Ferran's Map (3 page)

“Hey!” a familiar voice drifted up to her.
She glanced toward the base of the mast. Burn, the giant mercenary
Wolfy, swung himself easily onto the rigging and climbed upward.
His movements were startlingly graceful, despite his massive size.
Within a half-minute, he stood on the ropes just beneath her feet.
“What are you doing up here, looking so gloomy?”

She tried to smile, but it felt phony. “Just
tired,” she mumbled. That was half-true. Honestly, she had been out
of sorts since leaving the Lost Isles, and for more reasons than
just Crash. Her eyes drifted to her left hand, which lay curled in
her lap.

Burn smiled gently, a strange expression on
his wide, square face. His teeth were as sharp as lion-fangs. His
long incisors jutted past his lower lip, a trait of the Wolfy race.
“Is the moisture bothering your wound?” he asked with concern.
“Perhaps Lori can give you a soothing balm.”

Sora shook her head. “No, it’s healed.” It
wasn’t painful any more. The scar in the center of her palm was
from her battle with Volcrian: a circular crater, still pink, with
new skin. But her wound seemed to go deeper than mere flesh. Since
battling the mage, she hadn’t heard a whisper from her Cat’s-Eye
necklace.

She resisted the urge to touch the small,
green-tinted stone at her neck. The Cat’s Eye was more than just a
simple rock, but a magical artifact with its own form of
consciousness, sharing a psychic bond with her mind. It protected
her from magic, absorbing supernatural energy like a parasite; if
she removed the necklace, that psychic bond would break. She would
fall into a coma, or even die.
Most likely die,
she amended.
She had worn it for almost two years now, and there was no going
back.

Usually the stone murmured softly to her,
nudging her thoughts, responding to the world around them. Yet now,
when she stretched out her mind and sought its presence, she felt a
muddy, dull quagmire at her fingertips.
Wake up,
she
thought, touching upon the internal bond.
Where are you?

There was only silence, like the billowing
morning fog.

Her troubled frown deepened. She looked at
Crash. He had finished his routine and sat on the deck to stretch
out his muscles, cooling down.

“Hmmm,” Burn grunted deep in his throat. “Is
that
what’s occupying your mind? Quite a good view from up
here.” He winked at her.

Sora grimaced. “Very funny.” Then she
redirected her gaze to the forest.

“You should go speak to him,” Burn
suggested.

“Speak to Crash? Why?” she dismissed.

Burn gave her a humorous look. “First, so I
can eat dinner with both of you again. And second,” he paused, “so
you can put your heart at ease. I know what happened between you
two. I saw you on the deck of the ship when we left the Isles,” he
admitted.

A tremor of horror ran down Sora’s spine.
“You…you what?”

“I saw you two speaking…and a bit more than
that.”

The kiss.
Oh that terrible, stupid
kiss! “It’s not what it looked like,” she cut him off, her cheeks
red. “There isn’t anything between us. I mean, there
wasn’t
anything between us. I…uh...” she stuttered. “He’s a hard person to
understand. I think he just needs….”
What? Needs what?

“Space?” Burn supplied. “A hearty breakfast?
Perhaps a knock upside the head?” His eyes twinkled merrily.

Sora scowled at him. “I don’t know, and I
don’t care,” she huffed. Then she looked back at Crash.
I don’t
care about him at all,
she repeated firmly to herself.

Despite all they had faced together, the
dark assassin remained enigmatic and withdrawn. Sora finally
avoided Crash after several failed attempts at small talk. They
seemed to have fallen back into their old ways, repeating their
roles from two years ago when she was a high-handed noblewoman and
he, a menacing murderer, back when he discovered her Cat’s-Eye
necklace and kidnapped her. It was so easy to hate him then, to
blame him for all her troubles. He seemed the very embodiment of
evil. But over time they had fought evil side-by-side, shared
nights by the fire, learned to trust and rely on each other, and
grown steadily closer…until the kiss.

Now everything remained the same—yet so
horribly different.
I can’t,
he said that night on the ship
as they sailed away from the Lost Isles.
I can’t be that person
for you.
He was an assassin, after all. Ruthless and deadly,
with a past she was just beginning to understand.

