Ferran's Map
(The Cat's Eye Chronicles, Book 4)
by
T. L. Shreffler
Copyright © 2015. Redistribution is prohibited.
Published by The Runaway Pen.
Edited by Linda Jay.
Smashwords edition.
http://www.catseyechronicles.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The Cat's Eye Chronicles
Sora's Quest (Book #1)
Viper's Creed (Book #2)
Volcrian's Hunt (Book #3)
Ferran's Map (Book #4)
Novellas
Caprion's Wings (Book #3.5)
PROLOGUE
Grandmaster Natrix stood at the top of a sandy ridge, the iron-gray ocean to her back. Heavy clouds covered the sky, sending down flurries of snow. Below her, dozens of Named assassins littered the training ground, practicing hand-to-hand combat. The assassins worked tirelessly despite the weather, bracing themselves against gusts of wind and using the ice to their advantage. At this distance, they looked like black crickets darting among the gray slush of the dunes.
As she watched, a second figure appeared on the ridge beside her, materializing through the storm.
Her lip curled, her eyes still focused on the training ground. “You’ve returned,” she said, as though musing about the weather. “I wonder where you’ve been—he who once dedicated his life to this colony.”
Grandmaster Cerastes raised a thin eyebrow. He looked weary, his pale skin sallow. Gaunt cheekbones protruded from an intelligent, angular face, matured by age. His deep-set eyes gleamed with a poisonous light.
“Are you reprimanding me?” he said, a touch amused, but mostly hostile.
Natrix gazed at him. She noted the ragged condition of his black robes, the depressing downturn of his lips. His hair was sleek and perfectly black, falling to his waist. A strange scent tainted his clothes—the gritty musk of a city, and the vague stench of humans and horses.
Then she nodded to the dunes below them, focusing on one assassin in particular.
“Your Viper has become quite good,” she said, shifting her weight from one hip to another.
She wore a close-fitting black shirt, clasped with a vest. The Sixth Race was born of Fire and Darkness, and was resistant to cold weather. Her tall black boots were made of toughened hide, with no soles, allowing her feet to move freely. A series of various-sized chakrams hung from her waist, steel rings with edges as sharp as blades. They could be hurled with deadly accuracy, slicing off heads and limbs with the force of her throw. Tightly braided rows of black hair covered her head. Her eyes were the bright green hue of aloe.
Cerastes followed her gaze without comment.
A smirk came across her pale lips. “In your absence, he has trained with Lachesis. Another few years and he just might become a Grandmaster himself.”
Cerastes appeared impassive, but Natrix knew the statement rankled him. Grandmasters did not like sharing students, especially talented ones. “Has he unlocked the fifth gate?” Cerastes asked quietly.
“No,” Natrix said, her eyes following the figure of the Viper. “But he is close.”
Eight years had passed since the Naming of the Viper. In that time, Natrix had watched Cerastes’ student progress rapidly and tirelessly. He was far better than her own savants—even the Named Adder, her best student, who wielded his saber with dexterous speed.
Assassins, especially Grandmasters, kept their emotions under tight control. Yet bitterness had crept in over the years, perhaps even jealousy. Natrix wished she could work with such a motivated student, one who took his training into his own hands, compelled by his own inner drive. Even without a Grandmaster, even if the Hive did not exist, even if Viper were the very first of the assassin race—she had little doubt he would be able to unlock the seven gates. He harbored a talent that founded tradition. He proved the Hive’s ways were not just fabrication, but a true part of their nature.
And because of that realization, she eventually lost her envy of Cerastes. The Viper's skill was not one of superior instruction. Some assassins were simply born to the task, gifted by the Dark God with deft hands and a keen mind.
She studied him on the training field below. He moved like flowing water, using his opponent's energy to his advantage, pulling his assailant forward and off-balance, then striking with his entire body—foot, knee, hip, forearm, open palm. The Adder twisted, and the Viper turned with him, able to anticipate his opponent’s next move. He knocked the Adder to his knees. As she watched, her own student was forced to the ground, prostrate in surrender.
Cerastes turned away and walked across the top of the ridge, moments away from vanishing again. Months had passed since he had last appeared in their colony. Natrix wouldn’t let him disappear so easily.
She cleared her throat. “The Hive wonders at your absence,” she called out to him, a slight challenge to her tone. “They are running out of patience and will erase your name from the records of our colony. You will become a hermit master like Lachesis, a ghost in the woods, all but forgotten.”
Cerastes paused, replying over his shoulder, “What I do with my time is not the Hive's concern. My attention has turned to greater matters.”
“The other Grandmasters don’t care about your hobbies,” Natrix said bluntly. “You’ve shamed our traditions by breaking the oath of a mentor.” She folded her arms. “They want to know where you’ve been. Personally, I wonder at this path you’ve chosen. Is it wise?”
Cerastes appeared unmoved.
Natrix felt a stirring of alarm. Did Cerastes understand the severity of his absence? Why would a Grandmaster abandon the Hive—his traditions, his reputation, all he had ever achieved? “We were savants together, Cerastes,” she reminded him. “We trained side by side. You mastered the ways of our kind, and now, after a lifetime of dedication, you shun the Hive so easily?”
