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

Sora entered the building. Her first thought was to drop the packages and head straight back out the door, but then Burn's golden eyes gleaming across the room met hers.

  He and Dorian sat at a low table toward the back of the inn. Upon seeing her, the giant Wolfy nudged his companion, and the silver-haired thief looked up. Grinned. Fangs. He set down his cards and slipped out of his chair, smoothly navigating the room to her side.

  “You look no worse for wear, sweetness,” he said, taking her by the elbow. But he didn't offer to help her with the packages, which was irritating, since she felt like her arms were made of strained rope. “Did Crash say when he will be back?”

  “No,” she muttered. She wondered how many times they had done this before—sat in some smoky rundown tavern while the assassin did his dirty work.

  “Ah, then it should be soon. Come sit by us. Your hands are like ice.” Finally he took the bags from her and slipped his hand into her cold grasp. She glanced sideways at him, shock briefly passing over her face.

  He grinned, a wicked look that made her wonder at his thoughts. Then he leaned in close to her ear. “Come now, sweetness. Everyone in the room is staring. At least act amiable toward me.”

  Now Sora noticed quite a few sets of eyes glancing in her direction. Perhaps it was because of her many packages, or maybe it was unusual to see a young woman here. The room was mostly filled with farm types, grizzly old men and weathered merchants relaxing after a long day at market. The few women in the room looked lush and bawdy, wearing low-cut blouses and frayed skirts.

  She caught sight of a familiar man, and her eyes widened. It was the ugly, bulbous giant from the market. He sat opposite them, close to the door, creating an uproar with his shouting, drunken companions. They laughed and sang, thunking their tankards on the table. He caught her eye and raised his mug to her, ale sloshing over the side, a rosy tint on his cheeks. She grimaced and turned away.

  Dorian led her across the room. Sora kept her head bowed, avoiding the side glances she got from different tables. When they reached Burn's corner, she piled all her stuff under his chair, then sat down on an empty stool, relieved to give her legs a rest. Her feet were ridiculously sore, her toes rubbed raw by her leather boots.

  Three other travelers sat at their table—an older serf in a worn linen shirt, a man who was perhaps his son, and a narrow, dark-eyed fellow with a blackened front tooth. Burn shuffled the cards as the men guzzled their drinks. None of them attempted to make conversation beyond the card game.

  Then Burn put a massive hand on her shoulder, as if he was a warm, solid rock. “Have you eaten?” he rumbled, giving her a lion-fanged grin. Sora was momentarily startled by his long canines, which protruded past his lip. She shook her head numbly, and he signaled for a waitress to come over. “A bowl of stew for the lass,” he called, and patted her shoulder again. Sora felt a small earthquake pass through her body. Then he turned back to the game, dealing the cards swiftly around the table. His hands were surprisingly dexterous.

  Sora couldn't stop thinking about Crash and his mysterious payment. She had to find out who this middleman was...and if he was connected somehow to Lord Sinclair.

  “I need to use the privy,” she said suddenly. She looked up, meeting Burn's and Dorian's eyes, and a few disinterested glances from the other card players. “I'll be right back. Is it down that hall?” She pointed to a hallway just beyond their table, which might or might not lead to the rear of the building.

  Dorian's ear twitched. He regarded her sternly. “Aye,” he finally said. Then he glanced back at his drink. “I take it you can handle yourself, sweetness?” he muttered. “This game just started warming up....”

  Burn looked at his smaller companion. “You should go with her, keep an eye on her,” he grumbled.

  Sora studied the two men, sizing up their body language and the number of empty glasses on the table. Well into their third or fourth drinks, she guessed neither of them would want to trundle through the packed common room just to stand in the cold hallway, waiting for a girl to finish her business.

  She gave them a fierce look. “If I'm not back in a minute, you can tie me to the chair for the rest of the night.”

  The thief and the mercenary glanced at each other. Dorian sighed, leaning back. “I can see down the hallway from here,” he grumbled. “Be fast about it, sweetness. If you're not back in a minute, I'll do more than just tie you down.”

  His words were slightly slurred. Sora knew what drunkenness looked like, even if she herself had never been drunk. In fact, she didn't like the taste of wine.

