Sora's Quest

  She already knew the answer. The sight would have unnerved her, but at the moment, she seemed incapable of feeling anything.

  A small stream of fluid entered her mouth, salty and thick. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her lip. She tried to swallow but her throat wouldn't work. She felt like her body was slowly solidifying, becoming stiff and useless.

  Suddenly she was afraid. She looked back at her companions and recognized the look on their faces. A wave of nausea hit. Suddenly, she knew this was not a wound she would be recovering from.

  Sora took a step toward her companions. It took a great amount of effort. Her boot bumped against Dorian's still hand.

  Her hands found the blade of the sword that protruded from between her ribs, just to assure herself that she wasn't dreaming.

  Her movement snapped the men into action. With her next step, Crash was up from the ground. He grabbed the hilt of the blade, giving it a fierce tug. Sora felt like the air had been sucked out of her. A scream found its way out of her throat—the pain was consuming, intense, unlike anything she had ever felt before. Like her body was splitting in two.

  As soon as the blade was fully out, it flickered in the air, wavering before her eyes.

  Then it disintegrated in the wind, blowing away just as the wraith had, leaving only the black hilt.

  Dizziness overcame her. Sora collapsed forward with a shudder, the pain too intense to stand. The assassin caught her.

  "Are you both all right?" she managed to whisper. It was barely audible.

  Crash lowered her to the ground and laid her out, his expression darker than she had ever seen. He wiped the blood from her mouth with his muddy sleeve and allowed her eyes to rove over his face, studying his cunning, sharp features, following the scar into his shirt.

  "Idiot girl...." he murmured. "You should have stayed put."

  "But you would have died," Sora whispered. You all would have died.

  Crash continued to gaze at her, his mouth slightly open. No words came. Was he surprised?

  It was too late to wonder. His face swam before her. Slowly her vision blurred, her ears dimmed.

  Darkness.

  * * *

  Crash's mouth was open. He felt like his heart had just stopped. What had she said? Her last words? Not a heroic speech or the desperate promises of a fading friend. No, she had said her thoughts plainly, directly, and yet they changed everything. This girl—this spoiled, rich, infuriating girl—had given her life for his. She had saved him.

  He had never felt anything like this before.

  He watched her go limp on the ground, and suddenly his heart hammered against his ribs, his lungs seized. He felt like he was choking on air. Ice flowed through him. His hands gripped Sora's shoulders in an effort to regain himself. What is happening to me? he thought furiously. Why am I suddenly so- so....? Abruptly, the assassin blinked. Could this be...fear?

  Worse than that—terror. He had never known it before. Since he was a child, he had been trained in the ways of his people, to think beyond death, to live with removed indifference, to see the world through eyes of stone. He had first killed at the age of fourteen. He had known violence his entire life. Fear was not even a word in his original tongue.

  But there was no other explanation. He had never experienced such helplessness, the way his blood raced and his stomach clenched—it couldn't be anything else. Couldn't be, and yet....He closed his eyes in pain, touching the girl's golden hair. Why now? he wondered. Why do I feel this now?

  It was a question to be left unanswered. Sora was nothing but a rich brat, kidnapped out of precaution, kept only because of her necklace. She was an asset as long as she had the Cat's Eye—otherwise she was expendable, nothing more than excess weight. How many times had he looked upon her in disgust? He had watched her smooth hands, butter-soft and free of callouses, grip the staff. They were hands for doing needlework and writing letters, not the hands of a warrior. He had grimaced many times at her naivete, at her senseless ideas, her assumptions about the world that only a sheltered child would have.

  He didn't like a shred about her—did he? No, of course not. And yet...and yet....

  And yet—she had saved his life.

  Crash's eyes turned from the girl's soft face to the thief's dead body, lying crumpled and lifeless nearby. The Wolfy mage wasn't moving, and Crash knew that he never would move again.