Cerastes faced her fully, the shadow of a sneer on his lips. “Perhaps if you knew more of our race’s heritage, you would shun the Hive as well.”
Natrix hardened. “Our traditions have survived for generations, since before the War of the Races. Anything you learn out there,” she pointed to the invisible distance, “will be distorted from the truth. We must serve our colony and all those who live within it. I don’t know what you’re searching for, Cerastes, but consider—if our ways are not enough for you, nothing else will be, either. Ambition is a hunger that can never be satisfied. It’s a dangerous path, not the way of an assassin.”
“Ambition is not what drives me,” Cerastes replied staunchly. “A thirst for knowledge, perhaps, but only in search of higher truth.”
Natrix frowned. “Does nothing else matter to you?” she asked. “What about the Viper? Have you no duty to your own student? You swore to mentor him until he reached the fifth gate. The boy relied on your instruction.” She shook her head gravely. “Grandmasters are meant to teach. Instead, you hoard your skill like the humans hoard gold. The Viper deserves better!”
“I owe him nothing,” Cerastes said coldly. “He has made his way.”
Her eyes met his. “Perhaps—but it has been a struggle. You broke your oath to him.” Natrix watched Cerastes carefully, trying to read his face. She sensed discomfort in his rigid stance. “For the last four years, you’ve hardly set
foot in our colony,” she pressed on. “You’ve forsaken your duty to the Viper and the Hive. The Grandmasters won’t tolerate it. You must understand what you are throwing away.”
Cerastes raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t come here for a lecture, Natrix. My decisions are my own. I know the sacrifice I am making.”
“Then why return here?” she repeated. “Why stand on this ridge?” She gave him a searching look. “If you wish to leave the Hive, why come back at all?”
Again, he said nothing.
Natrix suspected his reasons. As ruthless and logical as a Grandmaster might be, the bond between mentor and student was strong. Once broken, such intimate trust between student and teacher could turn to powerful hate; Cerastes must know that.
She pointed to the training field. “Our best students shall one day become our greatest rivals.” Her eyes found the Viper. “Will you let this seed grow wild? Did you not kill your own Grandmaster, so many years ago? We studied together, Cerastes. We won our Names the same year. We shared a lifetime in this village. You are truly a brother to me.” She paused, then said softly, “You are not as invincible as you think. Unless you fix this, the Viper could be your undoing.”
Cerastes remained silent. They watched the Viper sheath his dagger and turn away from his defeated opponent. The young assassin crossed the training ground toward a fringe of trees on its opposite side.
“You should keep good relations with him,” Natrix said solemnly. “Some day he will be a Grandmaster, and you will be old, and then you'll be that fool bleeding out in the snow.” She pointed at the training field again, where the Adder now sat holding his rib cage, his blood staining the ground.
A slow frown passed over Cerastes' face. He gave Natrix one last look, then strode away, vanishing into the ever-thickening gusts of snow.
* * *
Viper left the practice ground. He crossed the sandy, slushy dunes to the hard-packed snow of the woods and entered the barren forest, heading back to his village. The trees and shrubs were stripped of leaves, comfortingly silent, like gleaming skeletal hands. A series of animal tracks—from a gray squirrel living in a nearby large knotted oak—crossed the path before him. He caught sight of a fox in his white winter coat crouching beneath a bush, its ears pointed forward with acute concentration. As he watched, a small field mouse erupted from the snow. The fox pounced but missed, then chased after it.
Viper removed his shirt as he walked, letting the snowflakes strike his hot skin, invigorated from his hours on the training ground. A steaming plume of vapor accompanied each breath, visible on the chill air. His muscles sang from long hours of practice, pulsing with each heartbeat. Now was the ideal time to meditate. Winter is a time of reflection, Lachesis taught. A time of frozen streams, of suspension. When the outside world is dormant, we are better able to focus on that which lies within us.
Lachesis spoke of the seven gates: physical locks born into each member of the Sixth Race to help contain the full power of their demon. A shard of the Dark God lived within each of the Unnamed, a monster of destructive power seething just beneath their skin. Every now and then, children were born with their gates unlocked; they usually died within a few weeks, if not days. If the demon overtook their weak body, its power dissolved the child’s flesh, heart and lungs, killing the vessel and itself.
Assassins of the Hive were trained to unlock those gates, to eventually master their demon—or meld with it. Each gate brought Viper closer to his full evolution—his highest potential—and greater prestige within the Hive.
The first four gates were the easiest to unlock. Most assassins accomplished that before they were eighteen.
The first gate, that of the mind, allowed Viper to hear the demon's voice in his thoughts.
Opening the second gate allowed him to channel the demon's strength and endurance into his physical body.
The third gate, that of magic, had its limitations—yet he was able to summon his shadow from the ground, to use as a cloak, a means of defense, or for minor spells.
Finally, the fourth gate was that of form: becoming the demon, allowing it to overtake his body and physically manifest. Only after opening the fourth gate could one become a Named assassin. Since the age of fourteen, Viper had been able to manifest his demon, and over time, he had become acquainted with its ways.