  “I'll be right back,” she said, trying to look appropriately cowed. Then she slipped from her chair and darted away from the table before the men could change their mind.

  She entered the dark hallway only a few yards to their left. She could feel Dorian's eyes on her as she stepped into the shadows, barely illuminated by a smoky candle high up on a shelf. The privy was marked by a half-moon carved into the door. She glanced over her shoulder; at this angle, Dorian could barely glimpse her.

  Sora entered the small, dank closet, holding her hand to her nose. She didn't close the door completely behind her. Instead, she gazed through the slight crack, waiting for Dorian to look away; that didn't take long. The smaller thief laughed and looked down, distracted by his cards. She quickly slipped out of the privy and down the hallway, as quickly as her sore legs would carry her.

  An exit. I have to find an exit! She would steal a horse from the rear of the inn and be on the road in minutes, riding bareback if she had to. She would return to her manor, call the King's guard and have Lord Sinclair firmly interrogated for murder....

  Whumph! Something was pulled over her head.

  Sora struggled, her hands flying to her neck, where a cord tightened. Someone had pulled a bag over her head! She tried to scream, to suck air into her lungs, but the nasty cloth firmly smothered her mouth. Then her arms were twisted behind her, and a large body—a juggernaut, for sure—lifted her clear off her feet. She was aggressively shoved forward, slammed against the sharp edge of a door-frame and then out into the coldness of the night.

  There was the crunch of gravel. Horses snorting and whuffing. Jingling harnesses. Rough hands throwing her over a high saddle. She tried to kick her feet and roll back onto the ground, but a heavy fist knocked her upside the head—wham!—and she went silent, stunned.

  A minute later, they were galloping down the street.

  Sora awakened with her hands tied. She was seated in a hardwood chair, the sack still over her head. She didn't know how much time had passed.

  There was the sound of footsteps, a door opening and closing. And then....

  “Really, Gunter! Take that blasted bag off her head! She is a Lady!”

  “'pologies, My Lord,” came the guttural response. Sora recognized the voice, having heard it once before, as belonging to the large man from the market.

  There was another scuffle. The drawstring was loosened from around her neck and the bag was slipped off her head. She blinked; one of her eyes was swollen almost shut. The side of her face throbbed where she had been struck. Even the brush of air felt like fingers going across her cheek.

  When she looked up, her first sight was of a narrow window with a glimpse of a red-tiled rooftop. She was in an attic, she guessed, or perhaps a second story. They were still on the Fallcrest side of town. She didn't know how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been more than an hour. The moon was full and heavy, bright stars fanning out like a silver skirt.

  Her good eye combed the room, taking in corners with dust and cobwebs, old boxes and crates, a half-covered painting. She spotted Gunter's shadow in the corner, holding the black bag in his massive paw. She would have glared at him, but it hurt too much to frown. There was another man, slight of build, in the corner, sitting on a short stool with a piece of paper in his hand.

  Then a tall figure appeared. He shifted, blocking out the pearlescent light of the moon. Sora tu
rned to stare at him. He wore a very expensive blue cloak. Though the room was in shadow, he still looked dimly familiar; had he been at her Blooming? Remembering her clumsy performance, she paled at the thought. His hair, falling around his ears in wispy layers, was dark, yet flecks of gray glinted in the moonlight—he had been carrying too many burdens for his age.

  “Jerith, light the candles, will you?” he said, irritated.

  The small man in the corner stood up and shuffled to a tall candelabra. He struck a match and quickly lit the four white candles at the top. Sora's nose wrinkled as heavy smoke spewed into the air.

  When she looked again at the man in front of her, she saw the silver emblem on his breast pocket, glinting in the candlelight. “A Seabourne,” she murmured, surprised.

  “Lord Gracen Seabourne, of His Majesty's Royal Guard,” the man corrected. As he moved and blocked the window, his cloak fluttered about him like the great wings of a raven. When he looked down at her, she saw his gaze flicker over her swollen eye. He grimaced. “That was not intentional; my apologies,” he said. “And I am very sorry about the death of your father, Lord Fallcrest.”