  He had seen countless others die, engaged in battle or sleeping in their beds, unaware. Different races, different people. It wasn't in his nature to think in terms of friends or enemies, to hold onto bodies, spirits. All beings were momentarily animated, but ultimately impermanent, destined to return to their original state. The living are meant to die, his mentor had once said. They are specks of dust, momentary flashes of light. In this way, you must understand—what is alive now is already dead.

  But...but the fields, the birds, the forest....

  It is an illusion. Everything is Death.

  Crash shook his head—words from a long time ago, another lifetime. He had escaped that world, that realm of emptiness, but he knew that it would never leave him. Not the indifference, the huge disconnect between himself and those around him. Sometimes he truly felt like stone; felt more like the ground beneath them than the people who walked on it.

  He didn't think he had changed—no, it was impossible to outgrow one's true nature—but for some reason, this girl was different. He didn't know why, but he was stricken, entranced by her silent body. Look away, he told himself. But he couldn't even do that.

  He wasn't responsible for her, hadn't made any pretense of being so—hadn't made any promises.

  I owe her my life. We all owe her our lives....

  Crash's hand went to her face and cupped one cheek. His eyes traveled over her face, her pale cheeks, the delicate bone structure.

  Then a slight movement caught his attention. He paused. Not daring to hope, he tore off his glove and rested his fingers against her mouth, and felt the constriction in his chest loosen. Yes, she was still breathing—and by the gods, he would keep her that way!

  "Burn, watch her!" he shouted in urgency. "Keep her warm!"

  Burn, who had been staring at Dorian's body in sorrow, shot to his feet. "She's not dead?" he asked in disbelief.

  "She's not dead, but we don't have much time." The assassin's green eyes were fierce with determination. "Stay here! I must find a Healer."

  The Wolfy nodded, kneeling next to Sora's still body and removing his cloak, placing it on top of her.

  Crash turned and ran toward town, moving swiftly through the grass. Within seconds, he was no more than a shadow against the twilight, consumed by darkness.

  Stupid girl, you should have let me die, he thought. Specks of light could be seen against the night sky, distant windows and flickering street lamps. How many times had he wished for death, for a killing blow? But it seemed the gods weren't done with him yet.

  A shudder ran through him. He might have prayed to the Goddess at that moment, begged a favor from the deity he had never spoken to, but She wasn't his to ask. No, his people did not pray to the Wind. They worshiped something darker, something far less forgiving, whose name remained buried deep in the earth, who had stayed hidden from the world since its very creation. And it was not His way to spare a life.

  He reached the gates of the town. Two figures moved to intercept him. Crash intended to bowl straight through them, but the gates were closed, and the guards stood with their swords drawn.

  “Halt!” the first guard yelled.

  “State your name and intention!” the second guard shouted.

  Crash breezed past them, fast as a whip. He flung himself on the closed iron gates and climbed swiftly, propelling himself upward with his strong legs. He reached the top and dropped to the other side, twelve feet to the ground.

  When he turned back, the two guards stared at him through the steel grates.

  “Seeking a Healer,” Crash said. “Is there
one in town?”

  The first guard pointed down the street, his face still frozen in shock. The second guard glanced sideways at him, then grabbed his hand, lowering his finger. “State your name, or we'll have to arrest you!” he called.

  Crash ignored them. He turned and dashed down the street, his eyes searching back and forth, combing the closed doors and bright windows for any sign of a Healer's trade.

  The town was made up of short square buildings and cobbled roads. It looked quaint and friendly, small enough for everyone to know each other. The street lamps had recently been lit and cast flickering shadows across the ground. It was growing cold, unusual for this side of the swamp—a sign from the Goddess? He hoped not.

  He started down the winding street. Most of the town's inhabitants had retired to dinner, but a few still wandered outside, just in time to see the black-clad man rush past them. He would doubtlessly be the topic of conversation in the morning, but he wasn't concerned. By the time Volcrian rounded the swamp, he doubted anyone would remember him. Despite the many looks, no one called out.

