Sora's Quest (The Cat's Eye Chronicles #1)

by T. L. Shreffler

Volcrian felt the shock run through him. It almost threw him from his horse.

  His steed whinnied and bucked, sensitive to emotions. Volcrian wavered in the saddle, almost toppling backward, his crippled hand snagging in the reins and dragging sideways. He gasped in agony, then righted himself and regained control by pushing his weight down. He disentangled his hand and pulled firmly on the harness. The horse shied for a moment, dancing across the earth, then settled down.

  Volcrian sat atop the still horse, breath heaving in his lungs, his crippled hand spasming from pain. No. He hadn’t expected this.

  Every blood-mage had a connection to his minions. They shared the same blood, after all. He had felt a shockwave crash over his body: a gust of wind and a firm shove from behind. His creation. His servant. Gone.

  After all of the blood he had put into his sorcery, the hours spent catching the fox, a few failed attempts at creating other creatures, monsters that had all decomposed back into dirt—the beast had been destroyed. Obliterated in a matter of seconds.

  There were very few explanations for this. His creations were supposed to be immortal, imperishable. It was not possible, unless his prey had stumbled upon very powerful magic. Ancient magic. Rare, indeed. As long as Volcrian had practiced the blood arts, he had never met another sorcerer than Etienne. Not in all the towns and cities they had visited.

  Volcrian was not the type to guess in the dark. The fox-corpse should have been powerful enough, with stamina enough, to kill the bastard Dorian and bring Viper to heel. And yet, there had been something slightly different about this energy, this burst of static that had touched his body, reaching straight through the blood of his magic. It had been...green. Lush. He had heard...bells.

  Female.

  The girl, Volcrian suddenly thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. Could it be...that Lady Fallcrest was alive after all? Ironic, that. It was one explanation, but how could she conquer a Wolfy's spell? She was a pathetic human. I must get to the bottom of this. Now. He couldn't wait too long. He knew Viper well. True to his name, the assassin was as slippery as a snake in the grass.

  In one smooth movement, he dismounted. He tied his steed to a nearby thistle bush and walked a brief distance away, glancing around. Eventually he found what he was looking for. A young sapling, just barely sprouted, about knee-high. The spell he would use was brief and simple, very basic.

  In order to speak to the dead, one must exchange new life for old. Some would think this meant sacrificing a child or a kitten, but no, a young tree would work as well.

  He uprooted the small sapling, its shallow roots pried free easily of the loose, moist dirt. Then Volcrian threw it on the ground, and struck a fire by rubbing flint on rock. In his native tongue, the tongue of his ancestors, he began the long and methodical chant of the dead.

  Perhaps twenty minutes passed before a white, filmy shape appeared in the smoke. It was the silhouette of a female, the shade of some unnameable spirit, perhaps a woman who had died in this forest hundreds of years ago. Not all of the races believed the same things about spirits and the afterlife, and not all spirits could be contacted. Only the ones who were willing.

  Some races believed that spirits were just as limited as their living counterparts. They only knew certain information, that which they were privy to in life, or else soon after death. But Wolfy lore believed that all things were connected, that all blood was of the same ocean. Once dead, the veil of the body was lifted, and one had full knowledge of all things.

  “I am hunting an assassin,” he said. The spirit wavered quietly. It was an eerie thing to watch, vaporous and misty, faceless but for the shallow indent of a mouth and a thin trail of hair. “He has a new weapon to aid him. What is it?”

  The spirit's figure shuddered, flashed. For a moment, the woman's face was vaguely visible, her hands held up to her cheeks, her jaw drawn out in a long, silent howl. Voiceless words. The sudden vision made Volcrian flinch and move back, but then he held his ground, watching the white mist closely. The spirit spun, smeared, wavered....

  “A Cat's Eye,” the voice breathed. There was fear in those words.

  Volcrian's ears twitched. It was an otherworldly sound, incoherent to any other ear. “Explain,” he murmured.

  “I have seen a girl traveling through these woods...a young girl who aids the Dark One. She carries a Cat's-Eye stone.” The spirit swirled, her long, disfigured face spinning round towards him, her hair bleeding into the wind. The soft voice spoke one last time. “A Cat's Eye, rich in souls.”

