruit had finished
fermenting from summer’s harvest by that time, and ale and wine
flowed aplenty.

In her mother’s small town, bells were
strung along the streets and villagers wore painted wooden masks on
winter’s eve, dancing to pipes and lutes. The masks were meant to
remind people they were beings of Wind, ever-changing, and so their
inner spirits bore no face. Troubles of the old year dissolved
beneath the masks, and a new year was embraced when the masks were
shed at dawn. In more superstitious areas, they believed the spirit
was literally reborn with each new year.

And Sora learned another piece of the
tradition: farmers believed that the boundary between the Dark
God’s realm and the world of Wind and Light weakened on winter
solstice. Young children didn’t stray far from their bonfires, as
dead spirits might come to take them away to the underworld.

Sora wondered if there was any truth to
that.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Ferran said, and
cleared his throat. “Enough pensive staring into the distance.” He
swung his legs around and stood down from the railing on his bare
feet. “Let’s find a quiet place where we can concentrate. Too many
distractions here.”

He led her down into the galleys, then below
that, to the absolute lowest part of the ship near the keel.
Countless barrels and crates of food stood in the belly of the
Dawn Seeker
: salted meats, jarred vegetables, dried beans
and flour, apples, limes, carrots and potatoes. This far below
deck, Sora heard only the rush of water outside and the occasional
thump of driftwood striking the hull. Ferran picked his way among
the boxes until they found a clear space. He set down his oil lamp
and adjusted the flame so they were bathed in golden light.

“You’ve meditated before, I take it?” he
asked casually.

“Yes,” Sora said. “Plenty of times.” She
winced at her last words. Actually, she hadn’t meditated since
their ship sank at the Lost Isles. She had been too busy fighting
for her life.

Ferran seemed to sense her hesitation, but
he didn’t mention it. “Good, then we don’t have to waste time with
the basics. Tonight, we are going to try something different. Have
you ever heard of guided meditation?”

Sora frowned. “No.”

“Even better. I want you to sit down
comfortably and take a few deep breaths. Close your eyes. Relax and
empty your mind.”

Sora did so without complaint. It took her
longer to clear her mind than it ever had before. A year ago at her
mother’s cabin, there had been few distractions from her training.
She had learned from books in her mother’s library that meditation
was a strong method of connecting and controlling the Cat’s Eye.
She had spent hours under the thick pine trees allowing her
thoughts to slip away. Eventually, she had been able to forget the
ground, the birds, the sky—there was just silence. The open pit of
her body. And of course, her bond with the necklace.

She didn’t know how much time passed in the
ship’s hull. Thoughts of winter solstice hung over her head,
stressful and troubling. Then she lingered on her tension with
Crash, though after two days of training with him, she felt better
about that. She sank deeper into herself, the worry smoothing from
her brow. Her muscles began to relax. Silence brushed against her
ears and she allowed her mind to expand. Her thoughts soared in and
out of her consciousness like errant birds. Eventually, they faded
away completely.

Then, in the new stillness, uncontrollable
images began to arise: her great fall in the Crystal Caves, when
she finally learned the truth about the Sixth Race; Crash’s torn
and bloodied body in the Harpy prison; the long and strenuous
battle with Volcrian, the corpse-priestess who had tried to kill
her and the second Cat’s Eye’s broken bond. Pain. Blood. Light.
Each sudden burst of memory struck her like slaps to the face. Her
heart twisted, coiling tightly into a thick knot of unresolved
fear.
I can’t face this again,
she
thought. Not enough time had passed since her last escape from
death.

It seemed like the deeper she relaxed, the
clearer the images became, until sweat beaded her brow. She
clenched her teeth against the urge to scream.

“Breathe,” Ferran’s voice reached her
softly, piercing the cloud of her mind. “Breathe, Sora.”

She forced herself to breathe, barely able
to inhale past her fear. Her chest constricted painfully and her
heart hammered in her ears. She drew one deep breath after the
next, as though bearing the pain of a broken leg.
Breathe.
She had to calm herself. If she didn’t, she would crumble against
the panic, and suffocate under her own oppressive thoughts.

It seemed like an eternity passed, but she
slowly sank back into her body, using the energy of the earth to
ground herself. The images still flickered, though dimmer now.
Finally, after several more countless minutes, her vision returned
to darkness. She remained there, breathing methodically,
waiting.

And then, she felt it. Weak at first, it
pooled inside her belly and spread outward—peace. The knowledge
that she was safe, unharmed and still breathing. Whole. She allowed
herself to stay there, spreading her mind open like a wide blanket.
Now
, she thought.
Here.
Two simple concepts that
changed the world.

Ferran seemed to know when she had reached
that point. Only then did he speak. “Sora,” he said quietly. “I
want you to find your bond with the Cat’s Eye.”

It seemed that her reply came from another
part of her mind, a place separate from logic and reason. She
didn’t hesitate. “It’s here,” she said through heavy lips.

“I want you to take that bond and hold it in
your hands. Do you see it?”

Outwardly, she didn’t move. But in her mind,
she glanced down. The images came to her like a dream. She could
see something in her grasp—a thin chord of green light flowed
through her hands. She gripped it.

“I have it,” she murmured.

“Good. Now what do you see in front of
you?”

