Sora's Quest

by T. L. Shreffler

  Crash shifted behind her. “If you cause any trouble....” the assassin murmured.

  “You'll kill me?” she asked, ready for the threat. She turned slightly to catch his eye. She knew she was challenging him, but she felt momentarily bold. He couldn't kill her, not now. He needed her necklace. And, she suspected, he was too cowardly to wear it himself.

  He met her gaze; his eyes were flat, as green as venom, serpentine. She tried to hold out, to sustain the silent confrontation, but it was impossible. Her courage shuddered and wilted, like a dying mouse.

  “Don't try me,” he murmured. Then the assassin reached up and pulled his cloak over his head, a black shield against the noontime sun. Even in broad daylight, he looked menacing.

  She turned back toward the town, unnerved.

  Chapter 6

  Mayville was the only town on her father's lands. Populated by serfs, it wasn't fully in her father's jurisdiction, as it was half-sprawled on a neighboring Lord's estate. It resided on opposite sides of a trickling stream, a border of sorts, crossed over by tiny footbridges.

  The Fallcrest side had red clay-tiled roofs and whitewashed buildings. The Sinclair side favored tin roofs and brick. The villagers and farmers were just as competitive as the two families, holding a yearly festival to prove which side was better. The Tin Roofs baked the best bread and shod the best horses, or so they claimed. The Red Roofs made fancier ceramics and sewed prettier quilts.

  Needless to say, a long history of tension existed within the town. Every year, there were disputes over taxes and trade laws.

  Sora had met Lady Sinclair once at a tea party about three years ago. The young Lady had been a perfect specimen of country nobility—that is to say, mimicking the First Tier in every way possible. She had worn her hair in a mountain of dark curls, her cheeks pinker than even the sunniest sunburn.

  As they entered town, Sora entertained the dark, horrifying thought of bumping into Lady Sinclair and being recognized. “Dressed as a peasant in day-old clothes,” she could almost hear. “I'm sure her mother would be proud.” Followed by shrieks of laughter, of course. But she shook her head, trying to clear it. If she were recognized, that would lead to her rescue, which would be more than welcomed. But her rescue would return her to noble life, which she dreaded. At that moment, she wasn't sure which she preferred—the life of a captive, or the life of a Lady. They felt much the same.

  She and Crash followed the cobblestone road through town. It took some time to find an inconspicuous place to tie their horse, away from traffic and yet not so far as to be stolen. Then Sora followed the assassin on foot, carving their way deeper into the marketplace. He kept a subtle grip on her hand, as though they were old friends...or worse, lovers. Sora tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

  "It's too crowded," she muttered, narrowly avoiding a large woman in aprons, a tray of freshly baked bread in each hand.

  “Stop dawdling,” Crash said sharply, dragging her through another swarm of people. She had no choice but to follow, his hand solidly on hers. She was barely able to dodge the stampede of farmers, bakers, smiths, midwives and chickens. It seemed like everyone from the surrounding countryside was at market. Well, she figured, thinking back on her estate studies, it is Spring and they are clearing their barns for new crops. Countless serfs haggled over wares, buying livestock or spending well-earned coin.

  Lily had described Mayville as a “mid-sized” town; until now Sora hadn't known what that meant. It seemed pretty big to her. The vendors' carts were numerous and there was more than enough to stare at. Baskets of flowers hung from windowsills, fountains decorated each market square, and sheepdogs ran back and forth, fighting over bones or chasing cats.

  Crash led her past everything, stopping only to buy a few biscuits, one of which he tossed in her direction. Sora caught the roll in midair, immediately popping it into her mouth, relieved to fill her stomach.

  Then a voice burst out from her right-hand side, making her jump.

  “Goddess here! Bells of the Goddess! Her Winds bring you good luck!” A skinny man leapt frantically around the crowd, a cluster of brass bells in his hand, charms of the Wind Goddess. There were several other bells of various shapes and sizes hanging from his booth.