  Sora winced painfully at that, but said nothing. The death of her father seemed almost trivial compared to everything else she had been through: the abduction, the Cat's Eye, the monster in the forest, and soon, a trip through Fennbog swamp....

  She let out a sigh of relief, some of her tension loosening. Well, at least now the madness would come to an end. She was amongst nobility again, people who knew and respected her title. It was time to set things straight. “My Lord, I have reason to suspect that my father was murdered,” she said, raising her chin slightly.

  “As do I,” Lord Gracen replied.

  Sora frowned, wondering what he meant. “Then you know of the assassin?” she asked, confused.

  “I suspected there was an assassin, yes. Would you agree?” the Lord murmured. His dark eyes were unreadable. Sora opened her mouth to speak, then paused, suddenly suspicious. She didn't like his tone of voice. Just why had she been abducted from the back of an inn? If she had been rescued, then why was she tied to a chair—and why hadn't her captors been arrested?

  Her eyes traveled to the giant man in the corner, Gunter. His massive, hairy forearms dangled almost to his knees, like heavy tree limbs. She guessed he was the one who had recognized her and brought her in. There was a large sack at his belt that bulged with coins. Her thoughts began to race, arranging and rearranging all of the little pieces of the puzzle.

  “What's this about?” she finally asked.

  “You don't know?” Lord Gracen replied, raising one dark, smooth eyebrow. “Or perhaps you are very good at playing dumb. There is a warrant out for your arrest.”

  “My arrest?” Sora shouted incredulously.

  “Yes,” Lord Gracen nodded, his voice grave. “On suspicion of murder.”

  “Murder? Whose murder?”

  “Your father's.”

  Sora's jaw dropped almost to her chest. She stared up at Lord Gracen, too shocked to think.

  At her stunned silence, the Lord began to pace. A long cane made of polished black wood emerged from his cloak. It clip-clipped against the hollow floor. “Where were you on the night of the murder?”

  “A-at my father's house. It was my birthday. My Blooming,” Sora said directly. Suddenly she recognized him and his broad, barrel chest. He had been sitting in the front row and had caught her scarf during the dance. “You saw me!”

  “And afterward? After the skylight broke? Where were you the rest of the night and the following morning?” he asked aggressively.

  “I was...I was kidnapped!” she exclaimed, sitting forward, straining against her bonds.

  “By the murderer?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why? For ransom?” he barked.

  “No....” Sora's voice trailed off, suddenly doubtful.

  “For what, then?” he pressed.

  “I...uh....” Sora tried to formulate her spinning thoughts. How could she describe the Wolfy mage, the Cat's-Eye necklace, the magic? These were figments of lore and legend, impossible....

  “There was an assassin,” she started to explain again. “He kidnapped me in the hallway!”

  “What assassin? Who is he?”

  “I-I don't know! Crash, his name is Crash!”

  Lord Gracen nodded to the corner where the young man sat with the roll of parchment. Sora saw him withdraw a long, fluffy quill. The young man bent over the paper on his knee and began jotting down her words.

  She stared at the wiggling quill in horror, suddenly aware that she was in a confessional—that they were interrogating her for the murder of her own father. Here. Now. Every word recorded by the King's guard.

  “The assassin came here to collect payment!” she blurted out. “He's planning to flee into Fennbog swamp!”

  Lord Gracen gave her a sharp look. “Payment from whom?” he asked.

  “I-I don't know....” Sora stuttered, her voice growing weak. Her story sounded terrible, full of holes. “He said it was anonymous. I....” She did something desperate, because she couldn't think of what else to do. “I suspect Lord Sinclair. He has never been fond of our family. He intends to acquire the whole of Mayville!”

  “Indeed.” Lord Gracen turned away from her and continued pacing around the room, his cane clack-clacking at a furious pace, his cloak swirling around his boots in a river of blue fabric. He appeared to consider her words. “It is quite a serious matter, to accuse another noble of murder. Have you any evidence, besides hearsay?”

  Sora's eyebrows shot up. Evidence? “The assassin...maybe he'll lead us to his employer....”

  “Or he might lead us in a big circle, right back to you,” Lord Gracen muttered. “I've heard the serfs speculate about Lord Sinclair. But he is currently residing in the City of Crowns. Quite a ways away to plan an elaborate murder....”

  Sora tightened up. She should have known Lord Gracen wouldn't believe her. He seemed set on believing her guilty of murder.

  He paused, looking down, meeting her eyes, echoing her thoughts. “You want me to believe that Lord Sinclair orchestrated a murder from over a hundred miles away. That you were abducted, but for no ransom. And that now the killer has come to Mayville, the only village on your father's lands, to collect payment. With you in tow?” He paused, but Sora stayed silent. “I am no fool, Lady. I have come to learn that the simplest explanation is often the truth. All indicators point to you. Let's try another story.”

  Then Lord Gracen cleared his throat, perhaps enjoying the drama of the moment. “You became used to having your father gone in the City. When he decided to take suits and wed you off, you became threatened. You wanted the entire estate to yourself. So you arranged an assassination, and you planned to pay the killer here, in Mayville. That is why you fled from the manor so quickly after the Blooming. Sadly, you didn't expect me to be here, did you? Looks like your plans have fallen through.” He knelt down in front of her, inches away, eye to eye. “Come now,” he said quietly. “It is cold up here and the night wears on. Do you plead guilty?”

  Sora paled. She shook her head wordlessly.

  Lord Gracen harrumphed, his skepticism clear. “Well, I believe part of what you say. There is an assassin somewhere in this town, perhaps traveling to meet you right now.” He paused, watching her closely for a response. “And perhaps you do plan to take a risky venture through Fennbog. Only the guilty would devise such a plan.”

  Sora opened her mouth and quickly closed it, like a suffocating fish. Abruptly Lord Gracen turned, slamming his cane into the floor. The whole room jumped, including the juggernaut in the corner. “Why? Why did you do it?” he demanded, his eyes cold. “So you wouldn't have to marry? To inherit the full estate? The manor servants told me of your strained relationship with Lord Fallcrest. I mention his name, and you don't even flinch. Was there no love between father and daughter?”

  Sora steeled herself. She felt as thoug
h her intestines were being slowly drawn out through her mouth. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't, not in front of his man, this interrogator from the King. “Love?” she murmured, and stared at the floor, blinking her dry eyes. “No, my father did not love me.”

  “A lie. What father couldn't love his own child? Even if it was a rigid love....”

  “There was no love,” Sora gritted her teeth tightly. “He wanted me gone. Married off. He hated me.” She finally closed her eyes, pain wrapping around her heart like a fierce vine. She could barely speak. “I was no daughter to him.”

  Lord Gracen nodded, coming to a halt in front of her, his cane tapping into silence. “We have a motive. Write that down, Jerith.” He nodded to the scribe in the corner. The quill continued to scratch.

  Sora looked up, her eyes wide. “What?” she exclaimed.

  “No love of your father, no remorse over his death, and an entire estate to inherit,” Lord Gracen said coldly. “Gone missing the day after his death. Talk of an assassin that only you've seen.” His eyes were like granite. “What do you expect me to believe?”

  Sora took a deep breath. Her tears welled up frighteningly close to the surface of her eyes. They hang murderers, she thought, suddenly re-envisioning her future. She would be imprisoned. Taken to the royal court. Tried in front of a committee of the First Tier, where there would be no sympathy—a peasant-born noble with blood on her hands. And what could she tell the court that she hadn't already told Lord Gracen? She could show them the Cat's Eye, but with no magic to provoke it, the necklace would remain a simple bauble, a worthless stone worn on her neck.

  “I'm not guilty,” she said hoarsely.

  Lord Gracen bowed his head and said nothing.

  At that moment, there was a flicker of movement outside the window. Sora turned, squinting at the darkness. Was it a bird?

  An earsplitting crash! shook the air. Lord Gracen threw himself to one side, away from the window. Glass exploded inward as a brick went flying across the room, thudding solidly against the wall.

  Sora stared, shocked. Lord Gracen acted swiftly, lunging in front of her, swinging his cane at some unforeseen foe.