  Then, with a long eerie whine, the Spirit collapsed inward on itself. It was sucked back to the in-between, a dark forest where souls did not rest, but were not damned, simply watched and waited.

  The mage took a deep, calming breath, and kept breathing until his mind was cold and clear. A young girl with a Cat's-Eye stone. A Cat's Eye. He had never dealt with such a thing before. In all of his years of practice, he had never come across one. He had heard of Cat's-Eye stones in stories of the races, a few vague mentions in his grandfather's script. Supposedly, the stones had all been destroyed shortly after the decimation of the races, tossed to the depths of the ocean from which they had originated.

  Was it possible? How does a child come across such a powerful artifact? And yet...there was no other explanation for the green light, the jolt that had almost thrown him from his horse. He didn't like its ferocity, the way it had drained his blood-magic like so much water. It felt wild, raw. The girl couldn't possibly know how to use it. Not yet. He doubted she had a clue what she was doing.

  Yet as an experienced magic user, he knew the danger of an untrained hand. She was vulnerable, susceptible to manipulation. The necklace was a loose cannon. Magic was not something to be used lightly, like a simple toy. It had consequences, side effects, moods and preferences...each and every spell had a price.

  Volcrian turned back to his horse, glancing at the starry sky above him, the sliver of moon on the horizon just above the hills, perched like a wicked smile. He might as well make camp. With his blood-minion destroyed, he wouldn't be catching up with the three travelers tomorrow. They would continue on in the morning, and he would be too exhausted to keep up.

  He led his horse to a separate clearing and built another small fire—a natural one. He unsaddled the steed and started setting up a small camp, unpacking his provisions, laying out a bedroll. His mind mulled over the new information.

  He had to get rid of the necklace before it ruined his plans. Which meant killing the girl as soon as possible. Once the girl was dead, the problem would be solved. He doubted that the assassin or the Wolfies would try to wear the necklace; that would be risky, dangerous, especially for those who already wielded magic.

  But killing her wouldn't be easy. His power would be next to useless. He would need to confront her in person, do the deed himself with his bare hands.

  The thought was invigorating, making his heart pound; his hands clenched in anticipation as though they were already curling around her weak, skinny neck. The sooner she was out of the picture, the sooner he could achieve his revenge.

  Hurrying to set camp, clearing a space between two low-bending birch trees, he removed a spare saddle blanket and stretched it across a branch as a makeshift tent. His thoughts were eagerly planning the next morning. Tomorrow, he would do a simple tracing spell to gauge their general direction. It shouldn't take more than a bird's egg. Then he could devise a shortcut, cut them off further down the road. The girl would slow down the assassin, enough for Volcrian to get ahead. It was always faster traveling alone.

  Sora awoke in the gray dawn. It was slightly warmer than the previous morning, but she was still sore, her rump covered in bruises from the previous day's ride. She sat up with a yawn and stretched out her arms, rolling her shoulders and neck.

  The camp appeared to be in order, except for a few scuffs in the dirt where the monster had appeared the night before. Dorian had thrown the corpse to the trees shortly before falling asleep. It
had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. He had used a long stick to move the body, reluctant to touch it or get any blood on him. She hadn't asked why.

  Her hand traveled to her necklace, touching the small, warm stone. The memories were fresh and vivid, and she shuddered. A Cat's Eye, huh?

  It was strange to think that, for the last seven years, she had assumed it was merely a pretty bauble. Now she thought back to the strange stories Lily had told her, stories they had shared late at night, huddled under her bedsheets, the pale light of a candle illuminating their round young faces. “She never wore it, but sometimes she would talk to the stone. I thought it was magic but...that's just silly.” Lily admitted that she was very young, only six or seven, when Sora's mother had lived in the manor, and wildly imaginative. And yet, she was the only witness to the necklace—or the only witness who would fess up.

  So her mother had never worn it, although she must have known what it was. But why would she leave it behind, forgotten, in the nursery, with no warning about its powers? Sora was deep in thought. Maybe it hadn't been intentional. Maybe the necklace had simply been misplaced.

