Ferran's Map

  “Care to share, Healer?” he asked dryly, then took his turn.

  Lori felt lush and lightheaded. She allowed herself to relax into his shoulder, a much better alternative than pressing her back against the wall. Ferran corked the bottle after a moment and set it back on the floor, then turned slightly, allowing her to lie more fully against him.

  “That’s my girl,” he said softly, running his hand over her hair. He had large palms, dry and warm, wider than her cheek, long fingers and thick, heavy knuckles. Lori glanced down at his hand lying between them and held it up, inspecting it in the firelight. She imagined his hand could punch through wood. Her own hand looked delicate by comparison, like the hand of a doll.

  She glanced up to find him watching her. The dim light turned his eyes the color of wet stone, as gray and muted as the storm outside. His warm brown hair hung loosely across his brow, long enough to run her fingers through. He looked handsome and roguish, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw.

  “Did you break your nose once?” she asked, noting the slight crook in it.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever stop diagnosing people?” he asked.

  She shrugged, then sucked in a breath as she remembered her wound. The alcohol made her thoughts fuzzy and forgetful. “I didn’t notice before,” she explained.

  “I was fifteen. Got in a fistfight with Richard LeCroy. ‘Little Dicky,’ we used to call him. He broke my nose—and I broke his arm.” Ferran wrinkled his nose slightly, as though testing it. “Our family Healer set it. Made sure it grew straight.”

  Lori nodded. Most First Tier families kept an in-house Healer. Some had several, depending on the number of sick relatives. She had once hoped to land such a position after graduating from the seminary…but it hadn’t turned out that way.

  The crook in Ferran’s nose was barely noticeable—just enough to add to his rapscallion appearance. The Healer had done a good job.

  “How about you?” he asked suddenly. “Where did you get those scars on your torso?”

  Lori flinched. She hadn’t thought of them in a long time and winced. “Someone tried to kill me,” she said.

  Ferran frowned at her.

  “Long time ago,” she added quickly. “They failed.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I mean, I got them first.”

  His frown deepened.

  “I don’t think I killed them,” Lori muttered, the words slipping out uneasily. “Maybe I did. I ran before I could check.”

  “I imagine you didn’t run far,” Ferran said.

  “No, I didn’t,” she paused. She had never bled so much in her life. Three puncture wounds to the abdomen—it's a wonder she hadn’t collapsed dead in the street. A slow, sick feeling began to rise within her at the memory, and she shook her head to clear it. The whiskey-fog cushioned her thoughts. “I don’t want to talk about that,” she asserted.

  “Hmmm,” Ferran murmured. He turned to face her fully, settling his back against the far wall of the hut, propping one leg up on the cot, bent casually at the knee. The other leg rested over the edge, his foot on the deck. Finally he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing.

  “Ferran…” she started, but didn’t attempt to stop him. He drew her forward, draping her across his chest over the soaring phoenix tattoo, his long legs cradling her on either side. Her quilt was the only barrier between them. The smell of him touched her nose: cinnamon, whiskey and old leather; the peppery, masculine tinge of sweat. In this position, his body stretched around her like a kingdom all its own, a lounging terrain of strong limbs, wide shoulders, a corded neck and sweeping collarbone. She slowly relaxed, her stomach pressed against his. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat.

  “You planned this all along,” she said wryly, too warm and comfortable to really care.

  “Can you blame me?” he said, his deep voice reverberating beneath her ear. “You keep men at bay with a ten-foot pole.”

  “A woman can’t be too careful,” she replied.

  His hand rested on her head again, stroking her hair slowly and gently as he had before. Lori felt a wonderful sense of peace overcome her, a security she hadn’t experienced in many years.

  “It’s hard,” she murmured drowsily, “living alone as a woman. You can’t trust people the same way. There aren’t many good men out there.”

  Ferran snorted. “Aye,” he agreed. “And there aren’t many good women, either.”

  “Says the man who sleeps with whores.”