  Then a familiar figure leapt into the building through the broken window.

  A long, silver braid whipped over Dorian's shoulder; a knife was in his hand. He landed on the floor and turned to Lord Gracen, giving him a short once-over.

  “'ello,” he said cheerfully. He ducked the cane smoothly, then punched Lord Gracen in the face, laying him out flat.

  The giant Gunter lunged at Dorian, trying to grab him from behind, but a second shadow flickered at the window. Crash entered the room, a long, thin blade in his hand. As Sora watched, the blade whizzed through the air and straight through Gunter's thick arm, slicing it like a loaf of bread.

  Gunter roared and stumbled backward, dropping the purse of coins, blood spurting from his half-severed arm. Sora gazed in shock, unable to believe the horrible sight. Blood spilled across the floor in every direction, shooting out of the giant's arm in short, swift bursts, spattering halfway across the room. Sora had to lift her feet so the blood wouldn't reach her boots.

  Crash darted into the corner where the scribe cowered. He smashed him back against the wall, then let the unconscious man slide to the ground. Next he grabbed the parchment from the scribe's hands and glanced over it briefly, a look of distaste on his face. He held the parchment over the candelabra. With a crackle and a long stream of smoke, it slowly dissolved into ash and air.

  Sora stared at her two captors, sinking in a conflicting swamp of emotions: relief, dread, and the sudden sour realization that she was being rescued. She couldn't stay here, not with the King's Guard, whom she had believed was her only hope. No, she had to go with the ones who had caused this mess in the first place.

  I'm wanted by the Royal Guard, she thought numbly, her entire world suddenly turned on its head. I'm a criminal. A criminal!

  “Th-they want me for murder,” she gasped as Dorian started to untie her. Her hands were shaking, even though they were tied to the chair, and her knees were trembling uncontrollably. “Th-they think I killed my father!”

  “We know, sweetness,” Dorian said, a surprisingly gentle lilt to his voice. “Word's spread around town—or haven't you heard? One thousand gold pieces on your head. We should've known someone would recognize you.”

  It was a very small amount—some criminals had bounties as high as fifty-thousand gold pieces. Still, it was a considerable amount to the serfs. Sora thought of the giant, Gunter. Her eyes traveled to him, over in the corner. He was sitting silently, gripping his wounded arm, his eyes wide and glassy in shock. From the way the arm was bleeding, he seemed likely he would topple over soon, dead.

  “We need to help him,” she blurted out.

  “Wrong, sweetness,” Dorian said, taking her hands in his. “We need to get out of here before anyone comes looking.”

  “But....” It was cruel and heartless, but what could she expect from these two?

  “Men like him are the worst kind,” Crash said suddenly. “You're lucky there was a bounty on your head. I'm sure he would have done much worse.” He stared at her from across the room, his eyes roving over her face. Then he looked at Dorian. “You should have watched her more closely.”

  “Oh? Are we pointing fingers now?” Dorian sneered.

  Crash gave him a dark look. Then the assassin turned back to the fallen giant. A strange expression passed over his face. “Dorian, take her. I'll meet you on the road.”

  Dorian grabbed her arm lightly and touched her cheek, running a gentle hand over her black eye. “Follow me, sweetness. Let's get out of here.”

  “Wait,” Sora said as Dorian led her toward the window. She glanced over her shoulder. “What are you going to do to him?”

  “Never mind that, sweetness,” Dorian cajoled. Then he picked her up, lifting her out the window onto the roof. Sora didn't have the strength to fight back. She followed Dorian across the red tiles, allowing him to clasp her tightly while he mounted the rope. He shimmied down expertly, her weight hardly a burden.

  “What's he going to do?” she asked again, once they had reached the ground.

  Dorian gave her a perplexed look. “Crash might not be an easy man to trust,” he said slowly. “But he takes care of his own.”

  Sora nodded numbly. Suddenly she didn't want to know the details.

  They slipped quietly through the night, circling around the side of the building to a narrow alley at the rear. Sora didn't recognize the house they had been in, although the emblem of the King hung above the doorway—a golden shield with a red boar's head at its center. A guardhouse, perhaps. A place for the King's men. She could hear them shouting and rummaging inside, and wondered how many soldiers were in there, and how long it would be until they found Lord Gracen's unconscious body in the bloody attic.

  Burn waited for them about two streets away, their steeds in hand. Except now there was an extra steed, a white-and-brown spotted mare. By the emblem on its saddle, it belonged to the King's Guard.

  “We can't just...steal one of the King's horses!” Sora exclaimed as they dragged her up onto the dappled steed. It was tied fast to the rear of Burn's saddle and given just enough tether to gallop. “That's a crime against the Crown!”

  “Aren't you wanted for murder?” Dorian quipped, pulling himself up onto his own brown steed. “Stop caring so much about your precious Crown!” Then he kicked his steed into a gallop, taking off through the abandoned streets.

  Burn's and Sora's horses followed suit, albeit a bit slower, tied together as they were. She wasn't sure exactly when Crash joined their party. Suddenly he was at the rear, following them closely. She wondered what he had done in that dark room. Wondered if his dagger was slick with blood.

  There was a loud clanging at their backs, harsh and clamorous on the night air. A warning bell from the guardhouse tower.

  Dorian's words sank into her, making Sora feel empty
and despairing. He's right, you know, her inner voice said. Now she was wanted for murder. In the eyes of the law, she was no better than the band she traveled with. The King's Court would be no more merciful to her than the assassin riding behind her. Truly? she thought, bile and revulsion rising in her throat.

  They passed under the city gates, galloping wildly, thundering past a second guardhouse. A soldier ran out to stop them, half-dressed, his torso bare, but he was too late and the horses were too fast. He screamed something at their backs, but Sora could only hear hooves on cobblestone. They continued down the road and into the forest, at full tilt.

  About fifteen minutes later, they reached a fork in the road. The main thoroughfare broke off onto a smaller dirt trail, overgrown by blackberry bushes and low, bristly oak trees. Burn led them down the path, slowing his steed only slightly.

  They entered the dense woods, splashing through a shallow stream that split the path. It was the border of the Fallcrest lands.

  Volcrian led his horse through the last stretch of brush and onto the cobblestone road. Ahead of him, he could see the glowing town of Mayville—candlelight flickering in second-story windows, warm hearths lit after dark. He was bent over the saddle, weary from a full day's ride, though relieved that he had made such excellent time.

  With any luck, his prey would still be in the town. He had cut through the forest and found their ill-fated campsite, then surveyed the markings in the dirt, searching for blood, for a trail. Their tracks were well-hidden, but not by Wolfy standards—his keen eyes and ears noted everything.

  Now, closer to town, he could see more tracks, scarcely a half-day old. Two horses had converged with a third—the mercenary Burn's—then diverged again, taking slightly different paths into Mayville. Knowing the ways of the assassin and his companions, they were most likely in a tavern somewhere, drinking and gambling with the money from their most recent kill.

  Volcrian paused as he neared the town and narrowed his eyes. There was some sort of commotion around the gatehouse. An unusual flurry of activity. Horses stamped and snorted; the shadowy forms of soldiers ran back and forth, gathering weapons and strapping on shields.

  Then a large, impressive black steed rode up to the gatehouse, parting the chaos like an arrow. Volcrian watched with interest. After a moment, he led his horse to the side of the road, tying his beast behind a series of tall bushes, fully obscured from view.

  The black stallion was immediately recognizable, the dark sheen of its coat, the subtle hint of dun markings. The majestic man atop the saddle was just as familiar, a dark blue cloak swirling around his proud figure. Volcrian pursed his lips. He had seen this same man back at the Fallcrest Manor. It was no other than Lord Seabourne—Captain of His Majesty's personal guard. It was unusual for such a high-ranking officer to be in a place like this.

  His interest piqued, Volcrian dismounted and approached the guardhouse on foot, carefully traveling off to the side of the road, keeping to the deep shadows. He easily passed by the disordered guards; they were far too busy strapping on armor and clambering onto their horses. Lord Seabourne went into the gatehouse proper, and Volcrian slunk around back, a nervous tilt to his lips. Suddenly he was certain that this had something to do with his prey. Had they caught the assassin? No, impossible, 'twas not so easy. Perhaps they had caught the girl. Or knew of their whereabouts....

