Ferran's Map (35 page)

Crash followed him, and a few steps later,
found himself once again in the wide stone chamber under the earth.
The sudden change was unnerving. Moist air engulfed him, and the
stale scent of old water, and he knew they must be somewhere near
The City of Crowns, far away from the desert heat. The wraith
hovered before him, still trapped by the circle of white
powder.

The sound of heavy chains rustled in the
darkness, drawing Crash’s attention. He looked up. Cobra entered
the chamber, with Burn limping slowly behind him.

The sight of the Wolfy brought Crash back to
himself. He remembered again why he had come here. Blood matted
Burn’s hair from a horrible head wound, and he staggered as he
walked. Their eyes met, and Burn subtly shook his head. Pain dulled
his eyes. The bond between mentor and student was difficult to
ignore, but he had other bonds now: new people who needed him, who
trusted him, and who showed him a different way of life.

He could sense Burn’s thoughts behind his
weary eyes. The Wolfy didn’t want to be used as leverage; he would
rather die than put his friends in danger. But Crash’s mind was
already made up; he was not going to let Burn pay the price for his
own mistakes. Crash was not here to kill Cerastes, but to sacrifice
everything for Burn's life.

“Release him,” Crash said. “I’d gladly
exchange my life for his.”

“An intriguing offer,” Cerastes replied,
“but no.”

“What more do you want from me?” Crash
asked, without looking away from the Wolfy.

He could sense his Grandmaster’s
satisfaction. “I have need of a Cat’s Eye.”

Crash didn’t hesitate. “Why? The Sixth Race
cannot wield such a stone. None of the magical races can.”

Cerastes hardened. “Then I shall need the
bearer as well. I suspect you know of one.””

Crash paused, chilled. His Grandmaster must
know…. “Ferran wears such a stone, but he will be a challenge to
capture.”

“Yes,” Cerastes replied, “but what about the
girl?”

Crash remained silent.

His old mentor’s voice became amused.
“You’ve gone to great lengths to keep her from me, but I know about
your little tryst,” he said. “Bring her to me and prove your
loyalty.”

Crash’s fists clenched. The thought of
bringing Sora anywhere near the Shade brought bile to his throat.
Yet at that moment, he didn’t have a choice. Despite his
Grandmaster’s promises, he knew Cerastes would kill him if he
refused to obey, and then he would be no use to anyone. No one
would stand between Sora and the Shade.

“I will do your bidding,” Crash finally
murmured.

“Yes, you will,” Cerastes said. “And until
then, I will keep the Wolfy to ensure your obedience.”

Crash whirled on him. Anger sparked. “That
wasn’t the deal.”

“You’re right; it wasn’t.”

He glared. “I brought you the weapons. Now
release him.”

“No,” his Grandmaster said firmly. “Not
until you prove your loyalty to me. And in exchange for your
silence, I will keep the mercenary alive.” His tone became low and
lethal. “Don’t forget what I have shown you.”

Crash looked again at Burn. He should have
expected this; all sense of control had been effortlessly pulled
from his grasp. The Wolfy’s golden eyes told him No, turn back, but
it was too late.

“You could have played this better, Viper,”
Cerastes said knowingly. “I taught you better, and I will teach you
more, should you bring the girl to me.” He spread his arms. “The
fifth gate. Mastery of your demon. A place of prestige and power
when the Dark God rises. What more could an assassin want?” His
eyes narrowed. “What more could my student want?”

Crash flinched. Cerastes’ words summoned a
tide of bitterness, and yet a strange yearning swelled within him.
After all these years. Cerastes’ presence still held power over
him. Those simple, targeted words seemed to burrow into his mind: I
taught you better. My student. In sickening realization, he knew he
had overestimated himself by coming here.

A crack formed in his armor, and doubt
slipped in. How could he stand against his own Grandmaster? He was
the Viper, a Named assassin, he who hides in the grass. How could
he be anyone else? He couldn’t leave that life behind. Not when it
stood in front of him, mocking him, beckoning him closer.

An eager stirring began in his chest. The
demon wanted to overtake his sense of morality, shirk the burden of
human guilt and release its chaotic will upon the world.