  His stand was full of miniature figurines, whittled from cheap wood. Sora glanced over them curiously. There were the two male gods, Fire and Light, and the rest were of the goddesses: Wind, Earth and Water. There was a final sixth god, that of Darkness, but it was considered bad luck to portray Him.

  Each god or goddess had its own pose, its own fortune: good luck, good business, courage, wisdom, health. Their lore went back to the creation of the world and the different races. At one time, all of the gods and goddesses had been worshipped; each race had paid homage to a different deity. But now the races were gone, and the humans only worshiped their patron Goddess of the Wind.

  Shrines to the other gods could still be found in rural areas, but they were small affairs, stone monuments found deep in the forest, overgrown with moss.

  For a moment, she yearned for such a bell—maybe it would bring her luck on the road—but then Crash was by her side, tugging her into the crowd. He didn't seem impressed by the salesman.

  They waded across to a store that read Dried Goods across the front window. Sora was stunned by the line of people out the door, so long it trailed into the street and around the corner. She thought Crash might try to enter anyway—barge his way to the front, step on a few toes—but no such luck. They followed the line to the end and got behind a withered old woman with two scabby children, both smudged with dirt.

  Perhaps even more terrible was when the woman turned and said to them, “Did you hear?,” pinning Crash with a milky-blue stare. “Lord Fallcrest is dead. And his own daughter, the culprit!”

  Sora's mouth dropped open.

  “Aye, missy,” the woman said, nodding to Sora with an air of knowing. “I almost fainted meself when I heard the news. But the funeral was yesterday and the Lady gone missing. Why else would she run from the crime? The whole town is speculating—if not the whole countryside!” Then the woman laughed, a large, gap-toothed grin. “The nobility think they're above the King's laws! Well, this'll teach her!”

  Sora was speechless, her mouth full of dust. The culprit? Had she heard correctly? No, it must be a mistake, perhaps she had misheard, or the woman had misspoken. Killed my own father? Is that what they think?

  She glanced at Crash, still stunned. She should do something—tell the woman the truth, point to her dark companion and proclaim him a killer. But she had seen the knives gleaming at his belt, and even more blades concealed beneath his cloak. She would be dead in a heartbeat if she raised her voice.

  She caught a look from the assassin and knew that was true.

  “Right,” she said, turning back to the woman. “That wretched nobility!”

  The woman nodded agreement and turned back to her children.

  Sora spent the remainder of the time in brooding, contemplative silence. They left the store almost an hour later, her arms laden with brown bags and heavy packages. The crowds were larger and sweatier than before. It was mid-afternoon, bright and blazing hot. Sweat began to form at the base of her neck, trickling between her shoulder blades.

  A murderer. That's truly what they thought. And the serfs believed whatever the manor's servants told them. It almost hurt worse, knowing what those servants must think of her. Now that Sora's ears had been alerted, she seemed to hear the same conversation everywhere, shouted from second-story balconies through open windows, from clotheslines to street corners: “Lord Fallcrest is dead, and our Lady, a murderer!”

  “We shall have to protest, to petition the King.”

  “They haven't found her yet. Where could she have gone? In the swamp, methinks. Nowhere else to hide....”

  “The Sinclairs, I'd bet you two acres they did it. They're old enemies of the Fallcrest name.”

  “Of course a Red Roof
would say that! The Sinclairs are good, honest, hardworking people...with any luck, the estate will go to them!”

  The Sinclairs. Now that she thought of it, it didn't seem so farfetched. They had connections in the City of Crowns; they could arrange an assassination. She glanced at Crash, again wondering who had hired him. The question was on the tip of her tongue. They were in Mayville, after all, the most likely place to collect payment if the Sinclairs were guilty. And Lord Sinclair could lay claim to their land in such a fragile situation...or at least, to the town, as he'd been trying to do since before she was born. It suddenly made too much sense.

  The sound of laughter caught Sora's attention, distracting her from her dark thoughts. She looked up, curious. A whirl of bright colors appeared ahead of her, breaking through the crowd. Blues, greens and reds....