Now he kept a steady distance from her, as
though she were an infatuated young girl. The thought made her at
once furious and dismayed. She felt she deserved more of an
explanation, or at least an attempt at normalcy. She glared at his
dark figure on the deck.
Cold bastard,
she thought.

“Have you considered he’s just as bad at
this as you are?” Burn asked softly, breaking the silence. He
leaned back on the rigging, settling his weight on the ropes.

“Bad at what, exactly?” she hedged.

“Sharing.”

“Sharing?” she muttered. “His feelings, you
mean? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. I told you, there’s
nothing between us.”

“And I’m a Harpy with no wings!” Burn
balked. “You’ve been circling around each other like two cats in a
box. It’s hard not to notice. Even the Dracians are talking.”

“The Dracians talk about everything.”

“Right,” Burn agreed, then gave her a
searching glance. “But have you heard what they’re saying?”

Sora paused. “What do you mean?”

Burn hesitated. “Tristan thinks Crash hurt
you…physically,” he said slowly. “Some sort of wife-abuse, without
the wife part.”

Sora’s face drained of color. “He said
that?”

“Yes, about twenty times over the past
week.”

Sora clenched her jaw.

Burn reached out and patted her foot. “Don’t
take it too hard,” he said sympathetically. “The sailors are
restless. Not much for them to do but spread stories. Just thought
I would warn you, before you hear it from someone else.”

Sora sighed. “It’s my own fault, I suppose,”
she muttered. Burn looked at her questioningly, but she shook her
head. “It’s not true, of course. But I might have confided a bit
too much in Tristan….” Her voice trailed off. After Crash’s
rejection, she sank into a depressed state for several weeks.
Tristan saw her distress and swooped in, all too willing to take
the assassin’s place. His attention had been difficult to turn
down. Tristan was handsome, charming, and only a year older than
she. He brought her seashells, played silly games and tried to make
her laugh. If she had been any other girl, she might have fallen
head-over-heels for him.

Then she confided in him, complaining about
Crash’s coldness. A petty thing to do, but there it was. Tristan
was furious that the assassin would scorn her.
You don’t need
him,
the pirate said.
Not when you have a hot-blooded
Dracian at your side.

And then he tried to kiss her. Twice.

Sora winced at the memory. The very touch of
Tristan’s lips against her cheek brought a startling revelation—she
didn’t love him, and never could.

“He’s probably jealous,” Sora said,
realizing she had been quiet for some time.

Burn raised an eyebrow. “Of course,” he
replied. “And perhaps a bit angry at you. Dracians are passionate
creatures. The rest of the crew half-believe his story….”

Sora glared angrily. “It’s just gossip and
drunken speculation! Tristan should lay off his cups. The Dracians
can think what they like—I don’t care.”

Burn nodded. “Fair, but your mother hasn’t
known Crash very long, and the Sixth Race carries a reputation.
Don’t be surprised if she asks you about what happened. Word will
reach her eventually. It’s a big ship—but not that big.”

Sora bit her lip and looked down at the
assassin. Crash seemed to be taking longer than usual this morning,
drawing out his stretches. She had the sudden sensation that he
could hear them talking. He wasn’t human, after all. Not entirely.
Only a few weeks ago, she had learned the truth about his race,
that Crash was one of the Unnamed, a child of the Dark God. He
contained a demonic power she couldn’t begin to understand. Did he
know about the rumors? She felt a twinge of embarrassment.
What
a mess….

“How do we stop this from getting out of
hand?” she asked Burn, suddenly concerned. A few more weeks of
travel still separated them from the City of Crowns. What if the
Dracians became so worked up, they tried to throw the assassin
overboard?
Goddess help them,
she thought.

“Go to the source, I suppose,” Burn said,
rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I tried to speak to Tristan…but he
took offense, said I’d insulted his honor by calling him a liar.”
He let out a short bark of a laugh. “Dracians! Full of pride and
passion, and not a lick of sense! I think you’ll have to speak to
him.”

Sora didn’t relish the thought. Confronting
Tristan about the assassin, perhaps in front of the entire crew,
sounded excruciating.

Burn swung easily up next to her, landing on
the crow’s nest. The wooden boards shuddered beneath his weight.
“Go down and get some breakfast. My turn to play lookout,” he said,
and tousled her hair fondly.

