Ferran's Map

  Then, just as the Viper tasted victory, his Grandmaster disappeared from beneath him. Viper collapsed in the snow, disoriented. His knife struck the frozen ground.

  Cerastes reappeared beneath a nearby tree, materializing from thin air. The fifth gate. He had opened that portal instantly and had used it to outmaneuver his student.

  Viper sat up, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You have an unfair advantage,” he spat.

  “Assassins use any and all advantages in combat,” Cerastes murmured.

  “Perhaps,” Viper returned, a hint of rebellion in his gaze. “But Lachesis teaches differently. Engaging a lesser opponent is pointless, if it is only for showing off one's skill.”

  “Then you admit you are the lesser?”

  Viper's glare hardened. “I never claimed to be anything else.”

  “And this Lachesis….” Cerastes clasped his hands behind his back. “Is he your new master now? Is he the one who taught you to harness your demon, who made you a Named assassin?”

  Viper’s lip curled, but his years of discipline kept him from jumping up. He bowed his head stiffly and stayed on the ground. “No, Grandmaster,” he murmured.

  “You’ve grown sloppy, Viper,” Cerastes said flatly. “Lachesis is too encouraging with his words. You are far from reaching the fifth gate.”

  “Then I will strive harder,” Viper growled.

  Cerastes smiled—it was an empty expression. “I see my absence has sorely impacted your progress,” he continued. “Lachesis is a wild hermit. His teachings are untried and unproven. Do you really think you will reach the fifth gate by meditating hours on end? Lachesis is fooling you. He’s stalling your progress and wasting your time.” His focus sharpened. “He fears what you may become.”

  Viper's pulse quickened. He didn’t want to believe Cerastes’ words. Yet his Grandmaster would never mislead him; despite his absence, the bond between mentor and student remained strong. Viper had trained and studied at Cerastes’ side since childhood, almost since birth—and a child’s loyalty is not easily shaken.

  “What do you suggest I do?” Viper asked softly. Although he kept his eyes trained on the ground, he could feel Cerastes’ approving gaze.

  “Come with me,” his mentor said, his voice low and heavy, as though burdened by some unnameable secret. “Be by my side and I will teach you to harness the fifth gate. I will teach you all the forgotten secrets of our kind.”

  Viper’s eyes saw his Grandmaster’s gaunt face. He searched the man’s wizened expression and the unfathomable depth of his gaze. For years now he had struggled on his own, always anticipating his master’s return. He had yearned for this very moment….

  Yet strangely, now that Cerastes faced him, he did not feel the same. Over time, he had found a way to stand on his own in the Hive, to continue training without his Grandmaster’s guidance. He had built a new life among the sand. The Hive, after all, was more than just a place. It was a community, a rigid one, but consistent all the same, and saturated with tradition. This was his home.

  “You would ask me to leave the Hive?” Viper asked softly.

  His Grandmaster gave only the slightest nod.

  In that instant, Viper knew where he belonged. “I can’t go with you.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No,” he responded without flinching. “I won’t turn my back on our people.”

  “And this is how you perceive me?” Cerastes’ voice became withering. “Someone who has betrayed his race?”

  “No,” Viper said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Then speak what you mean.”

  Viper stood up and sheathed his dagger. “You’ve chosen your path,” he said clearly. “It is time I choose mine. I can’t leave the Hive.”

  Cerastes’ eyes became dangerous. For a moment, the thin veil of his guarded expression slipped, and Viper saw something sharp and malicious. Then the look passed.

  “A pity,” Cerastes said as he turned away. “You’re certain? I won’t ask again.”

  Viper didn’t hesitate. “I’m certain,” he said. “But you will always remain my first mentor. Wherever you go, Grandmaster, your shadow encompasses me.” He bowed to Cerastes’ retreating back.

  The Grandmaster hardly seemed to hear him. A slight wind touched his long, black hair and rippled through his robes. Then he entered the shade of the trees and was gone.

  Viper stood back. He felt suddenly bereft, as though all the air had left his lungs. He made his hands into fists, wondering if he made the right choice, yet knowing in his gut he couldn’t leave the Hive—his Name, his training, his birthplace—simply to reach the fifth gate. He had allowed Cerastes’ absence to affect him for too long. It was time to let go.

  He stared at the place where his master’s feet had stood, as though the hand of some god had transported him to another realm, and allowed himself to sink into the solitude of the forest. Farewell, he thought, watching Cerastes' last footprints slowly disappear under the falling snow.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Dawn Seeker sailed upriver, impressive and sturdy, a three-masted schooner with billowing white sails and over a dozen cabins. The ship traveled up the Little Rain, a small tributary of the Crown’s Rush, headed inland from the ocean. Early morning fog cast the world in gray, brooding light. Tall trees loomed over the riverbanks, fading in and out of the mist. The Little Rain traveled through flat marshland and dense forest, lined by juniper thickets and bristling blackberry bushes. The rainy season had made the tributary deep and wide.

  Sora dangled her legs over the crow’s nest. She always took the dawn watch, as she liked the tension in the forest at daybreak, and the birds twittering in excited song at the first hint of silver light.

  The crow’s nest of the Dawn Seeker sat high upon the central mast, dozens of feet above the ground. From this height, Sora could see Captain Silas’ crew stirring on deck through the mist. The night workers filed inside as a fresh crew took over their stations, adjusting the sails and manning the wheel, calling out to one another, laughing. She could smell fresh bread baking, as the aroma drifted up from the galley. Her stomach let out a sudden, loud complaint. While she wanted nothing more than to climb down the ropes and eat breakfast, she felt stiff and cold, her woolen cloak damp with moisture from her three-hour watch.

  But I can’t leave yet, she thought. When Captain Silas first assigned her to the crow’s nest, he gave her a long lecture about sailing upriver: the danger of opposing currents, lightning, driftwood, debris, tree limbs and rocks in the shallows. The ship’s safety relied on a good lookout…and so breakfast would have to wait.

  Her eyes drifted to a figure on the deck below. At first glance, he appeared to be lying prostrate on the wooden boards, but a closer look revealed he was doing a series of short, quick press-ups. His hot breath misted the air. His hands were placed opposite his shoulders, his palms flat on the deck, his back rigidly straight. She didn’t know how many press-ups a man could do in one sitting; as the fog thickened, she counted 200 and then lost track.

  He trained every morning around this time—the same as her watch—and ran through a strenuous routine of exercises: twenty laps around the deck, a series of kicks and jumps, then a long chain of attacks using daggers or swords. His broad, powerful shoulders immediately caught her eye. A myriad of scars, visible even at this distance, covered his back. She wondered if he had removed his shirt on purpose, if he knew how much it distracted her. No, she thought, he doesn’t want anything to do with me.

  She hardly spoke to Crash these days because she didn’t know what to say to him. Not after what had happened on the Lost Isles.

  “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?”
r />   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.

&n
bsp; “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.”