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

Sora looked at the distant box-like shapes of the houses, the sloping roofs, barely a few lumps on the horizon. She could already feel the soft feather mattress against her sore muscles. And fresh food! Warm bread, thick stew, vegetables, apples dipped in sugar, oranges and cream....

  She had never before appreciated true hunger. She was practically drooling on her shirt. She couldn't wait to stuff her face.

  She sighed in longing, her mind full of warm butter and scones. They were still a mile from town. The field stretched before her, the sun sinking slowly. Peaceful silence lay over the grass, only disturbed by a slight wind. She had never been on this side of the swamp before. It was drier and warmer than she remembered by her manor.

  "Sora! Get down!"

  Abruptly Crash tackled her to the ground.

  A black shape whizzed over their heads. Sora, who was lying face down in the tall grass, looked up in surprise. What? At first she thought it was a large bird. She scanned the field desperately, trying to figure out had happened. Why was Crash so alarmed?

  Distantly, she could see a flying object hurtling toward the two Wolfies. It was far too big to be a bird or a rock. A horse? She squinted, unable to see its legs. It wasn't shaped like any animals she knew....

  Then the shape paused a short distance from her Wolfy friends. Now that she could see it more clearly, she could hardly believe her eyes. The shape was...floating?

  An insubstantial black cloak drifted around the dark figure, blurring and blending like smoke. She couldn't see it clearly no matter how long she stared—her eyes seemed to slide over it, unable to focus. It shifted and flickered, forever subtly different, changing shape over and over again.

  The wind gusted across the clearing, picking up force. The figure shimmered and appeared in a new position. There was a glint of light. A blade emerged out of the mist-like clothing, long and thin, like a sword—no, narrower—almost like a giant needle. Sora recognized it from her old fencing lessons. A rapier.

  Then the creature threw back its head and screamed into the twilight. It was a bone-chilling sound, racing over her skin, shooting down her spine.

  Crash leapt from the ground a second later, sprinting toward the Wolfies, his sword drawn. Sora watched, dumbstruck. Then she scrambled to her feet and dashed after him.

  Dorian and Burn were more than a hundred feet ahead of her. She charged at full speed. Whatever this thing was, it was definitely no Catlin, and it definitely meant them harm. She was so tired though—exhausted—it felt like she was running through thick water.

  Light glinted as Burn drew his massive sword. The steel was thick, sharp and easily visible, almost as long as he was tall. Burn launched himself at the apparition, the blade whirling through the air, creating a sound like a wind tunnel.

  The wraith screamed again and raised its skinny rapier. The two clashed together, tendrils of fire leaping up from the blades. Sora's mouth was wide open and she almost came to a stop. There was no way the rapier could last against such a huge sword. And yet it held. Magic, it had to be. She touched her necklace, but no sound came from her Cat's Eye, no alarm.

  Sora could see Dorian behind Burn, his silver hair whipping back and forth. The wind picked up again, blowing stronger and stronger, as though engaging in the fight. The smaller Wolfy dodged around to the other side of the creature, daggers out. He tried to take a knife to the apparition, slashing at its cloak, but to no effect. The wraith screamed again in outrage, turning to swat at the thief with its sword.

  Sora wished she knew what was happening, how she could help, but she could only watch uselessly. She wasn't as skilled as the men and knew that she would get in the way—or get her head cleaved off by Burn's sword.

  Finally the Cat's Eye woke up. She heard a faint jingle at the edge of her hearing, like wind chimes—but the necklace seemed confused. The sound faded in and out with the wind. Magic, but something else, something different. The necklace sampled the creature's energy, and she could feel a strange resistance, like a rock against sand, a dark cloud in an empty sky, or...or a drop of blood in water.

  Blood.

  Information flooded her, sudden knowledge. The core of this magic was blood. Only Wolfies used blood. This was Volcrian's creation. The very thought made her heart stop.

  Crash flung himself into the fray ahead of her. The assassin leapt out of the grass almost as suddenly as the wraith had. Three against one, and still the creature was holding its own.

  The assassin attacked from behind, his sword slashing through the air. The mercenary blocked from the front, meeting the phantom blow for blow...and yet...nothing happened. The apparition seemed as inconsistent as air, fading and reappearing, like smoke in the wind. Crash's blade swung left and right, striking nothing.

  The creature's sword, however, was solid and real, deadly sharp.

  Burn blocked a jab and swung in riposte, coming from an unexpected angle. The Wolfy's giant blade plunged through the cloak and into the creature, a killing blow—except that the sword passed through the phantom as though slicing fog. A creature of mist. Nothing more.