  Or perhaps her mother had left in a hurry, with no time to cunningly hide a letter. Maybe Sora wasn't supposed to have found the necklace; maybe it wasn't meant for her at all.

  She sighed. There were no answers. The only option was to find the woman, if she ever could. And she wasn't about to tell her captors about her true quest. They might watch her more closely if they knew she had other plans—then she would forfeit all chance of escape.

  Her eyes wandered around the camp to Dorian’s resting form and the freshly lit fire. Crash must be up, she thought, watching the smoke blend with the fog. She had yet to see him sleep. He was always the first to take watch, the first up in the morning. She thought, briefly, of trying to run away, but she didn't trust the silence of the forest. The surrounding woods were hushed and subdued. She couldn't imagine an eerier place, the fog lingering between the trees, the dim hoot of an owl, the soft crunch of a squirrel in the leaves. The assassin's peculiar absence. She knew he was watching her. He always was.

  She stretched one last time, rubbed her arms, then stood up and walked over to the sleeping Wolfy.

  She reached out to touch his shoulder.

  Immediately Dorian jolted awake. He shot upright and Sora jumped back, a shriek on her lips, but he grabbed her before she could scream and pulled her back down to the ground. Within a minute, she was lying on the dirt by his side, with a rock poking her back and pine needles stuck in her hair.

  “Good morning," he said pleasantly.

  She tried to contain her response, but a fit of giggles, partly hysterical, burst forth. Goddess, my nerves are ruined! It took her a moment to catch her breath. When he grabbed her, she fully imagined it was the monster from last night, howling out of the darkness, its great claws reaching for her....

  Dorian sat up, unaware of her near-panic. Then he winced, putting his hand against his wounded hip. He stretched his right side where the monster had clawed him.

  “No shirt?” Sora said, indicating his smooth, pale chest.

  Dorian's ears twitched in response, and a wicked smile curved at his lips. “I didn't bring a spare,” he winked. “Why? Do you like what you see?”

  Sora felt her cheeks turn red, but she kept eye contact with him. She shrugged. “I don't court thieves,” she said sharply, raising her head, hoping the barb would hit home.

  But Dorian seemed immune to her in every way. He laughed instead, a short bark, just like he always did. “We wouldn't be 'courting,' my dear.”

  She glared, receiving the full gist of his words. She would have spat at him, but he spoke instead, catching her off-guard. “How did you sleep last night, by the way?” he asked.

  Sora snorted. “Fine.”

  “Any nightmares? Monsters in your dreams?”

  “No, surprisingly,” she said. It was a lie. She barely slept a wink, flinching and starting at every rustle in the bushes. She muttered, “The only monster around here is Crash.”

  Dorian's eyes widened, then he grinned, looking at her strangely, as though uncertain whether to laugh. “Come now...he's not such a bad sort....”

  “Bad sort? He's the worst sort! A murderer for hire, and he killed my...my Lord!”

  Dorian seemed surprisingly thoughtful about it, though perhaps it was just another game. “We've all done our share of bad things,” he said evenly.

  Sora balked. “He is a killer and should be hung!”

  “Now that's a strong opinion for a child,” came a soft voice from the trees.

  Sora sat up. She turned, her eyes combing the deep shadows between the trunks. Crash stood in the deepest shade, his arms crossed and one boot propped up on a tree root, his black cloak shifting in the wind. Who knew how long he had been standing there? Perhaps since she had awakened. Had he heard their entire conversation? She felt another blush begin under the collar of her shirt and climb up to her forehead—the second blush of the morning.

  He spoke to Dorian, ignoring her completely. “Mayville is only a short way off. I didn’t see Burn.”

  Dorian cocked an eyebrow at this. “Probably because he didn't want to be seen.”

  “What?” Sora blurted, forcing herself into the conversation. “Who's Burn?”

  No one answered her. On some silent cue, Dorian got up and started clearing their campsite. Bags were packed and ashes scattered from the fire. They threw pine needles and leaves around, arranging branches so it looked like no one had ever stopped there. Sora was reminded that they were being followed. Hunted. She remembered the name—Volcrian—and shuddered, suddenly afraid, glancing over her shoulder into the trees.

