A frown touched Volcrian's lips. The swamp's curse was ancient and powerful, as old as the Catlin colony that lay hidden within it. Compasses failed. The sun disappeared for months at a time. Travelers became disoriented and lost.
His prey had used the Cat's-Eye necklace to travel through Fennbog swamp, which was otherwise impassible to humans and Wolfies alike. All because of that stupid girl. She was an inconvenience... but easy enough to track, if one asked the right questions.
The town had been full of chatty farmers and midwives. He had been surprised by just how easy it was to find the girl's trail. No one remembered the Viper or his Wolfy companion, which was not unusual, since the assassin avoided being seen. But the blond girl with the pretty stone necklace, oh yes, that sounded just like the Healer's daughter... awkward little thing, arrived about a year ago, none of us even knew the Healer had a child. Nice enough, though!
Yes, nice enough to leave a clear, blazing path, straight to the Healer's house.
Volcrian shifted impatiently and knocked again, slightly irritated that the woman would take so long to answer her door. Didn’t she know it was urgent? Finally, his long ears picked up movement from inside the house. A small smile settled over his lips. At last.
A chill wind blew, unlikely for this time of year. The last rays of the setting sun illuminated the doorway as it opened. His cloak drifted around him gently in the breeze. Surprised, Volcrian looked down at the figure who stood there.
“May I help you?” the woman asked, with a slightly puzzled smile.
He was stunned, to say the least; that was an emotion Volcrian did not enjoy. At first he had thought it was the girl herself, but no, this woman was far older. An easy mistake to make, perhaps. He had only ever seen the girl in glimpses, fragments of vision perceived through his monsters and wraiths. This woman was mature and wore a low scoop-neck shirt, with no necklace in sight.
His eyes narrowed momentarily, taking in her classically beautiful features and short stature. She had the toughened appearance of having lived a well-traveled life. His keen nose picked up the scent of herbs from inside the house: salves, potions and powders. He could even see a stain on the floor, sunken into the wood, a remnant of blood from years past. The aura of a Healer was unmistakable.
“Ah, Ma'am, I was wondering if you might assist me. I am searching for a lost companion,” Volcrian murmured politely, with a thin smile. He waited for an invitation to enter the house, but the woman didn’t move. Instead, a bright smile fixed itself on her face.
Why is she looking at me like that? Volcrian shifted slightly, uncomfortable under that gaze.
“And just who are you looking for?” she asked warmly.
Volcrian hadn't been expecting this open, disarming smile. Most people were suspicious of him based on his appearance alone. His silver hair and long, pointed ears were a sure indication of his race; he was far from human. He listened now, using his heightened senses. His ears picked up the steady beat of her heart, the calm cadence of her breathing. She was perfectly at ease.
“An old friend, actually,” he said. “A girl who wears a Cat’s Eye. Word has it that your daughter meets that description.”
The smile stayed in place, the telltale heartbeat didn’t flutter, there were no signs that his words meant anything. “My daughter left here quite some time ago; I don't know where she is.” Honesty. Truth. He could smell it.
Volcrian nodded slowly. “Then perhaps you have seen a man with dark hair and green eyes, and a Wolfy mercenary, nigh unmistakable.”
The woman continued to stare at him steadily. “I have many patients,” she finally said. “They come from all over the lowlands, even the coast. Do you know the vow that a Healer takes?”
Volcrian shook his head slowly. Healing was an art that he had never bothered to study. It wasn't magic, though strange energies were known to manifest in healing at times. Humans were incapable of true magic. Like rats or pigs.
“We take a vow at the beginning of our apprenticeship to help all people, all creeds, all races,” the woman said. “It is the backbone of our order. Can you fault us for that? A true Healer cannot choose sides, nor can she choose her patients. I do not remember the people you speak of. But they might have passed through.”
Volcrian was troubled by this. She was hiding something, she had to be—but she was cleverly avoiding lies. She must know about his race, his heightened hearing and impeccable nose. It had once been said that a Wolfy could detect a lie a hundred yards away.
But that didn't make his task any easier. For the past several years, he had hunted the assassin, killing all who helped him even in the slightest way. He had planned to do the same to her, if she admitted her guilt. Such was his duty to his dead brother.
But the woman spoke sense. Healers served all peoples, even the Wolfies, even the guilty. Perhaps, most especially, the guilty. And he certainly wasn't innocent. This woman stared at him with clear, perfect eyes. He could see the purity of her trade inside her... and she could certainly see something in him. He knew she did. Healers could see suffering; they could sense it as surely as they could cure it.
“I have traveled far,” he murmured.
“So I guessed,” she replied. Her eyes sharpened, falling to his crippled hand, which he kept curled close to his body. “I see you have a damaged limb. That's a bad omen.” Her eyes traveled back to his. “Do you know what you are doing?”
Volcrian had heard as much before. A knife of hatred pierced through him. It had been the assassin who had crippled his hand, who had brought him this bad luck. “I am doing all that I can to set things right,” he murmured.
“You're doing too much, perhaps.” Suddenly, it was as though the woman was speaking directly to his thoughts, to his mind. “You are a Wolfy mage, and your blood magic knows no boundaries. You must realize what you are doing. You cannot control what you have set in motion.” She gave him a piercing stare. “I saw the hilt of the blade that almost killed my daughter, and I know where it comes from. You have released something dark into the world, something bred on vengeance and hate. The gods were laid to rest a long time ago, and for good reason.”
Volcrian opened his mouth, but was at a loss. What was she talking about? The gods? And how did she know of the rapier? She must have helped the girl and the assassin, she as much as admitted it.... He tried to take a step forward, to lift his arms and put his hands on her throat, but he felt stiff, heavy, like sunken wood. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“There were laws in the old world. Rules among the Races. You have summoned your wraiths, and with them comes a dark magic that not even you are aware of. You're lucky that your race is all but extinct. If the old ways were still followed, you would be killed for your transgressions. What you do puts us all in danger.”
A chill went up his spine. The woman's words rang true in his mind, clanging together, making his ears hurt. He felt sick, suddenly nauseous; pierced by a poisoned arrow. He wanted to turn around and leave as quickly as possible.
Ever since pursuing the blood arts, he had felt changed, tainted, as though he was no longer quite truly himself. And the wraiths... they did his bidding, yes, but he didn't know where their weapons came from, or by what means they existed in the world. He had created them, following the spell as one would a recipe—but he didn't understand why it worked, why it was possible to bring the dead back to life. Too much knowledge had been lost.
“What... what do you know about it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Only what I can see.” She nodded to him. “And a Healer can see much. Your skin is pale. Your hand pains you. You have dark veins on your arms. You are releasing a curse into this world, a disease that was buried centuries ago. You must stop this quest for vengeance.”
Volcrian's eyes flashed. “No. Never.”
“Yes. Now,” she hissed, with even more vigor.
They stared at each other, the Healer and the mage, the tension building. Volcrian knew what he
must do—grab the sword at his waist, pull out the blade, shove it through her small, thin ribs. Spill her blood, serve his brother, ease his hatred....He must... but he tried to move his arm, and it felt clumsy, weak. True Healers serve all creeds. It was an ancient order, back from before the War, passed down for thousands of generations. Her art had changed her; it protected her, just as she protected the sick and the dying. They carried the favor of the Goddess. Killing a Healer was said to be the worst luck of all.
He didn't know what to say or do. But one thing was certain—he couldn't stay here.
“I thought a Healer was supposed to tend to all of her guests,” he sneered.
“Not even I can cure your hatred,” she replied, her voice smooth as a river. “It has already destroyed you.”
Volcrian couldn't take it anymore. With a growl of frustration, he whirled away from the doorstep, stalking back across the front yard. He couldn't reach his horse fast enough, and he swung up into the saddle, dragging its head forcefully toward the road.
“I should kill you for helping them,” he shouted over his shoulder, his voice thick with rage. Then he laughed; a raw, terrible sound. “But I'll kill your daughter instead.”
Then he wheeled his horse toward the road and took off at full gallop, the wind pushing against him, his teeth bared in a terrifying grin.
* * *
Lorianne caught herself against the door frame. His words punched her in the gut, knocked the wind out of her. She slowly collapsed to her knees, sinking to the floor, waiting for the wave of dizziness to leave her. I will kill your daughter. His voice spun around in her head. Your daughter.
His presence had been like a cold, burning stake driven through her lungs, spreading ice through her veins. She felt sick. Paralyzed. Frozen.
She had thought Sora would be safe. The mage was after the assassin, not her own flesh and blood... but he had barely asked about the two men. No, he had come calling for the girl with the Cat's Eye. The girl who, under any other circumstances, would be upstairs in her bedroom, or out in a forest somewhere, riding her horse and exploring the woods. Lorianne paled at the thought. What if she hadn't sent Sora away? What if she had kept her locked up in her room, barricaded from the world, as she had so desperately wanted to do?
I'm no good at this, she thought. She had never been a mother; parenting did not come naturally. How was she supposed to raise a child who was already grown? Was she a friend, a confidante—or a guardian, a provider? She had abandoned her daughter at a Lord's house, telling herself that she would be raised by a rich family, that Sora had no need of her. She had missed the girl's entire life; everything that made her who she was. Her own heart, cut out and returned to her, transformed into an awkward stranger. And now she couldn't even protect her.
Giving up her daughter had been like cutting off a leg. For countless years, she had remained numb, stifled. She had absorbed herself in Healing, telling herself that it was her purpose, that it all made sense and that it was for the best.
But no. Nothing made sense until Sora had turned up on her doorstep, inches from death, bleeding all over the floor.
With a surge of strength, Lorianne got back on her feet. She had abandoned her daughter to protect her—but she would not turn away again. Volcrian was a dangerous man. His magic was tainting him, eroding his mind as surely as it poisoned the world. She had never felt power like that before. It was beyond human, beyond Wolfy—beyond any of the races.
Blood was a dangerous thing. It opened doors.
And Lori would have to find a way to close the doors. What about recovering the other sacred weapons? Curing the plague? She had a feeling that the Cat's Eye was important, but she didn't know enough about the necklaces. The stones had been discovered during the War, then destroyed shortly thereafter, far too dangerous to continue using.
She needed answers, and there was only one man who could help her.
“Ferran, you bastard,” she muttered, grabbing a cloak in one hand and a quiver of arrows in the other. “You'd better be ready for this.”
* * *
They spent the night in the forest.
Laina and Burn were talking on the other side of the fire. Sora was glad the girl had found a friend; her curiosity had a new target. She was asking the mercenary an endless stream of questions: about his race, his sword, his hair color and even his pointed teeth.
Sora settled next to Crash, who had his arms crossed and his back against a tree. Burn and Laina's conversation slowly took over the camp.
“So you enjoy stories?” the giant asked the orphan.
“I love them! I can’t read all that good, though... but I’ve just about memorized all of Kaelyn the Wanderer’s tales.”
Burn laughed. “Kaelyn the Wanderer! You know of her, do you?”
“Of course! Who doesn't?” Laina exclaimed.
Sora had to agree with her. Kaelyn was a personal hero of hers as well, and the reason why she had wanted to go adventuring in the first place. The great warrioress had lived before the War of the Races. The Goddess had called upon her to stop the War and unite the races in peace. It hadn't worked, but her acts of heroism had grown into legend. Her name had been a bright torch for humans, especially later, when their kind had been enslaved for more than a hundred years.
“I know that she played on a magic flute that controlled the Four Winds,” Laina said proudly.
“But do you know the names of the Four Winds?” Burn asked.
Laina frowned. Sora watched her think. “North, South, East, and West?”