  As she neared, she saw a street entertainer standing inside a large circle of people. He was dancing to a musicbox, whirling left and right, a rainbow-colored cape flowing around him, scarves and bells twirling in the air. He wore a lopsided hat; a crow was perched on the brim, maintaining its balance with a few awkward wing flaps.

  Intrigued, Sora stopped, mesmerized by the flashing colors.

  The music changed, and the street entertainer ran around the circle of spectators, pulling nuts and oddments out of children’s ears, then trying to put things into their pockets that were too big to fit. Sora had never seen anything quite so ridiculous. The large crow flew above the crowd, snatching up coins that were flipped in the air. The street entertainer spun around amid roars of approval.

  When he reached her side, he pulled out a long yellow lily from his sleeve. With a small bow, he offered her the flower. "A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady," he said.

  Sora opened her mouth, surprised. She was momentarily reminded of her handmaid, who had loved lilies, her namesake. She found herself suddenly choked with emotion.

  “Thank you!” she finally managed to say. She set down the heavy packages and took the flower.

  The man laughed. He had twinkling, aqua-colored eyes, somewhere between blue and green. For a moment she had to wonder at those eyes, which seemed unnaturally bright and shiny, sort of like opals or sapphires.

  Then the odd man danced away back to his audience. Sora sighed, wishing she had a coin to toss him. She would have given him an entire goldpiece. She glanced at Crash, thinking of her stolen purse.

  But the assassin was not by her side, where she had expected him to be. She turned around, searching the crowd....

  Gone.

  She looked again, left and right.

  Yes, gone.

  Sora's heart began to pound. She couldn't quite believe it, and she turned around full circle, astounded. The assassin was nowhere to be seen. He'd lost her in the crush of people! Now's my chance to escape.

  Sora turned on her heel and pushed her way through the swirling foot traffic. A few people shouted, pointing to her dropped packages, but she ignored them. No time to waste. The assassin would notice her absence at any moment, if he hadn't already. She remembered where Crash had tied his horse. She would take the steed and make a run for it. She wondered where Crash had got to....

  Sora was so focused on her thoughts that she ran head-first into something very large and very solid. Whumph! She gasped, stopping dead in her tracks, and brought her hand up to her nose, her eyes tearing in pain. She glanced up....

  "Well there, little thing. Don'cha have someplace to go?"

  She had half expected the street entertainer again, but came face to face with a massive belly. Her mouth dropped open. She craned her head back quite a long ways, and found herself staring at a blunt, shaggy face, fat lips and an exaggerated nose. Mean little eyes stared back at her.

  "I-I..." Sora was tongue-tied. She didn't know what to say. The man was as ripe as a pig barn and utterly gruesome.

  "Ya know, it's dangerous in town these days, what with Lord Fallcrest gone,” the giant man chortled. “Not much law on this side of Mayville. I'd be careful. Never know who you might...bump into.” There were a few stifled laughs from behind him. It was only then that she noticed his friends, weasel-like cronies lurking in the background, grinning.

  Sora backed away, horrified. She had no weapons, no means of defense. What could she possibly do—use her necklace? She touched the stone at her neck, wondering if it would work to protect her, but there was no murmur in response, no sense of energy, no movement.

  Then she bumped into another body, this one behind her.

  "She's with me," came a familiar voice.

  Sora whirled around, her heart in her throat. She knew that voice, soft and lethal. She took one look at Crash and almost collapsed. Blast! Now she was right back where she had started. He held a bundle of rope in his hands; she recognized it from a nearby vendor's stall. So he hadn't been far away.

  The assassin didn't even glance at her. Instead his eyes were locked on the giant. “Is there someplace you should be going?” he asked the man. His voice was as sharp as a knife and twice as deadly.

  “Yer lucky there is, shrimp, or else I'd smash in your face,” came the guttural response. They stared at each other for a long moment before the man lumbered off, parting the crowd effortlessly, cronies trailing in his wake.

  Sora turned to Crash, wondering if he would kill her after all. She opened her mouth, ready to explain.