  Sora was stunned. It was magic, it had to be—and yet it seemed a part of nature, a figment of their minds.

  There was an unearthly scream that arose from the ground, shaking through the grass. The creature struck out with some sort of energy force, like a gust of darkness; it knocked Burn from his feet. Whooompphh! The giant Wolfy tumbled backwards as easily as a child, landing in the grass.

  Crash dove to his side, seeking to shield the mercenary. But as the assassin moved, the wraith's sword swung down. It was perfectly aimed, too fast to dodge. Inescapable....

  “No!” Dorian threw himself in front of Crash and Burn, taking the blow head on. His two daggers crossed above his head to block the sword. Sora watched helplessly. Two puny daggers couldn't contend with a strike like that....

  It happened too fast for her to scream. The wraith's sword fell downward in a perfect arc, slicing Dorian's daggers in half as though they were made of paper. She couldn't look away. The sword pierced the thief, striking him clean across the chest. Blood sprayed the air.

  Then Sora was moving, though she didn't know it at the time. No sound reached her ears and she couldn't feel the ground. She charged forward, an inhuman sound ripping from her throat. Her Cat's Eye jingled madly in her ears, interrupted by the pounding of her heart. She sped across the grass in a blur, her staff forgotten.

  "Dorian!" she screamed, a millisecond before she hit him. Her small body tackled the Wolfy with amazing force and sent him flying limply away from the wraith—she didn't know if he was alive or dead. Almost immediately there was a blinding flash. When Sora's eyes cleared, she found herself standing with arms outstretched, a dome of light around her, the Cat's Eye's shield. It engulfed both her body and her friends, who were lying in the grass at her back, unable to do anything.

  This time, however, the shield wasn't perfect. The wraith screamed in rage and slammed its weapon down. The blow bounced back, energy crackling in the air. The shield trembled and shook.

  The wraith kept pounding against it. Clang! Clang! Clang! The sword rang out in the chill air. Every time the weapons collided, a flash of brilliant light burst around them. Sora flinched with every blow. Fear lurched inside of her. Somehow, the wraith was breaking through.

  She gripped the necklace in her hand desperately, focusing all of her mind on it.

  The wraith drew its sword back, let out a terrifying scream, then plunged the blade down in a two-handed swing. The rapier struck the barrier of energy and pressed into it, denting it. The dome flickered around her dangerously. No!

  The Cat's Eye made a static popping sound.

  Crack!

  The shield popped. A ripple of energy moved outward, like a small explosion.

  Sora tried to throw herself out of the way—too late.

  Her upper body exposed, the wraith jammed its sword deep between her ribs. The air left her in a sudden rush. Pain. Silence.

&
nbsp; Then a dull whining in her ears. An enraged ringing from the Cat's Eye....

  Energy surged forward, shooting from her body up through the blade, into the creature before her. The wraith screamed.

  For a moment, the sound of clanging bells was heard by all of her companions. Then the Cat's Eye erupted in a whirlwind of green and yellow light, attacking the wraith with the fury of a tempest. The creature continued to scream, its voice carrying unnaturally across the fields, on and on and on. The wind whipped Sora's hair around her face. The necklace drained the phantom of life; it flickered like a dying fire. The black robes seemed to break apart, turning to dust, blown away piece by piece.

  Finally, there was nothing left but a stain of blood upon the grass.

  Sora continued to hold her necklace, stunned, staring at the empty grass, the open fields. Then she looked down at a larger stain, spreading across her shirt. Strangely, she hadn't felt any pain beside the initial pinch of the blade. It was as though she was staring at someone else's body.

  She turned to look down at her two companions. Crash was the first she saw, and he stared back at her, his eyes wide. Burn, too, seemed frozen to the ground; his hands were wedged into the grass. He stared at her in disbelief.

  Then her gaze slowly traveled to Dorian's silent form, a pool of blood around his body. His face was turned down toward the earth, his eyes open, sightless—vacant. Was he breathing?

  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 lan
tern 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 thoughtful, 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.

  Crash was reluctant to let go. He dismounted from the horse, leaping to the ground. Then Cameron led the beast toward the stalls.

  The Healer walked towards the house, opening the front door. “He was brought to me a few years ago, knocked silly from a fall off a horse,” she said over her shoulder. “Cameron survived the wound, but was never quite right after that. His family asked me to look after him. We've since become quite comfortable.”

  She let her patients enter first. "Burn, take the girl down those stairs and through the first door on the right. You can place her on the wooden table.” Her eyes slid to Dorian's body, which was still slung over the mercenary's shoulder, cold and limp. “You can place him in the next room.”