Sora nodded, suddenly reluctant to go. Up
here she felt above the Dracians’ gossip; it was nothing more than
petty speculation. Down there, she would have to walk around on
deck, knowing what they all thought. How long had these rumors been
flying around? She thought back over the past week and remembered a
few conspicuous moments: a flurry of murmurs every time she passed
Tristan’s table in the mess room, strange looks from crewmen, a few
nosy questions from her friend Joan.

Her cheeks flushed suddenly. Joan had asked
pointedly about her experience with men. The honest truth? She
didn’t have any. Only that one night with Crash on the Lost Isles,
learning the fire of a kiss, the addictive nature of a touch. She
had no experience with love—and the mere thought of
making
love
still left her blushing.

She bit her lip in distress. Perhaps the
rumors weren’t as well-hidden as she thought.

She sighed and climbed down the rigging,
wincing as her stiff muscles flexed. The wind shifted abruptly,
blowing in her face, and she wrinkled her nose as an
afterthought.

“Do you smell something?” she asked. A
pungent stench, like rotten vegetation, floated on the wind.

Burn nodded. Wolfy senses were far more
heightened than humans. “Been smelling it for days. Seems to be
from the forest.”

Her eyes traveled to the line of trees. The
fog was slowly burning off as the sun rose in the sky. It would be
a cold, clear day, heralding the winter months to come. Large pine
trees and cypress crowded the bank, thick with untamed foliage,
arching countless meters above the river and branching into tall
canopies overhead. Bright green willows leaned over the Little
Rain, trailing their branches in the murky water. Birdsong filled
her ears: the shrieks of meadowlarks and the sharp tat-tat-tat of
woodpeckers, even the coo of an owl perched somewhere in the dark
branches.

She couldn’t divine the source of the smell
and wrinkled her nose again, sniffing the air, reminded of her
venture two years ago through Fennbog swamp, where the ground
reeked of sulfur and mold.
We’re not far from Fennbog now, are
we?
she wondered.

No, actually she didn’t think they were
anywhere near Fennbog, but that didn’t explain that rancid smell of
rotting plants.

Burn waved to her as she continued climbing
down the rigging.

* * *

The mess hall of the
Dawn Seeker
doubled as a game room and meeting room, depending on the time of
day. In one corner, a series of steep wooden steps led down to the
galley, the ship’s kitchen. Sora sat down at one of the long wooden
tables and ate without disturbance. Breakfast was a humble affair
of red beans, rye bread and two strips of fatty bacon. The
breakfast hour had already passed and most of the crew were either
resting from the night shift or manning the ship. Only two other
Dracians inhabited the hall—Joan, a red-haired woman who sat with
her legs boldly splayed out on a bench, and another man who Sora
didn’t know by name. The two spoke in quiet tones over cups of hot
tea.

Just as Sora raised the last bite of food to
her mouth, a hand grabbed her wrist. She gasped and spilled the
last of her beans.

“Mom!” she exclaimed.

Lorianne stood above her daughter, a steady,
searching gaze and five feet of fortitude. “You unwrapped your
bandage,” she said, taking note of Sora’s scarred left hand.

Sora yanked her wrist free, rubbing it in
irritation. “Well I feel fine,” she said defensively.

“The skin needs to toughen up. What if you
tear it again? That rigging is rough on hands.”

Sora started to protest, but Lori whipped
out a strip of gauze and grabbed her hand, swiftly wrapping it.
Sora waited impatiently. She didn’t like being fussed over. She
could take care of herself.

“What kind of Healer would I be if I let my
own daughter neglect her wounds?” Lori muttered as she worked.

Sora gritted her teeth. “You’re overly
concerned,” she insisted.

“And you’re pouting,” her mother
returned.

Sora sighed. She wished she knew her mother
just a little better; then she would feel more free to speak her
mind.

She had known Lori for less than two years.
When Sora was a baby, her mother had left her in the care of a rich
nobleman, hoping she would be raised with all the wealth and
privileges that her own blood couldn’t afford.
His own seed was
useless
, her mother explained.
But he lived in denial. A
man’s pride, you see. So it was easy for me to convince him that
you were his daughter.