  Pausing beneath the rear window of the small gatehouse, he twitched his long ears, adjusting to the sounds from inside. To a normal human, this noise would have seemed like muffled nonsense. But keen Wolfy ears could pick out each individual set of footsteps, each distinct voice.

  Loud boots confidently crossed the floorboards, accompanied by the sturdy thunk-thunk of a cane. Lord Seabourne, to be certain. Volcrian sneered. That cane was useless. The First Tier put style before practicality, a sure indication of too much wealth.

  If Volcrian remembered correctly, the Captain was typically involved with matters that concerned the King. Why would he come out here, to the middle of the country, where the bumpkin nobility held sway? Surely, there were much more pressing matters in the City? What does the King's guard-dog have to say?

  “They passed through the gates just an hour ago,” he heard. This was perhaps a soldier's voice. “My Lord, your head....”

  “Is fine,” Lord Seabourne snapped. He was in a nasty mood. “They are traveling to Fennbog swamp. Organize a garrison and give chase immediately!”

  “My Lord,” there was a brief click of heels, and Volcrian imagined a guard saluting. “But...are you quite sure? Fennbog is impassable. Perhaps the Lady was trying to mislead us.”

  “No, she's not smart enough for that,” Seabourne grunted.

  Volcrian had to agree with him. The girl was hardly a threat. The assassin, on the other hand, was quite a bit more tricky. A frown curved his thin lips and a vein throbbed in his temple. They were headed into Fennbog. Nasty, cunning creature, he thought, imagining his prey. Of course the killer would go there. It was the most immediate path of escape, especially with a Cat's Eye.

  He was deep in thought. If Lady Sora was skilled enough, she could put the stone to use as a compass. He had heard of such things in tales of the War. But he doubted she had that kind of discipline. At the very least, it would offer protection from the magic of the swamp and also the dangers within it. Fennbog was the one place where he could not follow them. At least, not on foot.

  “Seek out their trail while it's still fresh,” Lord Seabourne snapped, continuing his orders. “You'll find them soon enough. You must catch them before they reach the marshlands. It's too dangerous to enter the swamp, though I expect a few men will die trying.”

  “Suicide, Milord, with all due respect,” another older, wizened voice chimed in, closer to the window. “And a waste of manpower. Mayhap we should leave them to their fate. They'll never survive Fennbog. The place is cursed....”

  Crack! The cane snapped against the floor, splitting the air, and Volcrian flinched, his ears ringing at the sound. A tense silence followed.

  “Superstitious nonsense,” Lord Seabourne finally growled. He had the voice of command, loud and striking. “You will follow them and arrest them. They will be tried by the King's court and, if I do say so, hanged by the King's law. We do not tolerate murder, especially amongst the First and Second Tiers.”

  The silence that followed was wrought with doubt. Volcrian could imagine what was going through the soldiers' minds. Fennbog was a horrid place, full of sink-sand, sulfurous gases, poisonous plants and ravenous, reptilian beasts....

  “What of your Lordship?” the first voice spoke up. “Will you accompany us?”

  “No.”

  Typical nobility. Volcrian grimaced. Why dirty your boots when you have an entire garrison at your command? He glanced toward the road, peering through the thick bushes and leaves. The soldiers were calm now, organizing a line of horses, preparing to leave. The light from the guardhouse glinted against their heavy armor. That will certainly help them sink faster, Volcrian thought, and pictured them running headfirst into the mud. Fennbog had a hundred miles of it. And yet all twenty-five soldiers looked as eager as their prancing steeds. They must not have heard their assignment. A waste of blood, to be sure.

  “I have business in the City of Crowns,” Lord Seabourne spoke. Volcrian's ears twitched, and he looked up at the windowsill with renewed interest. “I thought, perhaps, that Lord Fallcrest's murder was of greater import. But it is just a family feud, nothing more. The King has requested my return, and I haven't the time to dally around in the swamp. I will expect news once you have captured the girl. Try to bring her back alive—I have more questions about her father's doings.” There was a pause. Lord Seabourne resumed pacing. He seemed to be an awfully tense man. “Head out now, before they pull further ahead. Knowing how a Lady travels, overtaking them should be no trouble at all. Especially for the King's guard.” His voice ended on a dire note, threatening. Volcrian could imagine the cold glint i
n Seabourne's iron-gray eyes.