  Finally they were ready to ride. Sora waited in the middle of the campsite, crossing her arms defiantly, her empty satchel slung over one shoulder. She would wait to be directed. It was a small rebellion, but the best she could manage.

  Dorian climbed into his saddle with some difficulty, favoring his wounds, then shot her a pointed look. “You're being a nuisance, sweetheart,” he said. Then he nodded over her shoulder. “Go with him.”

  Sora was puzzled at first. Not about being a nuisance, but the second part. “With Crash?” she asked, to clarify. Her heart sank even lower at the mention of his name. “Can't I just walk behind your horse?”

  He grinned at her expression, ears twitching. “An opportunist! I like that. But no, sweetness, quite the opposite. You've already slowed us down too much. Volcrian is on our heels. And we can't have you running away....”

  “What? I wouldn't!” Sora exclaimed. The lie was so transparent, she almost laughed at herself.

  The thief raised an eyebrow. “You're riding with Crash today,” he repeated, and she caught the wryness around his soft lips.

  Sora let out a long, expressive sigh, definitely nonplussed.

  Dorian nodded again to where Crash was saddling his steed a few yards away. “Go on now. Be good.”

  She glared, ruffled by his words. Be good. She had never been condescended to before, not like this. It was even more infuriating than the sneers of the city nobility. This man was a common peasant and a thief at that! How dare he....

  She turned, seething quietly, adjusting the cloak on her shoulders. Then she stalked towards Crash's horse, fists clenched, and stood waiting for him to finish with the saddle.

  Her eyes traveled around the forest, counting pine cones, taking note of a few birds' nests. She wondered if they would be eating breakfast any time soon. She had a sudden longing for the manor's kitchen, for the warm tiles and smell of pastries. If there was one thing she missed, it was her usual thick slice of toast in the morning, smothered in butter. Mmmm, butter. Or a fresh bowl of porridge with blueberries. Or fruit from her orchard. Or scones and jam. Yes, scones and jam, fresh from the oven! The smell would drift from the kitchen through the whole bottom floor of the manor. She could remember being a small child, bent over her math book, thoroughly distracted
by the smell of warm, sweet honey scones seeping under the door....

  Sora snapped out of her reverie; had someone asked her a question?

  Crash was staring at her with an annoyed frown.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Get on,” he said, as if he had repeated himself several times.

  “Oh,” Sora grunted, then wiped her mouth, surprised at a bit of drool on her lips. Goddess! Was she really so hungry?

  She stepped up to the horse and put her foot in the stirrup, a little uncertain. She had expected to ride behind him, not in front of him. She wanted to protest, but she also didn't want to look the assassin in the eye. She mounted the horse after a slight hesitation, expecting him to whip out another cloth and try to drug her. But he made no move toward her.

  In fact, he completely ignored her as he swung up into the saddle. She sat forward, her back rigid, loathe to touch the man in any way, but he reached his arms around her for the reins. She could feel the press of his thighs against hers. They were warm, firm with muscle. She closed her eyes and thought again of her manor, of the breakfast table, of a delicious fresh scone....

  He turned the horse, steering almost completely with his legs, and they headed for the road. Sora's stomach growled but she pretended not to hear it. The sun was bright, although it was still early in the morning. They followed the road as it wandered to the right, where it dipped down the side of a steep hill covered in loose shale. The countryside had become notably more rocky since the previous day, the grass tough and dry, the dirt mixed with rocks and pebbles. It had a dull red sheen, rich with iron. They kicked up small clouds of the red dirt as they made their way forward.

  The horse picked its way carefully down the hill, treading slowly over rocks. Sora had to lean back against Crash to keep her balance, and she hated the feeling of his chest against her shoulder blades. It reminded her of her birthday night and their panicked ride through the woods. She felt sick. Today was going to be very long and silent; she wasn't going to say one word to the killer. Not. One. Word.

  “Ow!” Sora yelped as the horse stumbled over a rock.

  “Pay attention,” Crash growled.