Crash knew the demon's desires well. He had
fought to overcome them for years. Now, disturbingly, as he felt
pulled toward Cerastes’ promises, he suddenly understood the
fanatic loyalty of the Shade. His Grandmaster offered his demon the
purpose—and power—it desired.

He bowed his head, and in an instant, knew
he had promised too much.

CHAPTER 20

The next morning, Sora was awakened by Lady
Danica’s handmaid and a serving girl from the kitchens. Hazy
morning light filtered down from an overcast sky. Her room’s large
bay windows overlooked the front of the manor. She could see a thin
blanket of snow dusting everything except the driveway, which had
been shoveled clear and salted. The clouds above remained sullen
and ominous, threatening more snow to come.

The serving girl laid out her breakfast tray
on the bed and quietly left the room. Sora pounced on the silver
platter of food: cinnamon toast, honey, eggs and black tea. She was
left with Lady Danica’s handmaid—Olivia, as the woman introduced
herself. She was quite tall and slender, with short blond hair and
wide brown eyes. Unsmilingly, she quickly curtsied and went
straight to the wardrobe, where she selected several outfits.

As she ate breakfast, Sora watched her new
handmaid curiously. It was common knowledge that a handmaid took on
the mannerisms of her mistress. Olivia walked with her head held
high and her prim nose raised slightly in the air, exactly how a
servant of the First Tier should look. It made Sora wonder about
Lady Danica’s tastes. What kind of person would her new “cousin”
turn out to be?

“This is the fashion?” Sora asked slowly,
inspecting the elaborate dresses Olivia laid out, one in deep
magenta, another in forest green, and a third in royal blue.

“From last season,” Olivia admitted. She
glanced down her nose briefly, and Sora felt the keen sense that
she was being tested. Should she start listing every piece of
seasonal wear, from fox-trimmed gloves to velvet slippers?

An inkling of doubt entered her mind.
Fashion changed slowly in the country, but in the City of Crowns,
the fashion center of the Kingdom, she wondered if wearing a dress
from last season would mark her as an outsider or draw unwarranted
attention. Did the Shade know anything about dresses, hats and
boots? Most likely not, she thought, then felt a little silly.

“We’ll make do,” Sora said.

She meant the words as a peace offering, but
Olivia looked almost offended and turned up her nose a little more.
“Lady Danica is generous indeed to offer up her wardrobe, given her
current condition,” Olivia sniffed. And then, with a change of
emphasis, “Lord Martin entrusted your new wardrobe to me. We will
have you fitted today in the Flower District.”

Sora felt suitably chastised. “The Flower
District?” she asked.

“The women’s district, where all the women’s
boutiques are,” Olivia replied, distinctly unimpressed. Her
expression said it all—what noble-born lady didn’t know of the
Flower District?

Sora decided to keep her mouth shut from
then on. Lord Martin must have kept some information from his
staff, and perhaps hadn’t revealed Ferran’s fallen state. Olivia
seemed skeptical that Sora was really noble blood.

That could be worrisome. The staff was
probably abuzz with speculation. If anyone could tell Sora didn’t
belong, it would be a lady’s handmaid. How fast would news of
Ferran’s arrival spread through the servants' corridors to the
neighboring estate’s kitchens? How long before he was identified,
and all the servants of the First Tier knew? Surely the older
servants would remember him. Surely someone would recall his exile.
And then what?

Sora indicated the royal blue dress,
deciding she liked the color. Olivia put the other two back in the
wardrobe. Sora studied the design: a tight bodice with a square-cut
neckline, and a heavy velvet skirt that opened at the front to
reveal a length of white petticoat underneath. She closely
inspected the cut of the dress. In the country, long skirts were
made to hide a woman’s petticoats, which were considered
undergarments. Bodices were worn quite a bit higher, particularly
during winter. In her opinion, the dress looked quite…risque, but
she stopped herself from mentioning that.

City fashion was much less practical and far
more decadent than she was used to. Country styles remained airy
and pleasant in the summer, most dresses tied with a simple sash
around the waist. Clothes were easily layered in winter with a full
bodice and jacket, and recycled for each season. Of course, city
nobility didn’t have to worry about recycling dresses. All the
clothes looked fairly new.