  Heels clicked again, more saluting. This was followed by a chorus of “Sir!” and “Yes, Milord!”

  Then he listened to Lord Seabourne's unmistakable walk, step-tap-step, go across the room. The door to the guardhouse opened and closed. There was a series of salutes from the soldiers outside, barely visible beyond the corner of the house. Then Lord Seabourne took his leave, his great black stallion charging down the road, back into Mayville and perhaps further into the lands beyond. Two soldiers departed with him. The rest stayed in rank.

  Volcrian remained hunched behind the building as the commanding officers filed out of the gatehouse. They muttered amongst each other, groaning about the swamp, about the peculiar ways of nobility and the “sad state” of the Fallcrest lands. Then they called orders to their troops, mounted their horses, and took off down the road at a formidable pace. The ground trembled beneath them. Pebbles skittered and shook with the sound of over four dozen thundering hooves.

  As soon as they left, Volcrian mounted his horse and moved onto the cobblestone road. His eyes followed the soldiers' trail, his thoughts whirring and whistling at this new information. So there would be no respite—no relief in Mayville. He had to continue traveling. He almost wanted to turn around, head back into town and find a nice, warm cot for the night.

  Yet he didn't have that luxury. No, he had to catch up with the assassin, preferably before the soldiers did. But how to follow him into the swamp? Volcrian was no fool. Perhaps the assassin hoped to kill him by luring him into Fennbog. Considering the location, he was likely to succeed. Volcrian would have to be smarter than his prey.

  His eyes abruptly lit up, and his hand slipped to his pouch; he withdrew a small glass vial. A clump of dirt matted with old blood lingered at the base. If he couldn't follow his prey physically, he would use other ways. Yes, there are other ways.

  With an abrupt change of direction, Volcrian headed back to the gatehouse. All of the soldiers were either on patrol or had joined the hunting party. With a few quick flicks of his dagger, he picked the lock and kicked open the heavy oak door.

  The guardhouse was a small affair, two sitting rooms and a closet of a kitchen, which was really just a pantry and a wood-burning stove. He crossed to the cupboards and immediately found what he was looking for—a brown package of salt. Moving swiftly, he emptied his water flask into a wide pan, dumped in a cup of salt, and then added the old blood. He had used this spell several times in his life, especially as an adolescent, to spy on women in the bathhouses.

  The dirt held a remnant of Dorian's blood from their last battle, when he had sent the fox-corpse to attack. However, even a teaspoon of blood held powerful properties. Using this, he could find a way into the thief's mind. Observe without being seen. Monitor their progress. Perhaps even assert his influence.

  As old and diluted as it was, the spell wouldn't be terribly effective, but it was the only thing he had. For now.

  Volcrian heated the salt water. At times it could be substituted for blood, especially in simpler spells. It was not nearly as potent as the real thing, but it would boost the spell's effects. That was really all he needed.

  He emptied the bloody dirt into the water, letting it boil for several minutes and included several sprigs of herbs that he found hanging in a dark closet. They were purely for taste. This spell was one of the most basic tricks and only required the victim's blood and a few choice words of power.

  Once the tea was ready, Volcrian poured it into a large jug and left the gatehouse as swiftly as he had arrived. The entire spell had taken no more than ten minutes. His sensitive ears picked up the approach of more soldiers as he ducked into the woods.

  Once there, he found a quiet, secluded place to sit down. He drank the jug of tea as quickly as possible, gulping down the salty, gritty mixture, forcing himself not to gag. Then he repeated a fierce chant under his breath, speaking in the Old Tongue, the original language of the world.

  When he was done, he leaned back, closed his eyes and sank deep into meditation, as only a master could. Then, in the expanded darkness of his mind, he reached out for the thin silver light that was Dorian....

  CHAPTER EIGHT