Sora's Quest

by T. L. Shreffler

  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 in 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 8

  They rode at a breakneck pace for several hours, until the rim of dawn seeped across the sky. Sora could barely cling to her horse. She felt more like a saddlebag than a rider. Her steed was tethered to the back of Burn's saddle; she didn't even need to use the reins.

  They dashed down forest paths, through winding streams and deep brush, then plunged past muddy meadows and giant ferns. The forest was rich and deep, the air moist; the only illumination was the moon. Sora couldn't believe how long they traveled on. Would they ever rest?

  When they finally slowed the horses, it was a half-hour before sunrise. Birds were waking in the trees, fluttering across the ground. They came to a halt and dismounted.

  “Half an hour,” Burn said, his voice like a thundercloud. “A half-hour's rest and we go on.”

  Sora slid from the saddle, stiff and weary. They distributed food
from their bags and sat under the trees, allowing the horses to graze in the small clearing. A stream of clear water trickled nearby; she splashed some on her face, trying to stay alert, then leaned back in the cold morning dew and closed her eyes, the fringes of sleep pulling at her, coaxing her to lie down on the wet grass.

  “So how does it feel to be an outlaw?” Dorian asked. His ears twitched cheekily.

  Sora opened her eyes and glared at him. She couldn't seem to lift her head from the soft grass, and was too exhausted to care. “I'm innocent, and you all deserved to be hanged,” she said.

  “Hanged?” Dorian repeated with mock offense. He sank down next her, only a few feet away. “We just saved you from a long, cold trip to prison! You should be thanking us!”

  “For what? Killing my father? Abducting me?” Sora almost choked on her outrage, wishing she could fling a knife right between his eyes. “You just want my necklace. You're disgusting.”

  “I'm sorry you feel that way, sweetness.” Dorian munched for a moment on his travel bread, then frowned, putting his hand to his head. He blinked his eyes strangely.

  “What?” Sora asked, wondering if there was something wrong with the food.

  “Nothing,” he said, “just a headache. Not enough sleep.” Then he glanced over her, his eyes lingering on her face. “I daresay, your cheek is turning a glorious shade of purple. How is your eye?”

  Sora didn't respond. She was too angry, and the reminder of her injuries only made them hurt worse. The swelling had gone down and she could see better now, but touching the side of her face brought a throb of pain through her nose and teeth.

  “Leave the girl alone, Dorian,” Burn said quietly. “I think she's been through enough.”

  Sora looked at the giant Wolfy, surprised. There was a softness on his face, unexpected kindness. After a moment, she said, “Thank you.”

  Burn cocked his head thoughtfully, gazing at her with gentle, warm eyes. Something about his expression beckoned her to talk. She bit her lip, the words pressing to come out of her mouth.

  “I can't go back now,” she finally said. “I can never be seen in my manor again.” That thought wrenched her heart. She had wanted to run away, to leave her life behind...but not in ruins. Not with such finality. She would always be remembered as a murderer. A complete disgrace.

  Burn edged closer and reached out a long, long arm. He patted her shoulder, a friendly gesture, though it only served to make her head throb.

  “Come with us,” he said quietly.

  “I am coming with you,” she sniffed, and gave him another angry glance.

  “No, my dear,” Burn said softly. His gentleness was disarming, and Sora wondered who he really was, how he had come into league with someone as evil and terrible as Crash. “We have dragged you with us. But you don't have to be a captive. You could join us.”

  It was an unexpected offer—so clear and straightforward. She was an exile now; returning home meant committing herself to the noose. She had no friends in court. Her arrest and execution would be a quick matter indeed.

  And now Burn was offering her a different option. A better option, perhaps. Something more than threats and coercion. Yet the thought made her ill. This entire mess was their fault. She couldn't forget that. Some deeds were unforgivable—like murder and kidnapping.

  “Never,” she snapped.

  “Think on it, then,” Burn said, his voice deep and smooth. She didn't want to be persuaded, yet his show of kindness was incredibly alluring, especially after so much tension. “Why be alone, when you can have friends like us?”

  Sora snorted, unable to help herself. She was choked by bitterness. With friends like these, who needs enemies? “That's a laugh.”

  “This isn't the end of the world, you know. Though it might seem like it,” Burn continued, unperturbed by her reaction. “Tomorrow is a new day. Surely there is something more you want? Something worth traveling for?”

  Sora looked away and stared at a tall birch tree, smooth and white in the pale morning. The horses snorted softly in the gray dawn, roaming across the grass, their noses to the ground. The stream's trickle was almost peaceful. What do I have worth traveling for? Her thoughts went back to her birthday, to the evening sunset and the musicbox. The mystery of the Cat's Eye. My mother. It was her original quest...and perhaps now her only direction.

  But she couldn't tell them that. She couldn't let them take it away. Even if Burn was trustworthy—a small chance of that—her other captors were not. She could see Crash out of the corner of her eye, lingering in the shadows beneath the trees, tending his horse. He looked like he wasn't listening, but she knew he was.

  “No,” she said softly. “I have nothing.”

  Burn frowned, his yellow-hued eyes searching her face. His brow furrowed. Was it sympathy?

  “All the more reason to come with us!” Dorian cut in. His small, soft hand landed on her other shoulder, in vast contrast to Burn's rough palm. “What have you left to lose? And it's mighty inconvenient, always having to keep an eye on you. It won't do in the swamp. We need to be able to trust each other. Look, we even bought you weapons.” Dorian nodded to his saddlebags, where her staff and daggers rested, tied to the side of the horse. “If that's not a show of good faith, I don't know what is.”

  Sora glared at him, his almost offensive words ringing in her head. What have I left to lose? As though, just because she had no other option, she should willingly and thankfully join their party? She thought of her manor, her ruined family name. How can I join them? They're despicable. She had more honor than that, and she raised her chin stiffly, her jaw so tight she couldn't speak. She saw Burn cast a mean glance over her head at Dorian.

  Dorian raised an eyebrow, one ear flicking upward like a confused dog.

  “Enough,” Crash said, breaking into their conversation. He crossed the small clearing quickly, pausing above them, his black cloak swirling to a stop. “Volcrian is behind us and Fennbog ahead. Soldiers scour the woods while we speak. We must learn to use the necklace while there is still time.”

  Sora looked up at the hard angles of his face, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his black hair swept across his forehead. He seemed tireless, full of strength, despite another sleepless night.Her anger was renewed. “And what if I don't? What if I refuse?”

  Crash raised an eyebrow. He didn't need to reach for the knives at his belt; the blades glinted dangerously in the thin morning light. She thought she already knew his answer, but when he spoke, it was unexpected. “The King's guard is after you. Not us. You.” He nodded to the necklace concealed beneath her shirt. “I think you need to consider who your true allies are.”

  Sora snorted in surprise. “Now that's rich! You kidnap me, threaten me, drag me around the countryside against my will—and you are supposed to be my allies?” She looked around at the Wolfies incredulously. “You're all insane!”

  “Think what you want,” Dorian said. “But we have a squad of soldiers and a blood-mage on our trail. Whatever you decide, sweetness—do so quickly.”

  Sora blinked and looked at the three men. She hated them—but they had a point. So far, they were the only ones who hadn't tried to kill her or throw her in jail. She let out a sigh of annoyance. “And how am I supposed to use the necklace?” she snapped. “I didn't even believe in magic until yesterday! I don't know anything about it. I'm useless.”

  Crash gave her a cold stare. “Then make yourself not useless,” he said bluntly.

  Sora stared at him, her mouth dry. She waited, half-hoping that one of the Wolfies would stand up in her defense, but they just watched the silent confrontation. She couldn't believe it. They were using logic against her—and it was working.

  She thought of the King's prisons, of her own beheading. Then she thought of Volcrian and the monster in the forest. She cleared her throat. “Right,” she finally said. “I'll try.”

  Dorian approached her, reaching out with a gentle hand, but she stepped back, not wanting t
o be touched just then. The Wolfy gave her a slow smile instead. “Hurry, love. We don't have much time.”

  She nodded and put a shaky hand on her necklace. And then, slowly, realization dawned. It was strange to think about, almost out-of-body, but what if...what if this was just another day to them? Another day trying to survive? She looked around the group, reading that message in their eyes.

  “We need you, Sora,” Burn said, breaking the silence.

  Sora nodded again. She knew what Burn meant. Her captors were in a far worse predicament, and now she was in it with them.

  With a breath of resignation, she gripped the necklace and closed her eyes, thinking back to what the mapmaker had said. A bearer need keep firm control of their thoughts and desires. He must be completely loyal to the cause. Any thoughts of doubt or deceit, or a desire to run from battle, can lead the entire army in aimless circles. Above all, the bearer must be disciplined.

  Disciplined.

  She let out a deeper breath and tried to forget the three men around her, the soldiers on their trail, the looming threat of Volcrian. There were plenty of reasons to panic...but she couldn't let panic disrupt her concentration. She had to communicate with the necklace. She wasn't sure how, but as she thought back on the encounter with the fox-corpse, she started to form a few ideas. The necklace seemed to exist entirely within her mind; it would nudge her thoughts, however fleetingly.

  When she sat down next to the stream, it was unexpectedly easy to slip into a meditative state. Sora had only meditated a few times before, when a tutor suggested that meditation would help her studies. But she was blessedly close to falling asleep, so her mind quickly relaxed. She let the tension flow from her shoulders, down her neck and spine and into the ground.

  She spent several minutes like that, breathing calmly, allowing herself to be still. Then she ran her smooth finger over the surface of the stone. Help me, she thought, quelling the sense of foolishness that arose with her words. We need to pass through Fennbog to the other side. She tried to envision the other side of the swamp, the warmer climate of the lowlands, the fields of grass and the merciless winds. She focused on her message as clearly as possible, trying to make it pointed and precise. Take me to the other side of the swamp.