  Sora shot a glare over her shoulder. There. Glaring doesn't count as speaking, she thought. Then she winced as the horse stumbled over another rock; her back was still sore from the previous day's ride, and the stiff, awkward position wasn't helping. I’d sell my soul for my own horse right about now, she thought. She wondered if Crash felt the same way. He probably didn't like sharing his horse—or who knew, maybe he got a sick satisfaction out of torturing her. He didn't seem concerned that she was in any sort of discomfort. It occurred to her that perhaps he was jarring the horse on purpose.

  “Ouch,” Sora flinched again when the horse jolted beneath her, taking an uneven step. She was so sore!

  "Try not to damage her, Crash,” Dorian called. “I'll scout ahead!”

  His little brown steed sped past them, having scaled the hill much faster with only one rider. They were left in a cloud of red dust. Dorian took the lead.

  Crash didn't reply, but picked up the pace, rocking gently in the saddle. Sora kept waiting for the next surprising jolt, the next misstep, but it never came; now that they were on flat land, the dirt was firm and most of the rocks were pushed to the side of the road. The horse took off at a fast trot, and she was surprised by its smooth gait. She hardly felt the shift from trot to canter. Well...this is much better, she amended.

  Over time, she grew accustomed to the motion of the horse and began to relax. Her shoulders slouched, the tension running out of her. The thin morning mist evaporated as the sun rose higher in the sky, but the spring weather stayed cool and refreshing with a brisk wind.

  “Ugh, how much longer?” Sora groaned after a while, breaking her promise to herself. She spoke out of sheer boredom, more to herself than to the man behind her. The countryside was nothing but stubborn scrub grass and iron-rich dirt, and she was tired of thinking about her Cat's-Eye necklace and the terrifying Fennbog swamp.

  Crash didn't reply until almost ten minutes later, when he finally said, “Burn is approaching. Mayville is just beyond that rise.”

  Sora felt the horse pick up speed; she was taken off-guard and wobbled in the saddle, close to falling. Crash grabbed her arm and jerked her upright. “You don’t ride often, do you?” he sneered.

  She recovered quickly from her slip. “Of course I ride!” she snapped back. “By myself! And on finer beasts than this.”

  “Well, obviously your ‘fine' beasts make no difference. You're a terrible rider.”

  “How dare you!” Sora growled, half-turning in the saddle, fully rising to the occasion. “I'm an expert rider! I can jump any fence or wall! I was instructed by the finest of horsemasters, straight from the City of Crowns!”

  “Ah, here's Burn.”

  Crash's dismissal was obvious. Sora's mouth snapped shut, and she turned to look ahead of them, her cheeks still hot with anger. The nerve! she thought, even more disgusted at the man behind her, if that was possible.

  The steed trotted around a bend in the road and she was finally able to see the last member of their group—he was up ahead, talking to Dorian. Sora's breath caught in her throat. She hadn't truly known what to expect from a man named "Burn." Perhaps someone like the Wolfy mage: small and slender, with nimble hands.

  But this man was huge, even at a distance; probably close to seven feet tall. He sat upon a giant Clydesdale, chestnut in color with a white blaze down its nose. Burn's hair trailed freely past his shoulders, a tawny golden-brown, and she could see two long, elegant ears protruding. Another Wolfy? Could it be? Sora stared in fascination at the strong, square jaw, the shoulders as wide as an oak. She couldn't see much else at this distance. He wore a dull, dented chestplate over his clothes, his only piece of armor, and a heavy scabbard across his back, as long as she was tall.

  “Mayville is just ahead,” she heard the man’s voice boom. It was a deep baritone that carried easily over the countryside, like an avalanche of rocks. “Been waiting here for a day or more. What took you so long?”

  She watched the man lean down to hear whatever Dorian was saying. Then that large, square head swung around. He was a distance away, but she could still see the gleam of his eyes, bright gold in the sun, and his long, long fangs. Longer than Dorian's, and broader; lion's teeth. She felt her mouth go dry.

  Sora braced herself, but she couldn't prepare for the broad, welcoming smile that split his canine face. She fidgeted nervously in the saddle. Was it a good sign, or did she look more like a warm meal?