  He shoved the bundle of rope into her hands. “Come on,” he cut her off, then turned and stalked away.

  She stared after him, surprised. He kept walking. She waited, wondering if he would disappear into the crowd again, but he stopped above the pile of their bags. She had only traveled about thirty feet; it had seemed much more with all of the people in the way.

  He turned to look at her. The expression on his face was not encouraging.

  She slung the rope over her shoulder and scurried to pick up their bags and packages, his gaze a whip at her heels. He started walking again as soon as she had picked up the last package. She wasn't used to carrying such a heavy load and, to be honest, felt absolutely humiliated. Not only was she being treated as his servant, but he had just bailed her out of a very awkward, potentially dangerous situation. What if he hadn't arrived? She hated to think that he had actually helped her.

  They walked for a few minutes and suddenly the crowds parted before them, leaving them in front of a small shop. It was low to the sidewalk, with smudged windows and chipped paint. A sign with a sword on it hung above the faded green door. Sora figured this was some sort of weapons dealer.

  Crash swept her into the shop before she could say anything. The door closed behind them with the small ring of a bell. Ding-ding.

  She paused and looked around, hesitant to set foot in the gloomy darkness; the shop was not very big, from what she could tell; most of it was shrouded in shadows and dust. The air was musty, like a bedroom that hadn't been used for a long time. A row of old candles spewed thick smoke but hardly shed any light.

  She glanced uneasily at Crash. At first, her eyes passed right over him; he was barely visible in his black clothes. He seemed to belong in the musty store, snug on a shelf somewhere, with all of his daggers and swords and road dust.

  Suddenly, from her left, a voice drifted through the gloom—"May I help you?"

  Startled, Sora pivoted sideways and landed on Crash's foot. He grunted and caught her shoulders, steadying her for the hundredth time that day. All of those nights spent sleeping in the woods must be getting to me, she thought, brushing herself off, trying to regain her dignity. Then she peered into the shadows, her eyes narrowed, trying to determine where the voice had come from.

  After a few moments, the darkness seemed to form into a man. He was tall, thinly built, with very pale skin like alabaster—the last kind of person she would expect to see in a weapons shop. As he stepped toward them, she could see that he had soft, delicate features, pale hair that wafted across his forehead and wide, sensitive eyes of a peculiarly glassy color.

>   He paused a few feet away and clasped his long, bony hands in front of him. He coughed lightly into them as if hiding a smile, and Sora felt a sense of disbelief, as though she were talking to a ghost.

  "So sorry," came his sweet voice again; his words were gentle and airy, pleasing to the ear. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you looking for anything specific?"

  "A good blade—if you carry any,” Crash sneered.

  Sora glanced at the assassin and raised an eyebrow. She wasn't truly surprised; as far as she knew, he was always rude. Turning back to the store clerk, she witnessed the man's expression change from warm to cold; his face hardened and he glared straight back at Crash. The dislike between them was so intense, Sora wondered if they knew each other. But how could they?

  Then the clerk pointed a pale, elegant hand past her into the shadows. "Our blades are toward the back of the store,” he drawled. “I hope you find what you're looking for. If you are in need of assistance, don't hesitate to ask." He smiled tightly at her. Then he turned away, as though carried by a slight wind, and disappeared into the gloomy shadows.

  With an impatient tug on the back of her cloak, Crash led her toward the rear of the store, his pace swift. Soon Sora found herself at the opening of a narrow aisle. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the lack of sunlight, and revealed a sight she had never expected to see.

  Both sides of the aisle were lined with blades: swords, sabers, cutlasses, and other weapons that she had never before imagined. Sora doubted that she would be able to lift even the smallest one. She kept to the center of the aisle, holding her arms to her sides, hugging the meat packages close.

  To her relief, Crash didn't stop at the sword section, but continued to walk until they were looking at a row of daggers, each laid with explicit delicacy upon the shelf. They didn't look particularly sharp. In fact, they looked downright old, as if they had been rummaged from attics and basements, abandoned houses, or—perhaps—crypts.