  Burn nodded and stepped into the house, Crash following closely.

  Inside, the cabin was warm and bright; hand-woven rugs on the floor and paintings on the walls. Vases filled with wildflowers, lanterns strung on chains, a broad fireplace and ornate furniture. Obviously the Healer did quite well for herself—he wasn't surprised. Healing was a rare art and took countless years to master. Apprenticeships were hard to come by, so skilled Healers were few and far between. She probably had visitors from all over the countryside at her door, perhaps even those who lived in the foothills and mountains.

  The house was cluttered; most available surfaces were covered with trinkets and candles. “Gifts from my patients,” she commented, following Crash's gaze. At the end of the front room was a short step down. They entered onto the stone floor of a large kitchen, filled with copper and brass pans that hung from assorted shelves. A massive stove. Lots of floor room.

  The Healer paused here, opening her cupboards and collecting a series of glass vials filled with unidentifiable liquids. Crash was a poisons expert, but these were much the opposite—naturally brewed anesthetics, disinfectants and medication.

  Then she led him back to the staircase where Burn had descended. At its base, it emptied into another hallway, this one below-ground and branched off into several rooms. They passed through an oak door, already ajar. Crash could hear the Wolfy shuffling beyond it, laying Sora out on the wooden table.

  The small room was well-lit by perhaps a dozen lanterns. The walls were lined with drawers and shelves. Countless jars were packed full of herbs, roots, teas, cotton swabs, antidotes, rolls of gauze. Many of the jars were unlabeled. Several clumps of plants hung from the ceiling, drying. The assassin only recognized a few.

  Burn laid Sora out on the examining table and stepped back, his face pale and drawn. Crash stared at her body as well. She was completely still,; he couldn't even tell if she was breathing. He wondered if she was already dead. She seemed smaller than he remembered, miniscule on the large table.

  The Healer began removing Sora's shirt, then paused. She looked up at them. “I think the patient would appreciate some privacy. When I'm done, you can come back in and take her upstairs." She looked pointedly at the assassin. "Out. Both of you."

  Crash and Burn filed out of the room silently, each at a loss for words. They sat on a bench in the hallway. Every couple of seconds they glanced at the silent door. Eventually, the Wolfy got up and started pacing. Crash watched him, his body exhausted yet filled with a nervous, twitching energy.

  Finally he sat back and closed his eyes, trying to rest, though he knew it would be impossible. Every time he sat back, he saw flashes of the battle, the wraith's dark, foreboding hood, the stench of magic and blood. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but there was nothing else to think about. There were no fond memories to summon, no better times.

  He drew his dagger instead, intending to clean it, but he could only stare at the blade. It was long and ornately curved, decorated with fragile filigree toward the hilt. The pummel was twisted into the form of a snake, jaw open, fangs gleaming.

  He had killed countless times with this knife. The only thing he had kept from his homeland. He hesitated now, watching the light glint from its surface. Unexpectedly, he remembered that night in Sora's manor, slinking along the rafters of the ballroom, waiting for a distraction great enough to finish the job. Goddess, he had killed her father! A man who had been far from innocent, but few men truly were. He didn't judge his kills—didn't weigh their acts like a tipping scale, considering their good deeds against the bad. No, he hadn't even known the man—hadn't cared about the daughter, who tripped and fell at her own Blooming.

  He had only thought about the coin, about Volcrian's hatred, about how long he could run before he was caught.

  And now she would die.

  What did you expect? He had been raised as an agent of destruction. It is what we are, his mentor had taught. The unseen tempest. The impartial earthquake. Dea
th did not judge, and neither did he.

  Yet somehow, Sora was different. I should be the one who is dead.

  His lip curled, staring at the knife in disgust. He shoved it back into his belt, a silent vow twisting in his gut. It's over, he thought. I'm out.

  Eventually Burn's steps came to a halt. He sat down again, the bench creaking slightly under his weight. After a moment, he said very quietly, "We will need to give Dorian a proper burial."

  Crash's eyes opened, their green light rekindled. He hadn't thought of the thief. The cold body in the next room might as well have been a piece of wood. Was that what Burn had been pacing about—funeral rites? "Time means nothing to the dead," he grunted. "Dorian can wait."

  Burn frowned calmly. “Perhaps. But I can't."

  "Then bury him yourself.”

  The mercenary was silent for a long moment. “I suppose you would say that,” he muttered darkly. “I'm not fooled, assassin. You may think you are removed from us—that you have come to terms with your own mortality—but I still had to drag Sora out of your arms.”

  Crash didn't know what to say to that.