  Finally Crash drew up alongside the two. It was difficult to judge Burn's age by his toughened appearance, but he definitely looked the oldest of the lot. He continued to gaze at her with close interest, not at all concerned with her discomfort. Yet his curiosity wasn't threatening. She felt more like a source of entertainment, like he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

  “What vision is this?” he said, confirming her thoughts, and he glanced up at Crash. “A beautiful lady, in the arms of our assassin? A prize?”

  “Her necklace.” Crash ignored the comment. “A powerful tool against Volcrian.”

  “I can see that,” Burn replied. His voice was several leagues deep, like the bottom of a great crater. Every time he spoke, she felt a cascade of water fall over her ears, echoing into a rocky basin. She couldn't imagine him speaking softly. His height, too, was overwhelming, and he was as wide and encompassing as a mountain.

  “Your name, child?” he spoke.

  “S-Sora,” she introduced herself, wincing when she heard the tremor in her voice. She cleared her throat. “My name is Sora.”

  “Sora Fallcrest,” Dorian mentioned, with a wink.

  Burn took her hand unexpectedly, clasping it in a very large palm. Her hand was fully engulfed in his, and yet his hold was surprisingly delicate. She felt like he was trying very hard not to grip too tightly. His skin was so thick and calloused, she do
ubted she could puncture it with a needle.

  “Well met,” he said, and didn't make any mention of her family name. “I am Burn, mercenary by trade, at least for the time being.” He leaned down and murmured, “Honestly, I prefer more mundane pursuits, like bookkeeping. Have you eaten breakfast yet? I'm starving.”

  Sora found herself smiling.

  Crash maneuvered his horse, carrying her away from the gentle warrior. “No time for breakfast,” he said shortly. “Did Dorian fill you in about last night? Volcrian has found us.”

  Burn nodded thoughtfully. “I've heard the important bits,” he said. “And I hear you want to cross the swamp. That's a dangerous plan; we might risk more than it's worth. Can I see the necklace?”

  Sora didn't get a chance to refuse. The assassin reached around and pulled the chain out of her shirt. The small stone glinted in the noontime sun. She flinched, repulsed by his touch, by the closeness of his hand to her face.

  Burn's eyes lingered on the necklace, thoughtful, one ear slightly drooped. He shifted on the back of his horse and gripped the reins, running the leather through his fingers. Sora felt uncomfortable, awkward under such intense scrutiny from a stranger. He had seemed friendly at first, but friendly didn't mean much, she was coming to realize.

  Burn finally whistled between his teeth. “Imagine that,” he murmured, and he raised his hand as though to touch the stone, but then let it fall back onto the horse. “I've seen a lot of rare things in my life, but nothing like this. And it works?”

  “Far better than one would expect,” Crash confirmed.

  “Oh, yes,” Dorian grunted, and raised his hand to his wounded hip. “It vanquished Volcrian's spell like...like....” His voice trailed off, obviously unable to describe the event.

  Sora didn't know how she would describe it, either. She shared a glance with the thief.

  “Well, then, perhaps we should give it a try,” Burn consented, nodding his great head. “The swamp is not far from this town. First things first, though. I have a reservation at an inn with no money to pay for it. They are about to knock down my door and confiscate our belongings. I expected your arrival last night....” He glanced at Crash. “Shall we collect your payment and be on our way?”

  Sora felt the blood drain from her face. She wavered in the saddle. Somehow, she felt she had been slapped. How could the three of them conspire to kill Lord Fallcrest and then speak of that so casually in front of her? They knew her name—did they not think it rude or insensitive?

  She felt a small twinge of guilt somewhere above her stomach. And who was she to suddenly defend the man? You hated him, she reminded herself, thinking of his small, gray eyes, deep and narrow above a long, sloping nose. The downward slant to his mouth, teeth yellowed from pipe smoke and, in more recent years, opium. He didn't raise you. You were merely a horse waiting to be bred.

  And yet, there had been a time when she was younger...much younger, under ten...that she had desired his affection, had sought it out, time after time. Each attempt had been met with disapproval, annoyance or anger. Sora could remember his slaps across her face, his shouts for her maids to take her away. “Take her out! Take the girl out!” Never once calling her his daughter. An heiress, perhaps, for lack of a son as an heir. But never his daughter.

