Ferran's Map

by T. L. Shreffler

  Cobra’s fist clamped down on her neck. He held her pinned. “We’re not so different, you and I,” he said softly. “Cerastes made us both promises. To you, he gave a purpose, a new life. And I…I have my own interest in the Viper. Cerastes promised me that.” She sensed Cobra’s cold grin. “I love an angry vixen, but I won’t hesitate to kill you, should you get in my way.” He shook her slightly for emphasis, then released her neck. For a long moment, she could only cough and wheeze through her bruised windpipe. The realization of his power felt even more crushing than his fist.

  Krait reached for a knife at her belt, but Cobra’s shadow twisted from his feet to her arms and held her to the ground. She was outmatched. Cobra must be older than she first thought—and more powerful. He stood at the brink of Grandmastery. No wonder Cerastes had recruited him.

  Shame grew within her. Despite training with Cerastes and the other students of the Shade, her skills had improved slowly. She wielded no magic of her own. She couldn’t compete with Cobra’s ability. The Harpies had destroyed her demon during her years on the Lost Isles. Using sunstones, they ripped the magical core from her body. She could still feel that emptiness at the base of her skull where the demon’s voice once resonated. She would never open the fifth gate; in fact, she couldn’t even open the first.

  Cobra abruptly trapped her between his legs. Then he sat firmly on her stomach. Krait gasped as he pushed the air from her lungs with his weight. He placed his hands on his knees and stared at her with gleaming algae-eyes, lit with poisonous fervor.

  “You’re a worthless little snake,” he murmured. “One day Cerastes will throw you to the fire. Assassins like you are meant to be sacrificed.” He held her gaze for a long moment, then stood up. “Leave the Viper to me.” Then he walked silently through the mud back to the city.

  Krait lay still for a long moment, her heart pounding. Cerastes will throw you to the fire. She knew Cobra wanted to intimidate her, but his words rang with unnerving truth. Lately, her Grandmaster and Cobra had grown close. Now Cerastes sent him on private missions without her knowledge. Suddenly, it made too much sense. Her master had a new favorite.

  I can’t compete with him. She closed her eyes and put both hands to her head. Her temples throbbed; her teeth clenched against the memory of her broken demon. Harpy voices echoed suddenly in her ears, sharp and metallic. Shards of light. Searing heat. All of it disjointed and confusing. The fragmented images built and built, unlocked by Cobra’s words, until she groaned under their pressure. A fierce, primal shriek welled in her throat, but she bit it back, unwilling to scream her weakness to the world.

  And then, the images slowed.

  A memory surfaced—only a glimmer. Cool hands.

  Gone.

  Krait stared up at the stormy sky, allowing the rain to strike her open eyes. She imagined they were tears—she hadn’t cried since Cerastes repaired her vision. Tears were not meant for assassins. She would rather her heart be made of stone.

  Cobra lies, she thought as her mind cleared. Her Grandmaster would not betray her. Not after saving her life and piecing her back together. She had a place in the Dark God’s shadow—a purpose in her master’s plan. And if that purpose required sacrificing her life, she would not hesitate. It’s not much of a life, she thought. She was a broken puppet, a mimicry of an assassin, and no matter how long she lived, she would never reclaim what the Harpies took. She would offer her master something better, perhaps: unquestionable fealty.

  Cobra played a dangerous game. Eventually, Cerastes would grow tired of him. Her Grandmaster did not suffer arrogance. The true strength of an assassin lay in discipline, which Cobra obviously lacked.

  She thought of her brief battle with the Viper in the city of Delbar, months and months ago.

  Cobra wanted to confront him, but she didn’t think he’d win.

  With renewed will, Krait rose silently to her feet and walked back to the city streets.

  CHAPTER 8

  Several days of straight downpour greatly swelled the banks of the Little Rain. Still, that didn’t prepare Sora for their merge with the Crown’s Rush. In the last mile or two, the banks had crept inward, becoming more and more narrow, causing the current to churn and swirl aggressively.

  She stood on the bow of the deck with Burn, Lori and Crash as they neared the end of the Little Rain tributary. Ferran followed in his smaller boat, giving the Dawn Seeker a large berth. Thick, tall pine trees crowned the rocky banks, their roots exposed and scrabbling for a firm hold in the muddy soil. To the north, the massive foothills of The Scepter rolled steeply up from the ground, creating deep basins of storm water, mudslides and snow run-off: the source of the Crown’s Rush.

  Silas’ crew worked double-time against the mouth of the Little Rain, attempting to enter the Crown’s Rush. They banked the sails and wrestled hard with the rudder. It took three men to steer the wheel against the fierce current. They employed long, sweeping oars to resist the outflowing water. The Dracians worked tirelessly, yelling to one another above the storm, tying and retying ropes, swinging the yardarm against the wind and battling the hemorrhaging river. For almost an hour, it seemed that they were unable to move forward. The Rush continually pushed them back down the small tributary. Sora held her breath, gripping the rail, wondering if they would make it. Crash stood pensively behind her, watching the crew work.

  Then, finally, a fierce wind blew up from behind them, filling out their sails. Silas roared out orders. “Unfurl the mainstay!” he yelled into the rigging. Then to the men at the tiller: “Swing us hard to port! Not too close to the right bank, or the Crown’s current will run us into the rocks!”

  Some of the sailors turned to look at the mouth of the river, gauging the risk.

  “Now, you lazy dogs!” Silas bellowed. He strode the length of the schooner, waving his arms and tying down ropes where he could.

  The ship groaned as the wind caught the sails and slowly moved forward. “To port!” Silas yelled again, although the men at the tiller were already hard to port. Slowly the ship veered forward and to the left.

  Sora gasped as the ship shuddered. They were at the threshold now. The Crown’s current warred between flowing downriver or diverting into the Little Rain. She stared anxiously at the rocky banks, imagining their ship twisting and slamming into the steep, jagged stone.

  Then, within seconds, they slid past the threshold and into the Rush, leaving the Little Rain behind.

  “Hard to starboard!” Silas continued to yell, his voice ragged from so much shouting. “Bring her out into the channel! We’ve made it, thank the Winds!” The last he said quietly, barely audible above the river’s heavy flow.

  From that point, their schooner shot downstream like a well-crafted arrow, moving almost four times its pace on the Little Rain. Burn let out a whoop and leapt excitedly on the bow of the ship, leaning over the railing into the fierce wind. The rest of the crew cheered in victory. Sora found herself grinning fiercely against the rain. We made it! By the laughter and high spirits of the crew, she knew tonight would be spent celebrating. She and Lori joined Burn at the bow, standing on either side of him, gazing at the river ahead. Crash hung back, and she shot him a quick smile over her shoulder.

  After several weeks of constant, aggressive storms, the Crown’s Rush appeared as wide and endless as the ocean. Swift slate-gray water stretched into the distance, moving at an alarmingly fast pace. Only a fool would try to swim against such a current. Sora could imagine the river easily swallowing an entire house—more than that, an entire town. The frantic, drizzling rain caused very low visibility, and she had a hard time believing in the existence of an opposite bank. Iron-gray water flowed into the vague horizon, dissolving into vaporous curtains of mist and rain.

  Storm clouds sat heavily above the river. They obscured the treetops and the entire mountain ridge behind them. Sora felt like she could stretch her arms up and touch the billowing fog, as dense and textured as wool.

  From here, we
will make good time, she thought. Only one more week to the City of Crowns. Silas claimed they would be the last large vessel to enter the city from this direction. Soon the snows would set in, and much of the river and its tributaries would be locked in thick ice, especially this far north.

  As she watched the river, Ferran’s boat shot ahead of them, much faster than the large schooner. A strong wind filled his small sail. He waved at them from the back of the boat where he manned the tiller.

  “I’m freezing,” her mother shivered after another minute. “Would anyone else like some warm tea?”

  Sora’s nose felt numb, and she shivered against the rain. “Yes,” she agreed. “And a hot dinner.” She had spent almost an hour on the deck of the ship, watching their battle with the river. She was ready to go back inside.

  Filled with exhilaration, she and her mother turned back to the galley, leaving Crash and Burn to their vigil on the bow.

  * * *

  As they neared the City of Crowns, more and more villages cropped up on the river banks. Small docks, fishing boats and ferries became a common sight, at times clogging the channel ahead. Silas rang a loud, heavy bell to warn smaller boats and rafts out of the way. Townspeople and farmers waved as they passed.

  Some mornings, Sora took her breakfast on-deck to watch the riverbanks. Housewives wore their hair tied up in handkerchiefs and their pants rolled up to the knees as they prepared crayfish, gutted salmon or washed clothes. Most villagers stopped to hail the large vessel, and Silas encouraged his look-outs to respond in turn, greeting them with a loud, clear whistle. He certainly liked the attention and was proud to show off his long schooner.

  Twice they dropped anchor at small villages to trade for fresh vegetables and live chickens. Silas unloaded several barrels of limes, edible roots, dried seaweed and seashells. “Best to stock up on supplies now before we reach the bigger towns,” he said. “We’ll have less bargaining power as we near the city.” He then launched into a long explanation of supply and demand, and the value of limes in the country compared to populated areas further south, but Sora had studied these things as a noblewoman and found it tedious. She excused herself as soon as possible.

  They passed miles of barren fruit orchards and muddy sheep pastures. Harvest had long since passed, and the winter season had stripped the fields of fruit or leaves.

  “These farmlands sustain the city,” Ferran explained to Sora as they stood on the bow one day, watching for the first sight of the City of Crowns. “The city needs a large food source nearby. The Ebonaires own almost all of the west bank from here to the city itself. Their taxes pay for a third of the military’s wages.”

  “Are they truly the richest family, next to the King?” Sora asked.

  Ferran looked uneasy at her question. “Richer, in fact,” he said. “The King doesn’t control every aspect of the realm. Politics are much more complicated than that. Many First Tier families fund his interests. Their wealth is the lifeblood of the kingdom.”

  Sora considered that, wondering where the Fallcrest family landed in comparison. She had been raised as country nobility, the Second Tier, and although her father owned many thousands of acres of land, they hadn’t harvested enough to live in the City of Crowns. No, the Second Tier were thought of as bumpkin nobility. Most earned their titles through military service. They weren’t like the First Tier, who could trace their lineage back centuries ago to the founding tribes of the Kingdom.

  As their ship sailed onward, Sora continued her training with Crash. He took his role as a teacher seriously, demanding rigid discipline and working her body until she ached. He often assigned hours of menial exercises to strengthen her muscles. He then streamlined her fighting techniques to waste less energy. He took her small size into consideration and taught her hand-to-hand combat in a style she hadn’t learned before.

  “You are a river, not a mountain,” he told her during one particularly challenging lesson. His words seemed repeated from a distant past, perhaps something he had learned in his youth. “A river flows downhill over rocks, using the path of least resistance. This is how you fight. Have you ever held water in your hand?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said. Just that morning, she had cupped her hands and splashed her face with cold rainwater.

  He raised an eyebrow. “And what happened?”

  She frowned. “Well…it trickled through my fingers.”

  “Can you break the water with a hard punch?”

  She grinned at that. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Her eyes glinted with humor. “It gives way beneath your hand.”

  “Exactly.”

  He demonstrated this idea in combat. If he threw a punch, instead of blocking with her arms, Sora was to grab his fist and pull him forward, putting him off-balance. Then she could deal a swift kick to the ribs, the groin, the knees, or even a jab to the neck. It was a smoother, softer way of fighting, one that didn’t involve rigid blocks or tightened, heavy muscles.

  “Most men, especially soldiers, learn to fight by the King’s traditions,” he explained as they practiced. “They use force against force, like stags butting heads. You want to be loose and pliable. Flow, and they will never touch you. Redirect their energy like a stream of water.”

  It went against her basic instincts. She wanted to brace herself for each blow. But over time, it became easier and far more natural. Eventually she could spar with the assassin across the deck like two well-trained dancers. Each strike had a way of running into the next; each blow could be pushed aside, pulled up or down, or evaded completely. And she learned, over time, that his movement contained a rhythm. He favored certain combinations of attacks, certain patterns of the body.

  “When you fight like this,” he taught her, “it doesn’t matter how strong or big you are. A child could defeat a giant.”