The fifth gate, a doorway into the shadow realm, remained blocked. His demon could cross over into the world of Wind and Light—but how did a man enter his own shadow? The key to unlocking the fifth gate lay in deep meditation, finding the door within himself and opening it. Then he would be able to open shadow portals between different lands, traveling hundreds of miles instantaneously.
"Soon," Grandmaster Lachesis said only a few days ago, "soon, you will break through the fifth gate, and the secrets of the shadow realm shall be yours."
Then only the sixth gate would remain. Eventually, after exploring the hidden paths of the shadow realm, one unlocked a new demon—a second, stronger form of his darker self. Only then, as a Grandmaster, could he choose a name separate from the Hive, uniquely his own, to be included in the scrolls of the Hive's history.
And the seventh gate? No one spoke of the seventh gate.
Viper paused next to a large boulder. He brushed the snow from its peak and climbed easily onto it and sat in a cross-legged position, quieting his thoughts. It was easier to meditate after physical exertion; his mind was quieted and ready to sink into his body.
He placed his hands palm-down on his knees and took deep breaths, allowing the tension to leave his neck and shoulders. His mind pooled at the base of his skull, becoming still as a frozen lake, empty as a riverbed. Time slipped away, removing its chains. He heard only the slow thump of his heart.
Somewhere deep within him, a dark pit opened, an eager, gaping maw. Come, the demon whispered. Come….
The sudden sound of footsteps, intentionally loud, broke Viper's concentration. Assassins did not make noise in the snow. He recognized the pace of the steps, the subtle brush of robes against the ground.
His eyes snapped open.
Cerastes stood at the fringe of trees.
Viper stared at him.
His Grandmaster had been absent for years, occasionally appearing in their colony without warning, only to disappear again with little explanation. He visited rarely and said few words to Viper during his visits. Before his long absence, Cerastes spent much of his time with books and scrolls, delving into the ancient lore of the Dark God and the history of their race. Viper suspected Cerastes' thirst for knowledge eventually led him away from their colony, but he couldn’t know for sure.
Cerastes’ doings had weighed heavily on Viper's thoughts for a long time. The student could barely contain his own self-doubt. In some ways, he felt like he had failed an unspecified test. Despite his unrivaled progress, his Grandmaster had lost interest in training him. Perhaps Cerastes simply found him lacking in some way.
After Cerastes’ first disappearance, Viper felt lost, cut adrift and listless without his guidance. Other Grandmasters turned him away; no one dared take over Cerastes’ tutelage. Grandmasters often became possessive of their students, particularly talented ones, and in the Viper’s case, few were willing to risk Cerastes’ wrath.
But as time wore on, the possibility of Cerastes’ return seemed less and less likely. Finally, a year ago, an eccentric hermit took up residence at the fringes of their colony—Lachesis. He was of the Hive, but not a member of any specific village. Viper eventually received new instruction under the unusual Grandmaster, although he felt no true loyalty to Lachesis or his teachings. This strange man was not of their colony; he was a traveling vagabond who visited various factions of the Hive briefly, then disappeared for weeks on end. Viper was still basically alone.
As Viper gazed at Cerastes, he felt that powerful bond again. This was his true master, the one who had melded him into a lethal assassin, who had made him as strong as tempered steel.
V
iper felt a distinct tightness in his throat as he waited for Cerastes to speak. However, no words were forthcoming. Finally, he asked his master, “Why are you here?”
“To check on your training,” Cerastes said.
A lie, Viper sensed, though it was difficult to read his old teacher. “My training is no longer your concern,” he said, hiding his disappointment. “I study under Grandmaster Lachesis now.”
Cerastes' eyes remained flat and expressionless. Viper’s skin prickled. He had never seen such an eerie, unreadable facade, as though a thin veil covered Cerastes’ face, hiding something utterly grotesque. This is wrong, Viper thought.
“Come,” his Grandmaster murmured, and raised his hand in a beckoning gesture. He moved slowly, almost mockingly. “Let us spar. Show me your new skill.”
Viper couldn’t resist the invitation. He slid off the rock in one graceful movement and drew his dagger, then crouched slightly, prepared to fight. Cerastes drew a similar dagger from his belt. This would be an equal match—at least, as equal as master and student could be.
Cerastes lunged without warning. His hand became a blur of motion. He thrust his blade directly at Viper's heart.
Viper knocked the blade to one side, then dipped under Cerastes’ arm and came up right beside him. He landed a solid punch to the ribs, then a vicious kick to the sternum.
Cerastes grabbed Viper’s leg and dragged him off-balance, twisting him until he fell into the snow. Viper allowed himself to fall, rolled quickly back onto his feet, then unleashed a series of blows that forced Cerastes back across the clearing.
Still, his Grandmaster evaded each strike with ease. Viper felt as though he was battling the wind.
Finally, Viper caught Cerastes’ wrist and pulled him sideways, knocking him off-balance. As he rammed his shoulder into Cerastes' ribs, the Grandmaster stumbled backwards. Viper kept pushing at him, dragging his master to the ground until his knife pressed firmly into Cerastes' navel.
Ferran's Map Page 1