  A few minutes later, Crash found the kind of fellow he was looking for—a thin, honest type with large watery eyes and wispy blond hair. He was wringing his hands nervously, sitting out on his doorstep, perhaps trying to calm himself by taking in the night air. The assassin didn't linger on why he was outside; he simply acted.

  “You,” he said harshly, panting. He wasn't used to being out of breath, but Fennbog had taken its toll. “Where is the Healer?”

  The man stared up at him, eyes wide, his face turning pale. “I-I...” he stuttered.

  “Out with it!” the assassin said. “This is a matter of life or death!”

  The man's eyes dropped to the daggers at his belt. His expression was obvious—full of fear. Crash groaned; he could have stabbed the man right there in irritation.

  At that moment the door to the house opened. A woman appeared, outlined by the light of the room behind her, a halo of golden hair around her face. She spoke sharply, "Well? Here I am! Now who's asking for a Healer?"

  Crash glared up at her. “I am. It's urgent.”

  The woman sighed. “How urgent? It's late and I don't have the supplies to tend cattle....”

  “A girl in the field is bleeding to death. She was stabbed."

  There was a pause. The man's gaze went to Crash's belt again. The assassin could read that look. He wanted to roll his eyes—no, I'm not at fault. At least, not entirely.

  The woman came down the step and lit the lantern in her hand. Warm light illuminated her face. Crash noted that she was damp with sweat, as though she had just come from a heavy workout. She looked down at the thin man. "Oh, Jase, there you are. Your wife is fine." Then a smile grew on her face. "She only needed a few stitches. It's a beautiful boy."

  The man nodded in relief. Then he scurried inside, casting one last fearful glance over his shoulder before slamming the door shut.

  The woman turned back to Crash. "I'm the only Healer in these parts. It would appear that you got lucky. Now step over here so I can get a good look at you, then tell me again what the matter is."

  Crash could have strangled her with impatience. Calm, his thoughts murmured. Be like a stone. He composed himself—barely.

  He stepped forward from the shadows, ready to growl in frustration, then stopped in surprise.

  The lady in front of him, though quite a bit older than Sora, looked almost exactly like her. From her hair, slightly less vibrant, to her short stature and firm chin. The biggest difference was how she carried herself—like a warrior. From what he could tell, her arms were tight and defined, her stance solid and straight. She wore several different knives at her belt. Definitely not what one would expect from a Healer.

  The woman stared up at him with shrewd blue eyes, then let out a breath, equally surprised. "Rare,” she said, “to meet an assassin this far from the City.”

  Crash frowned at her words, her piercing gaze. He saw suspicion furrow her brow. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  “There's no time for an explanation,” he said quietly. “Will you come?”

  The woman waved her hand. "Yes. Show me the girl. I'll see what I can do. Just a moment while I get my horse."

  Crash watched the woman walk away, her bold stride, her fast steps. Perhaps I am imagining it, he thought, staring at the glow of her hair. There was no time to waste on questions. He needed to get back to Sora—now.

  * * *

  Crash leaned over the Healer's shoulder, sitting behind her on the horse. He saw perfectly through the darkness, easily spotting Burn and Sora in the field. The Wolfy had lain down next to her, holding Sora close to his body, trying to keep her warm as she went into shock.

  He let out a breath—one he felt he had been keeping for hours. Burn wouldn't hold her like that if she were dead.

  “There,” he said, pointing through the darkened grass.

  “I see them,” the woman replied.

  She reined in the horse a few yards from the fallen figures, leaped from the saddle in a fluid motion and grabbed the lantern that hung from the horse's side. She lit the lantern, holding it over her head, illuminating a wide circle of grass. Then the Healer paused, staring at Burn, her eyes becoming wide. Shock registered on her face. “A Wolfy,” she murmured. Then she glanced to the side, her eyes lingering on Dorian's dead body in the grass. She blinked. "Two?" she murmured. “A friend of yours?"

  Burn waved his hand. “No time for that,” he said. “Please....”

  The Healer shook herself, hands trembling ever so slightly on the lantern, then dropped down next to Sora's body. The girl was wrapped in Burn's cloak and the Healer carefully peeled it back.

  Crash dismounted more slowly. Now he was able to see the paleness of Sora's skin, the blue tint to her lips. She looked like a small, fragile child. That terrible fear gripped him again. Perhaps it was too late.

  They watched the Healer thoroughly inspect the wound. She wiped away the caked blood. Once exposed, the puncture appeared narrow and thin to the untrained eye, only about two inches wide. By the amount of blood lost, however, it was terribly deep; who knew if she had a damaged organ or lung? Blood also dripped from Sora's mouth. She had been pierced almost completely through the chest.

  Crash shook his head darkly. How could she possibly still be alive? The Cat's Eye? His eyes darted to the seemingly innocent necklace. The stone would protect its host at all costs. What else did he not know about its powers?

  "This is very deep," the Healer finally murmured.

  Burn stared at the woman, his eyes bright gold in the lantern light. He didn't speak, but Crash knew what he was thinking. He, too, felt like he was staring at a ghost, as though Sora's image crouched over her own body.

  But there were subtle differences. The woman's hands showed her age, rough and veined. Confident. On closer inspection, he could see the lines around her tired eyes, a difference in the hairline, slightly thinner lips. Sora's hair was a deeper gold.

  The Healer looked up at them. "We have to move her to my cabin," she said, very serious. "Her Cat's Eye is holding her together, but it won't last much longer. She has lost a lot of blood." She motioned to the other side of the field, west of the town. "My home is in a clearing in the woods. We might be able to save her. No time to lose.” She hesitated only slightly. “Are either of you hurt?"

  Crash didn't respond immediately. He was surprised at the woman's knowledge of the Cat's Eye. She had identified the necklace and avoided touching it, aware of its ability to bond. For a Healer, she seemed to know a lot about the stone. Perhaps too much.

  He decided not to mention it—for now. "No," he answered her question.

  "Nothing serious,” Burn said at the same time. “Sora is all that matters now."

  The woman nodded sharply. Then she turned to the fallen girl. "Tell me, is that her name—Sora?"

  "Yes," Crash said. He watched the woman's face intently.

  She seemed thou
ghtful, momentarily withdrawn. Her eyes roamed over Sora's body, face, perhaps a bit too long. Then she turned back to them. "Come on, help me move her."

  * * *

  Holding Sora securely in his arms, Crash charged across the field on horseback. The beast did not need urging or directions, and personally, he was far too tired to do either. Behind him, the Healer clung tightly to his waist, trying to keep him from falling off. It was working, too. He was so tired that he could have fallen asleep in the middle of a battlefield at war.

  This is a battlefield at war, he thought, and looked down at Sora's fragile form. She had lost a lot of weight from the last time he had carried her, long before the swamp. He hadn't noticed before; hadn't cared to.

  Burn followed on foot. He could run almost as fast as the horse. The giant Wolfy carried Dorian's body slung over one shoulder.

  Finally they entered a wide clearing in the woods, covered in low grass and pine needles. At its center was a log cabin. The horse slowed to a halt in front of the house. The building was much larger than he had expected, two stories high, dozens of windows, two or three chimneys—yet it appeared quaint and welcoming. Light shone from inside.

  The Healer dismounted from the horse and whistled. She was answered immediately by the soft patter of footsteps. A small man came running around the building, the light shining off his bald head. He was old and hunched, with long goblin ears, a jutting nose and drooping eyes.

  "Cameron? Take the horse into the stalls,” she directed. “Then could you heat up what remains of the pork? Our guests will be hungry.”

  The man nodded hastily and made a lunge for the reins, but the Healer caught his wrist. "Cameron! Cameron, listen, take the horse into the stalls, gently, do you understand? Gently."

  The man, who was obviously simple-minded, nodded solemnly and took the reins. At the same time, Burn stepped up to the side of the horse and pulled Sora from Crash's arms.