  Yes, she thought privately. But I could never defeat you. He moved so quickly, she couldn’t even see his hands half the time. She learned to trust her muscles, and rely on the slight impulses and intuitions of her body.

  Beyond their sparring sessions, the assassin kept to himself. But at times, she caught him eyeing her with a thoughtful, lingering look. He didn’t turn away when she met his eyes, but would hold her gaze with a hidden promise. I am still here. He wasn’t hiding, but his silence had always intimidated her. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for his thoughts.

  Despite Ferran’s guidance, her meditation sessions felt less productive. She dreaded those hours spent delving to the roots of herself. She pushed through clots of fear and the rocky resistance of countless worries: the plague, the journey ahead, memories of her battle with Volcrian and the looming Shade. Slowly, she was able to reconnect with the necklace and draw its power to the surface. But the long period of separation left her timid and a little doubtful. Progress felt slow.

  “Keep with it,” Ferran encouraged, after a markedly strenuous bout of visualization. This time, she climbed a tree in her meditation exercise and tried to drop the noose around the garrolithe’s neck from above. Sensing her intentions, the beast pulled her down from the tree and dragged her halfway around the corral before trying to bite her head off. All symbolically, of course. Ferran assured her the beast couldn’t actually harm her in a meditative state…though Sora didn’t know if she believed him. The garrolithe seemed very determined.

  She held her head in her hands after their session, her temples throbbing. “How much longer will this take?” she groaned, waiting for her stomach to settle. Meditating wasn’t supposed to feel this violent.

  Ferran could only shrug. “Everyone is different,” he said. “There’s no perfect method. Just keep trying.”

  “It keeps fighting me,” Sora groaned in frustration. “It doesn’t want to be controlled.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t try to control it, then,” Ferran suggested as he climbed to his feet. He offered her a hand up, and she took it gladly.

  “Then what exactly is the po
int of this?” she muttered.

  “Don’t force it,” Ferran said gently. “Perhaps you’re trying too hard. The garrolithe can sense your frustration. To the beast, it’s another sign of weakness.” He poked her in the forehead. “Monitor your thoughts, Sora. Next time, stay calm and assertive.”

  Sora reflected on her struggle with the garrolithe. No one could stay calm and assertive in the face of that beast. Each time she challenged it, the garrolithe came one snap closer to eating her.

  “Worrying about it is the worst thing you can do,” Ferran repeated. “Let it go for now. You’ll regain your control over the necklace with time.”

  Sora sighed, feeling even less inspired. I really am terrible at this, she finally conceded. She would just have to meditate regularly and hope the beast rolled over on its own. Neither her bond with the Cat’s Eye nor her own will could tame it.

  She headed above deck, more than ready for sleep. Tomorrow, they would reach The City of Crowns.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sora stood on the bow of the ship in the pale light of dawn. Gauzy mist rose from the cold water of the Crown’s Rush. She eagerly looked into the distance as they rounded a bend in the river. The storm clouds had dispersed several hours ago, revealing crisp, clear skies of pastel hues, from rose pink to robin-egg blue. The sun climbed gently over the hills to the east as they traveled downstream.

  Now, in the light of dawn, the waterways were far more populated. Small riverboats skimmed the wide river. Fishermen chugged upstream, searching for trout or catfish. Sora’s ears strained against the still air, and she thought she heard the distant tolling of a bell. Her fingers dug into the wooden railing of the ship. She held her breath in anticipation. The Dawn Seeker rounded the bend, and the City of Crowns came into view.

  A curtain of mist rose from the cold water, casting the city in a hazy glow. It spanned both sides of the Crown’s Rush. A tall sandstone wall rose up on the eastern bank, blocking half the city from view. The western bank had no such wall. Spiraling towers, chimneys and belfries stood as thick as a forest. Tiled rooftops all seemed to overlap each other, staggered like a tightly packed bookshelf. She saw taverns, street vendors, fishmongers, warehouses, and there were countless people walking alongside the river. It reminded her of the crowded docks of Delbar, but everything seemed more compact, the buildings all strung together in a long row, like beads on a necklace. The western half of the city stretched on and on, seemingly endless, disappearing into the misty horizon.