Deep in the trance, she looked up. She stood
in the garden of her manor at the back of the horse stables; large
rose bushes bloomed on a white trellis that spanned the entire rear
wall. She could smell them suddenly—sharp and sweet, heavy with
perfume.

“I’m in a garden,” she said.

“Lovely,” Ferran replied. “Do you see the
path?”

“Yes,” she said, without wondering how he
knew a path existed. A series of gray flagstones led around the
horse stable to a wide field of long grass and wildflowers.

“I want you to follow it,” he directed.

She did so. In her mind, she walked over the
gray flagstones, past the rear door to the kitchens and out toward
the field. Everything seemed more vibrant, the colors impossibly
saturated, every detail pronounced. The stone path led her to a
corral at the far side of the field. She didn’t remember it. As she
walked, she could see the wooden stakes wedged solidly into the
ground, with metal poles fashioned between them. A large iron gate
barred its entrance.

“Where are you now?” Ferran asked
softly.

“A horse corral,” she replied. She could
hear her words, but didn’t recall speaking them. “It’s locked.”

“Climb the gate,” Ferran instructed. “Don’t
bother with the lock.”

She followed his directions and gripped the
metal pole, pulling herself over the side of the fence. She dropped
to the ground on the opposite side, then stopped. Something about
the vision changed; it became smaller, more enclosed. Her manor
disappeared, the field, and the forest beyond. Now it was just the
corral; the gated walls seemed like bars to a prison.

“Something’s here with me,” she said
quietly. A chill crossed over her skin. She looked around the
corral. At first it appeared empty, but then she saw a large,
hulking shape at its center, standing quietly in the dirt with its
back turned to her. She waited for the shape to fully take form,
then recognized four paws, gleaming white fur, a thick mane of
bristling quills and two long, spiraling horns. Her heart quickened
and she almost lost focus. The
garrolithe
.

“Breathe,” Ferran murmured. “Don’t
move.”

She waited until the fear passed. The
garrolithe
remained motionless, as though oblivious to her
presence. She submerged herself in the trance once more.

Ferran waited for her breathing to deepen.
Finally, he continued, “Look down at your hands. Do you see your
rope?”

She looked down. The green strand of
Cat’s-Eye bond still flowed between her fingers. She gripped it
reassuringly, aware that she wasn’t alone in this vision. No, the
stone was here with her. She felt a nudge of encouragement from the
necklace, like a hand clasping her shoulder.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I have it.”

“Look again,” Ferran said. “What do you
see?”

She blinked and the rope coiled around
itself, forming a noose. That did not surprise her. She accepted
the dream without question. “A lasso,” she said.

“Approach the
garrolithe
,” Ferran
murmured. “When you reach its side, I want you to take the end of
the rope and slip it over its neck.”

Sora clasped the rope firmly. She started
across the corral, stepping softly in the dirt. The beast did not
move. As she neared its side, she saw the curve of its muzzle,
shaped somewhere between a wolf and a lion, with long teeth
protruding past its lip. Its eyes were closed. It appeared to be
asleep. Its head was huge and heavy; her hands were minuscule
against it, like pale little butterflies. The beast stood taller
than a horse, but in her vision, she had enough leverage to slip
the noose around its neck…if only she could get close enough.

She gently began to loop the noose over its
great mouth. But the moment she touched its fur, its eyes snapped
open, shining with vivid blue light, far brighter and sharper than
a summer sky. She gasped.

A loud, coughing roar burst from the beast’s
throat, ending in the high shriek of a wildcat. Then the beast
turned on her violently, thrashing its head. Sora stumbled, trying
to hold onto the noose. It was like harnessing a rabid lion—its
body was too powerful, twisting and writhing with furious strength.
The
garrolithe
flung its head and sent the noose falling to
the ground.

She dragged the rope back, but it was too
late. The beast turned its long fangs on her, snapping and
snarling. She shouted in fear, dropped the rope and stumbled back
across the dirt. The
garrolithe
leapt after her, eager to
rip her throat out.

Snap!

Sora pitched forward, gasping for breath,
her eyes wide open. A scream caught in her throat. She looked
around wildly for a moment, prepared to fight for her life. Her
heart raced, her breath came in ragged gasps….But all she saw were
the timbers of the ship, the wooden crates and Ferran’s cinnamon
stick rolling thoughtfully in his mouth.

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” he
said.

She inhaled a deep breath, trying to calm
her racing heart, and felt sick to her stomach. “What happened?”
she demanded. “What was that?”

Ferran laughed at her bewilderment and
patted her on the back as though she were coughing. It didn’t help.
She shrugged off his hand in annoyance. “I don’t understand,” she
said again. “I saw the
garrolithe
….It was sleeping, but I
woke it up, and now….” Now she could feel its energy writhing in
her stomach like a nasty bout of food poisoning.

“You didn’t get the noose around it,” Ferran
said, as though that explained everything in the world.

“But… but the Cat’s Eye and the rope…I
don’t.…”

“You have to harness the power of the
garrolithe
,” Ferran repeated slowly, as though she might be
hard of hearing. “Get it? Harness the power?” He chuckled to
himself pleasantly. “That’s the beauty of these exercises. They’re
quite straightforward, really.”