  Burn sighed softly. “After Sora is awake, then we will worry about Dorian."

  Crash refused to answer, knowing for the first time that he couldn't trust his own voice. Silence was better than betraying oneself. Didn't the mercenary understand? He cared about the girl—maybe, partially, why not—but it was only because she was still alive. If she had been killed in the fight, would he have fussed over her empty body?

  No, of course not. What did it even mean—to be buried? That was only a comfort to those who mourned, who grieved. No help to the ghost, no second chance for the soul.

  But a tinge of guilt entered his thoughts. He had caused the thief's death, too.

  He turned his face away from Burn and stared at the wall. His thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth. Sora is just a girl, he thought angrily. She will either live or die, just like anyone else. How long was this going to take? If the Healer didn't come out soon, then he might just knock on the door and let himself in. There was nothing sacred about a healing space. He had a right to know the truth.

  As he fought with himself on whether to move or not, the door opened.

  The Healer was wiping her hands on a cloth, and Crash could see blood on it. His stomach did a tiny flip, though he had seen plenty of blood before. He didn't linger on the reaction.

  She turned to look at them; she appeared older now, weary. “We will have to wait it out,” she said. He thought he might have heard a tremor in her voice, a slight weakness. “There's nothing more I can do. But she's young; she has a good chance at recovering. There is no infection, so that's a good sign; it's mostly blood loss. Burn, can you take her upstairs to the first bedroom on the left?"

  "Of course," the Wolfy said, and went into the room immediately. Crash was too relieved to follow, though he didn't admit it to himself. A moment later Burn came out with Sora in his arms, covered in a long white sleeping gown.

  The assassin stood up to go with them, but the Healer—looking far too much like Sora—gave him a firm glare. She motioned for him to come with her into the room. Crash had half a mind to ignore her, but a twinge in his side told him not to. His wounds were minor, but having a Healer nearby was a rare opportunity. So he followed her and sat down on the wooden table.

  The woman shut the door and turned to him. "Take off your shirt. I'm assuming your shoulder bothers you?"

  Crash didn't hesitate. He lifted his shirt to reveal the stab wound on his right shoulder, where the Panthera had landed a blow. The woman took a bottle of clear liquid and dabbed a cloth into it. She wrung it out and clamped it over the wound without warning—for good reason, too, as it burned like hell.

  The gash began to foam. In amazement, he saw dirt and other toxins begin to bubble out, purged from his body. His face paled in pain, but he didn't make a sound. She did this a few more times to other small scratches, her eyes traveling over his scar, then she took out a needle and a thin length of white thread.

  "This is a special kind of silk—I grow it myself. It's made from silkworms and plant fibers. It will dissolve on its own in about three weeks," she said, mindlessly threading the needle. Crash nodded, looking down at her eerily familiar face, watching her deft hands. Sora had thinner fingers, he observed.

  Then she knelt toward his shoulder, ready to pierce the flesh. She glanced up at him. “This might...tickle just a bit.”

  Crash nodded wryly, appreciating her humor. Then the needle pierced his skin, once again without warning. He hardly felt it. He watched her hands at work, weaving in and out of the wound, sewing it together inch by precious inch. She was careful and thorough, taking her time, her face drawn with concentration.

  After twenty minutes, the Healer finished. Crash flexed his shoulder, feeling the gash strain against the stitches. He was mildly surprised. She was better than he had originally thought—far better than he had seen before, and he had visited quite a few Healers. Some could hardly mix cold medicine, working out of horse stalls or other unsavory places. No, this woman was quite experienced.

  Crash looked back at her. Her blue eyes gazed at him steadily, a small smile on her lips. Then she spoke abruptly. "So does that tattoo on your arm mean anything," she asked, "or is it just a decoration?"

  Crash raised an eyebrow. He glanced down at the green snake wrapped around his forearm, coiling up his wrist, twin fangs dripping poison. Usually he had his shirt on, so it was covered. "My namesake," he murmured.

  "Viper?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah. I thought so." The woman grinned. "An assassin indeed."

  Crash's eyes flashed, immediately suspicious. But the Healer only laughed, deep and throaty. She sounded so unlike Sora that he began to relax.

  "It's obvious," she answered the unspoken question. "Your kind always have those silly tattoos."

  He was absolutely shocked. He had been impressed by the woman's knowledge of the Cat's Eye, but now he was speechless. Not many came close enough to an assassin to learn such things. What else did she know? And could he trust her?

  "Now tell me, Viper—or Crash, as you seem to prefer," she said, and handed him back his shirt. Then she turned and stared him in the eye, her expression far from friendly. "How do you know my daughter?"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN