Sora's Quest

by T. L. Shreffler

  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 though 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 burs
ts, 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 t
oo 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.