  He glanced down at her, his eyes briefly searching her face. “What happened to you, Lori?” he asked softly. Usually he said it as a joke, but this time he meant it.

  She bit her lip, thinking back to the day of her stabbing in the City of Crowns. More happened in that alley than she cared to remember. She curled her hands on his chest and remained silent, unable to find the words.

  Ferran waited, then shifted beneath her, resettling her more fully on top of him. He pulled his other leg up onto the bunk, trapping her in a warm net of limbs, cradling her in the shelter of his body. She felt drugged and pliant, unwilling to resist his arms.

  She let out a long, slow sigh against his chest. “Whatever happened between us, Ferran?” she asked quietly, changing the subject. “Why did we part ways?” So many things could have been different.

  He glanced down at her. His hand traveled from her hair to the back of her neck, massaging it absently in thought. “I set you up with Lord Fallcrest, just like you wanted. And then I left.”

  She frowned, tilting her head slightly to better meet his eyes. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “I mean, if you were an Ebonaire all along, why not just….”

  “Shower you in bags of gold?” he asked wryly. “Or marry you and ride off into the sunset?”

  Lori winced. “No, I didn’t mean…I know that’s absurd, you were disowned, and we weren’t….”

  “Can’t say I didn’t think about it,” he admitted, his eyes roving up to the ceiling in thought. “I should have for Dane. He asked me to look out for you. The honest truth, Lori, is that I was a selfish young bastard. I didn’t know how to take care of a woman and a baby. And I knew you wouldn’t have me either way.”

  Lori blinked, surprised by his honesty. “Oh,” she muttered. She had no idea Ferran felt this way. After Dane’s death, she never considered marrying him as an alternative. Why run into the arms of a penniless, wandering rake? By that time, he was already disowned, and she had no idea about his past.

  She thought about that, wondering what could have been if she were a little less young and impulsive. We weren’t so different back then, she realized. Each had been reckless and foolish in their own way.

  “Do you remember….” Ferran started slowly. “That winter solstice festival? Just before you got with child?”

  Lori thought for a moment. It was all so dim and long ago—twenty years in the past. Slowly, she dredged up the memory: a small town alight with lanterns and music. Villagers dancing in wooden masks, celebrating the end of the year. Endless bottles of flowing wine and spiced ale. She, Ferran and Dane arrived the night before, en route to an excavation site, where Dane eventually lost his life.

  She frowned slowly. “We spent the night dancing,” she recalled. “And Dane…Dane was….?”

  “With that buxom farmer’s daughter. You two had a fight a few weeks prior and weren’t speaking to one another. Remember?”

  She grimaced up at him. “Well, you certainly do.” Mindless drama, she thought. She remembered the falling-out now, but not the reasons. She had tried to end things with Dane, before she knew she was pregnant. He had spent the entire festival trying to make her jealous by dancing with a sheep-farmer’s daughter. Yes, she remembered now. And she had dumped an entire bottle of wine over his head in rage. Good peach wine, thick as syrup, the likes of which she hadn’t tasted since.

  She glanced up at Ferran. He w
atched her again, waiting for something. She wondered what he expected; then her eyes slowly widened. “After all that dancing, and all that wine,” she said softly, “we went to the shed behind the mill.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. His lips twitched slightly.

  “You kissed me?” she asked hesitantly.

  His smile drifted into an amused frown. “You don’t remember?” he asked, wrapping a strand of her hair between his fingers.

  “I was awfully drunk, Ferran….” she said slowly. Bits and pieces of that night returned to her, seeming to drift across centuries. She hadn’t once thought of it until now. Morning sickness began soon afterward and she became consumed with worries -- about children, marriage and her future with Dane.

  He watched her through hooded eyes, a slight smile on his lips. “You really don’t remember anything,” he said quietly. “What happened to you, Lori?” he repeated.

  Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t answer.