  “I suppose, if we're going to cross the swamp, we'll need supplies.” Dorian's voice shook Sora from her thoughts. She glanced up, her face unfurling from a tight frown. He was holding up her bag of coins, and he bounced it in his hand to show its weight.

  Burn nodded again, this time thoughtful. He looked at Crash. “Why don't you pick up your payment?” he suggested. “Then we will buy supplies.”

  Crash shook his head slowly. “I can't until nightfall. That's the agreement.”

  Sora listened acutely, leaning forward, wondering who had hired him.

  “Hm,” Burn murmured. “Then we will split these coins; it should at least pacify the landlord. Dorian needs rest, and I need to pay for the room.” He reached out, taking the bag from Dorian and opening it, then slipping out a few silver coins.

  Sora watched, slightly annoyed. It didn't feel right, watching them take her money, as though they had every right in the world to it.

  Burn handed the coin purse to Crash once he was done. “Why don't you take the money and the girl to buy supplies?” he suggested. “If we are going to travel through the swamp, she will need weapons.”

  “Is that wise?” Dorian asked, wincing and placing his hand on his wound. Sora wondered if he was in more pain than he let on. Probably.

  Burn shrugged. “She's a novice at best. She won't give us any trouble. But she needs to be able to defend herself.” He cast a grim look at Dorian. “You know the dangers.”

  The young thief looked uncomfortable, then turned away.

  Sora didn't like the exchange. A weapon sounded useful—it would be that much easier to escape—but she didn't like the ominous warning about Fennbog, the way Dorian's eyes looked down. Crash shifted behind her, seeming tense.

  “What's in the swamp?” she asked.

  Burn glanced at her. “Enemies,” he said. “Dangerous beasts. Poisonous plants. Oh yes, we will need to stock up, indeed.” Then he glanced at Crash. “You're a poisons expert, no? I trust you will buy all of the proper antidotes.”

  “I will see to the necessities,” he nodded. “And we shall get her a weapon. Though I doubt she will learn to use it.” His words hung in the air, tactless, factual.

  Sora felt her neck cramp. But of course he would doubt her abilities. He thought she was just some spoiled noble brat. I'll show him. “Is that all?” she asked, breaking the silence. “If so, can we go now? I'm getting a sunburn.”

  Burn threw back his head and laughed—an avalanche of sound. It startled a nearby bird, which took off from a low bush, bolting into the sky. He waved his hand, still chuckling with mirth, though Sora didn't catch the full humor.

  “Get on with you,” he called. “We will expect you back at sundown. We're staying at The Oaken Door, top floor.”

  Crash might have nodded, she didn't know, but he shifted behind her, nudging the horse. It took off in a fast trot, leaving the two Wolfies behind, though the sound of laughter followed.

  “Don't worry your sweet head about anything!” Dorian called to her from behind them. She turned and leaned to the side, trying to see around Crash's form, but she couldn't. Dorian's voice reached her again. “Just be happy he's the quiet type!”

  Then the dirt trail took a sharp turn, rounding a small hill, and joined with the main thoroughfare. The road became wide, well-maintained, paved in brightly hued river stone. She looked up at the distance, down a half-mile of road and across a wide bridge, straight to the red-tiled rooftops of Mayville.

  Suddenly, inexplicably, she was excited. She had never been in town before. Of course, she would have preferred to be here with Lily, or perhaps on her very own. But all things considered, she had something to look forward to.

  Crash shifted behind her. “If you cause any trouble....” the assassin murmured.

  “You'll kill me?” she asked, ready for the threat. She turned slightly to catch his eye. She knew she was challenging him, but she felt momentarily bold. He couldn't kill her, not now. He needed her necklace. And, she suspected, he was too cowardly to wear it himself.

  He met her gaze; his eyes were flat, as green as venom, serpentine. She tried to hold out, to sustain the silent confrontation, but it was impossible. Her courage shuddered and wilted, like a dying mouse.

  “Don't try me,” he murmured. Then the assassin reached up and pulled his cloak over his head, a black shield against the noontime sun. Even in broad daylight, he looked menacing.

  She turned back toward the town, unnerved.

  CHAPTER SIX