Olivia brought out a set of panniers, wide
hoops used to boost the many skirts she would be wearing. The
panniers would considerably exaggerate her figure.

Sora gazed in horror. “Is that necessary?”
she balked. What if she needed to defend herself? Where would she
put her daggers? With the hoops, it would be next to impossible to
land a kick, or even touch her toes.

Olivia didn’t bat an eye. “It’s the style,”
she said stiffly. “The dress is made for it.”

Sora crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t like
it,” she said boldly. She no longer cared about impressing a house
servant.. “We’re going to the market, not a royal ball. I’d like a
simpler dress.”

“A simpler dress?” Olivia asked. “My Lady,
it’s winter and the summer styles are packed away.”

“You’re wearing something practical,” Sora
said, indicating the maid's simple black skirts and bodice. No
hoops or adornments, just long pleats and an apron.

Olivia looked startled. “You wish to dress
as a peasant?” she asked slowly.

Sora hesitated, torn between her desire for
comfort and her need to play her role. She bit her lip in distress.
Which was better—disguising her identity from the Shade, or being
able to defend herself? What would Martin Ebonaire think if she
chose to wear peasant clothes?

Finally, she said, “I suppose it shall do,
if there’s nothing else. Let’s see how it fits.”

* * *

Sora walked cautiously down the long set of
stairs to the ground floor of the Ebonaire manor, balancing
carefully in her dark blue skirts, which spanned several feet from
her waist. It came back to her slowly—the weight of the panniers,
the sway of the heavy fabric, the thin heels on her shoes. Her
posture was naturally straighter, so she could walk gracefully. The
dress constricted her breathing; her hair was pinned tightly about
her head in a braid. Yes, she remembered all this.

Olivia escorted her to an informal breakfast
room, then bowed briefly. “I’ll have a driver bring ‘round a
carriage,” she said, and excused herself.

Several comfortable chairs of varying styles
sprawled in a half-circle around a large fireplace. A tea tray had
been placed on a low table. Martin Ebonaire sat across from her,
facing the entryway, a porcelain cup half-raised to his lips.
Ferran was seated next to him. When they saw her, their
conversation stopped. Martin’s brown eyes widened marginally as he
set his cup down.

Sora blushed slightly under his intense
gaze. She had to admit, Martin Ebonaire was a strikingly handsome
man, if a bit too old for her taste. She thought he resembled a
younger, less-weathered version of Ferran. His skin was smooth and
clean, his features sharp and intelligent, with high cheekbones, a
proud chin and shiny dark hair tied loosely at the nape of his
neck. He wore an elegant black riding jacket over a vest of gold
brocade, with a silk neckerchief tucked around the high collar of
his shirt. Sora imagined Silas drooling over the whole
ensemble.

“My Lord,” she murmured, and dropped into an
easy curtsy. As an afterthought, she bobbed her head to Ferran as
well. “Father,” she said softly. The word felt strange on her lips,
but at least she was playing her part.

“You look lovely,” Ferran said.

Sora focused on her role as a noblewoman.
“Oh, this?” she said, and plucked at her skirts. “Lady Danica
generously loaned it. Lord Martin has offered me a new
wardrobe.”

Martin gave her an approving look. “I’m sure
your beauty would outshine any dress, my dear niece,” he said. “And
I am happy to help you prepare for winter solstice. No niece of
mine shall go wanting.”

Ferran snorted, but said nothing.

Martin Ebonaire rose from his armchair.
“Please, will you join us before your visit to the Flower
District?” he said, and offered her a seat.

Sora tried to think of a polite way to
decline. She glanced awkwardly around the room, then paused. A man
sat in a chair behind her. She hadn’t seen him at first because her
back was turned, but recognized him. Her heart stopped.

She last encountered Lord Gracen
Seabourne—captain of the King’s personal guard—two years ago in
Mayville when she fled her father’s manor. In fact, he arrested her
and accused her of murder. His brown hair was considerably more
gray now, though she knew him to be a young man, around thirty
years old. There were dark circles underneath his eyes. Still, he
harbored the aristocratic grace of the First Tier, and was
well-dressed in a dark green, velvet morning jacket.

He studied her intently, and she felt
self-conscious. Did he recognize her? She couldn’t tell.