  Ferran slowly wrapped a second lock of her hair around his hand, then pulled tight, using the perfect amount of pressure to stimulate the sensitive nerves on her scalp. He angled her face toward his, a scarce inch between their lips, and murmured, “As I recall, I kissed you until you couldn’t stand up. Then I lifted you against the wall. You grabbed me so hard, your nails ripped my back. I still have the scar.”

  Lori shuddered against him, her body responding to his nearness.

  “Ferran,” she said breathlessly. “Stop…my wound….”

  “I know,” he murmured, and leaned down gently to brush his mouth against hers. He kissed her in a lazy, off-centered fashion, casually grazing her lower lip and trailing down her chin to her throat.

  Lori gasped on impulse. The alcohol helped her body respond. Sensations moved through her that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She didn’t want to tell him the truth—that she had lived a celibate life for longer than she cared to admit. Getting close to men put her on-guard; she didn’t trust men. Terrible things had happened to her on the streets of the City of Crowns…things a woman never really recovered from. Even now, Ferran's passionate touch caused a tremor of fear in her heart, something instinctive and primal that she couldn’t rationalize to herself. Suddenly she wanted to pull away.

  He sensed her stiffen and stopped, lowering her head back to his chest, though he kept his soft grip on her hair. “Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

  “No,” she murmured.

  He paused. “You don’t want me?”

  She sensed the vulnerability behind that question, surprising from a man like him. She knew to tread lightly. Lori pressed her cheek over his heart. “No,” she murmured. “It’s not that. I just….”

  “You were raped,” he said bluntly.

  “I—” she paused. She struggled with that word for a moment. It sounded so harsh, so terribly harsh. Not able to answer him, she looked away; that was the only answer he needed.

  “I can tell that when you shy away from me,” he said. “And from the scars on your stomach. I’ve walked the low road, Lori. I’ve seen what street scum do to a woman. After using her, they puncture her womb, ruining her chance of ever bearing children…if she survives.”

  Lori swallowed hard. She felt as though some inner door had been pried open, dragged off its hinges. “It was just after I became a Healer. I worked at the seminary, and then at the Daniellian house….” she paused. “I was attacked on the streets in the Smokeshaft District. I don’t know who found me, but I was close to death. The Healers spent hours piecing me back together….” She paused, a sob welling in her throat. “And then I left, and I never came back.”

  “Who did this to you?” Ferran murmured. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, cradling her to his chest. She sensed he already knew the answer.

  “Thugs,” she said. “Hired by Cedric Daniellian.”

  Ferran paused.

  “Lord Cedric Daniellian,” she repeated. “He wanted to bed me, but I had a job to protect, and noble wives don’t tolerate that kind of thing….So I tended his mother, and when she died, he claimed he found poison in her food, and, I don’t know….” Her voice fell. “He became fixated on me. His rage was unrelenting.”

  Ferran let out a long, slow breath.

  “He hired thugs to kill me. I have no proof, but I know it was him,” she muttered against his chest. “Headmaster Duncan hardly waited for me to stand up before he told me to leave. I planned to go anyway. He suggested I revoke my vows, but I couldn’t. All those years spent training, building a life for myself…I lost everything again….” The tears streamed uncontrollably from her eyes. She couldn’t finish. “I think Duncan told Cedric I was exiled, or some other load of tosh. I don’t know.”

  Ferran wrapped his arms around her shoulders, careful not to jar her wound. He adjusted the quilt to cover her more fully, then rested his chin on top of her head. He held her like that as she cried. Her tears ran down her cheeks onto his neck and chest, blending with the faded lines of his phoenix tattoo. She could sense his anger, barely contained within the solid vise of his arms. His heart pounded strong and fast against her cheek. A red light flared from the Cat’s Eye on his wrist.

  “I’ll kill him,” he said softly, deep in his throat.

  Lori almost laughed, but was crying too hard. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, struggling to control her voice. “He’s a Daniellian, Ferran. And you’re not an Ebonaire any more.”

  “Then I guess I have nothing left to lose,” he murmured darkly.