Burn smiled ruefully as an ember popped in the fire. He prodded the wood with a long stick. “Close,” he said, “but they have other names in the Old Tongue: Aiet, Tuath, Iar and Deas. They were the Four Winds of the Goddess. Legend has it that they would appear as men and women to deliver messages from the gods. On the old maps, you will see them written at the very edges of the known world. Travelers used to think that, if you walked far enough in one direction, eventually you would fall off the world and all you'd have is the Wind.”
Laina laughed at this. “That's absurd!” she said. She gave him a wry, pointed look.
Burn grinned in response. “Well, that's what they thought. The Winds sat on four thrones, all at different ends of the earth. I’m not sure which name goes with which Wind. The Old Tongue is all but forgotten now.”
Sora was listening with half an ear. She had read most of the tales of Kaelyn the Wanderer, and although she didn't remember any mention of the Old Tongue, she knew most of the legends by heart. Her eyes traveled up to the night sky, where the stars twinkled and gleamed through the tree branches. At this time of year, the Wanderer's constellation would be low on the horizon, barely visible. She sighed quietly, wishing she could find the stars now; the cool blue light had a way of offering comfort.
Laina was asking something else. Burn chuckled. “Oh, I don't know how to speak the language, only a few words that my parents taught me. They say that Kaelyn means First One in the Old Tongue.”
“Well, of course, because she was the first female warrior!” Laina said.
“Perhaps. She was certainly the only one ever written about.” Then the Wolfy looked over at Sora, a slight grin on his face. “Your name means something, too.”
“Really?” she asked with interest. She saw Crash’s eyes open for a moment, and knew that he was also listening. “What?”
“Sky.”
“My name means Sky?” Sora was surprised and somewhat amused. In a way, it was appropriate. Her eyes returned to the stars, searching in vain for the constellation.
“What does my name mean?” Laina asked eagerly. She sat forward, bouncing slightly in place.
Burn looked down at her woodenly. “It means 'pig snout,'” he said.
Laina's mouth dropped open.
They stared at each other, and then Burn let out a loud, booming laugh. “Just kidding! I’m not sure. It might not mean anything.”
Laina didn't seem to know
how to respond. At first, she scrunched up her face, a pout on her lips. Then she forced out a small laugh, though it still seemed that she didn't get the humor. Then she pointed to the book that was in Burn's hands, something that Sora hadn't noticed until now. “Well, why don't you read a passage, then? My grandmother always used to read books to me. Sometimes she would sing stories as well. When she sang... it was as though the story came to life in the air.”
Sora saw Crash glare in her direction. She couldn't blame him; she doubted he was a fan of stories and grandmothers and children.
Burn nodded, opening to the first page in the book. “This one is called The Wanderer,” he said, fingering the tattered pages. “I've carried it for quite some time. It was Dorian's favorite, too.”
Sora wished, quite fervently for a moment, that the thief was with them beside the fire. She could even imagine what he would say, a little smirk lingering around his lips, his eyes bright with cunning. “A favorite? Nonsense. My favorite story is the one I'm living.”
Somehow, the group around the fire was incomplete without him. Laina could never be a replacement for Dorian.
“Go ahead,” Sora said suddenly, wanting to distract herself from the memories. “Read a page.”
Burn nodded. In his deep, earthy voice, he began:
In this world, there was a time before humans existed, before the five races came to the earth. This was a time when the land was stripped down to its bare elements: Wind, Fire, Water, Earth, Shadow and Light.
Each of the elements were like gods, but far greater than gods. They created the world, and therefore created Life. But the elements were not perfect. They argued among each other, unable to agree upon anything. They shunned the outcast element, Shadow. This constant arguing led to chaos and disarray.
Wind, who was known for its wisdom, came up with a way to create beings, creatures that could inhabit the world. Wind hoped that by joining with all of the elements, it would give birth to different creatures and create harmony and love between them.
Viper's Creed (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) Page 8