  Lori pulled her head up, alarmed by his tone of voice. “Really, Ferran,” she repeated, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It was seven years ago. I hate the bastard, but there’s no use retaliating. He’s untouchable. Believe me, I spent much time thinking about it.” She paused. “I just…I’m sorry, I’m not myself right now, the wound…and the whiskey….I’ve never told anyone about this before. I’m fine. Really. It was long ago.”

  Ferran looked at her in a piercing way she didn’t expect. She could see his disbelief. He didn’t think she’d made peace with her past—and perhaps he was right. Cedric Daniellian had taken everything from her—her job, the seminary, her reputation as a Healer….And perhaps, most terribly, her ability to trust a man.

  She told Ferran it took her weeks to walk on her own after the attack. During that time, she stayed in the seminary, paralyzed in fear, terrified Cedric would send someone to finish the job.

  “He took everything from you,” Ferran said softly, his voice thick with anger, echoing her thoughts. “He will never face any consequences…it’s not right.”

  “He’s the First Tier,” she said softly. “They sidestep the law all the time.”

  Ferran’s jaw tightened.

  She forced herself to smile at him, despite the tears down streaking her face. “I have Sora,” she said. “That’s enough.”

  “Right,” he murmured, his eyes focusing past her. “You have your daughter.”

  Something about his expression gave her pause. She frowned, a forbidden thought stealing into her mind. “Ferran,” she murmured. “On that winter solstice night, when you took me behind the mill…did we….?”

  His gray eyes met hers.

  She pushed on. “Did we…make love?”

  All pretense vanished between them. She saw his expression soften, a look that terrified her even more than his anger toward Cedric.

  “If I told you we did,” he said quietly, “would that change anything?”

  Lori sucked in a sharp breath. “No,” she said. “I would remember.”

  “Granted, it wasn’t my best performance.”

  Lori pushed back on impulse, then cried out sharply as the muscles in her back spasmed in pain. He pressed her to his chest, holding her as she groaned. All the while, her thoughts spun in panic. Would that change anything? Only the last eighteen years! What if…what if Sora…what if Dane….

  No, Sora looked like Dane, she had his wide lips….

  Wide lips like L
ady Ebonaire, who visited the seminary once on a formal occasion. But Sora had Dane’s long fingers…fingers like Ferran’s, only smaller and sleeker….

  Faces and features blurred before her. She had no picture of Dane to remember him by. Fragments of memory filled her mind. She couldn’t piece it all together any more. It seemed implausible…and yet….

  “Tell me we didn’t make love,” she demanded, her voice weak.

  “We did, Lori.”

  “But I don’t remember! How could I not remember such a thing?”

  “It was short and sloppy. We were both drunk. I didn’t last long….And I think you called me Dane….” He paused awkwardly. “You’ve been through a lot since then. Hell, I only half-believed it in the morning. You and Dane made up. He was my closest friend; I wasn’t about to say anything. I knew you didn’t really want me. The only reason I remember,” his voice lowered, hesitating, “is because I didn’t want to be a father. That’s why I ran, Lori. And I’ve always wondered about it, and maybe regretted….”

  “No!” she burst out. She wanted to shake her head in denial, to pound her fists against his chest in frustration, but his tight arms held her immobile. “No, it’s impossible. We were only together once. Think of the chances!”

  “I know,” he agreed. “But think of the timing.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because you asked, Lori,” he said in exasperation. “I’m not lying to you. I have the scars where your nails raked me,” he said. “Has a kiss ever made you sink your fingers into a man’s back?”

  She couldn’t listen to another word. Her heart ached, tied into a dozen firm knots. She felt like she might throw up. “I can’t think any more,” she groaned.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said sincerely. “Bad timing.”

  “Get off the cot,” she said hoarsely.

  “What?”

  “I need to sleep.” And just like that, she did the only sensible thing she could do—she pushed away. She sealed it all deep within herself, to be cracked open and inspected at a better time.