Ferran's Map

by T. L. Shreffler

  Then a furious voice roared across the deck. “Sora!”

  She stopped mid-swing, almost dropping her staff. Crash halted as well, his sword inches away from her left ear. She looked up in bewilderment, and then a terrible thought struck her. Oh, no! She had completely forgotten about her shift in the crow’s nest!

  Crash seemed to read her mind and allowed the point of his sword to touch the deck. He didn’t seem terribly surprised by the interruption.

  Sora scowled, suspecting he had kept her late on purpose. “Why didn’t you remind me?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Why didn’t you remember?”

  She gritted her teeth, unable to think of a response.

  Captain Silas rounded the corner of the ship, descending on them like a storm cloud. “Sora! Dammit, I told you not to abandon your post! By the four winds, do I have to chain you up there myself?” His eyes looked bloodshot in fury, or perhaps from a late-night bottle of wine. He paused when he saw her, red-faced from exertion next to Crash. He sized up the situation in two seconds and rolled his eyes heavenward, releasing a loud, exaggerated groan.

  “I take it you’ve found a better use of your time?” he demanded.

  Sora stuttered at first. “I…I didn’t intend—”

  “Well?” Silas snapped.

  She straightened her spine. “Yes,” she replied. “I have.”

  Silas’ mouth opened, then clicked shut. Sora expected the Dracian to release one of his infamous tantrums, but he remained quiet. As his eyes shifted behind her to the assassin, his brow grew dark and his lips pulled into a distracted frown.

  “A certain son of mine told me a strange tale this morning,” he said gruffly.

  Sora had no idea what he meant. She looked at Crash for an explanation, but the assassin simply shrugged. “Your son enjoys spinning tales,” he replied. “Someday it will get him into trouble.”

  Silas hesitated once more, as though considering any number of responses; then he pointed his finger directly at Crash. “That may be true,” he said viciously. “But if I hear of one more incident aboard my ship, you’ll be the one left floating downstream.”

  The assassin didn’t reply, but swung his sword in a lazy circle. His eyes said it all—try me.

  Silas pointed for another moment, then flicked his hand dismissively. “Fine. Sora, you’ve been switched to lunch duty. You weren’t much of a lookout, anyway. Go to the kitchens. Now.” He whirled around and headed back toward his cabin. He stalked off, yelling more orders at his crew, reassigning her hours in the crow’s nest.

  Sora turned back to Crash. “I guess I should head down to the galley,” she said self-consciously. She felt a little embarrassed about forgetting her duties that morning, but not too much. The time spent with Crash had been worth it. “Tomorrow, then? In the morning?”

  The assassin nodded. His eyes glinted in amusement, holding her gaze for a moment too long. And perhaps she saw his expression soften…but she didn’t want to read too much into it. She gave him a little wave and turned to leave, her heart pounding strangely in her chest. She remembered the brush of his strong calloused hands, his long and nimble fingers, and his arms trapping her against the railing. She thought of his full attention upon her, observing each small movement, every flaw and breath.

  Tomorrow they would train again. Her stomach tightened at the thought. She hoped he didn’t notice her response to his touch—but deep down inside, she knew he saw everything.

  * * *

  In the evening of the next day, Sora left her staff and daggers in her cabin and climbed on deck. She met Ferran near the figurehead of a charging horse on the bow. His houseboat drifted at the rear of the Dawn Seeker, towed by a long piece of rope, unmanned for the moment.

  Ferran sat on the railing with his broad back to her, his long legs dangling over the river. A half-chewed cinnamon stick was tucked behind one ear, obscured by his unkempt brown hair. He had on a tattered leather greatcoat with a stained tunic underneath, worn black pants and no boots. She knew her mother had taken Ferran’s shoes for mending the day before. He didn’t seem in a great rush to replace them. Better for balance this way, he told her mother knowingly. Less smell, too.

  She paused next to him and looked out over the water. In the distance, she could see a growing ridge of tall mountains stretching upward like jagged teeth; the tallest was The Scepter. Rumor had it that the mountain was cursed, and that long ago in the time of the Races, Kaelyn the Wanderer had killed a great demon and buried it among the massive cliffs. All who traveled there were destined to perish.

  At the foot of The Scepter resided The City of Crowns. Sora had never been there before. As she gazed at the gray mountains, a cold, moist wind swept up behind her, blowing strands of hair across her face. Full winter would come soon. Captain Silas predicted it would rain tomorrow, and perhaps for the next week. If she turned to look over her shoulder, she could see glowering storm clouds heading inland from the ocean, hiding the vivid sunset. Rain would soon overtake their little ship.

  Ahead of them to the East, the sky was a deep, swelling indigo, and she could see the first stars of the night peering over the mountains.

  “We’ll reach the City of Crowns just in time for the winter festival,” Ferran said, as though reading her mind. He didn’t seem excited about it and studied her from the corner of his eye. “Have you been?”

  Sora shook her head. “No,” she replied, “but I’ve heard of it.” Who hadn’t? Young noblewomen planned year-round for winter solstice: a two-week festival of elaborate feasts, fine wines, unforgettable scandal and legendary debauchery. It marked the end of the year when accounts were closed and profits made. A marriage proposal at winter solstice was immensely good luck, heralding a lifetime of fortune and health.

  It didn’t seem so long ago that she lived as a noblewoman herself. The ladies of the high plains had chatted ceaselessly about the prestigious parties thrown by the First Tier, especially those who ranked next to the King. Through stories and gossip, she had come to know all the richest families in the Kingdom as if they were outrageously dramatized characters in a book: the Ebonaires, tall, sleek and darkly elegant; the Seabournes, proud-chinned and staunchly loyal to the crown; the fiery, ambitious LeCroys and the educated, silver-tongued Daniellians.

  And with all of the masquerades, young ladies never knew who they might dance with. The prince could steal a kiss on winter solstice eve, and a girl might never know.

  So long ago, she thought, and yet the memories arose easily, as though she had sat in Lady Sinclair’s parlor just yesterday. A tangled mix of anxiety and displeasure settled in her gut. I never want to go back to that life.

  Second Tier nobility were not as well off as the First Tier, especially those Sora grew up around, who lived on small estates in the country. If anything, they glamorized the Winter Festival even more. The girls studied fashion, plays, topics of note, First Tier etiquette and courting, courting, courting—all in hopes of visiting the city and landing a rich husband.

  But the festival spanned the entire Kingdom, not just the wealthy elite. Last year for the first time, Sora had celebrated among the lower class with her mother. For farmers, winter solstice marked the beginning of winter, when the sun reached its lowest point on the horizon, signaling the dark, snowy months to come. To avoid feeding unwanted livestock through the winter, they slaughtered old and sickly animals and prepared large feasts of beef, pork, goat and lamb. Barley and fruit had finished fermenting from summer’s harvest by that time, and ale and wine flowed aplenty.

  In her mother’s small town, bells were strung along the streets and villagers wore painted wooden masks on winter’s eve, dancing to pipes and lutes. The masks were meant to remind people they were beings of Wind, ever-changing, and so their inner spirits bore no face. Troubles of the old year dissolved beneath the masks, and a new year was embraced when the masks were shed at dawn. In more superstitious areas, they believed the spirit was literally reborn with eac
h new year.

  And Sora learned another piece of the tradition: farmers believed that the boundary between the Dark God’s realm and the world of Wind and Light weakened on winter solstice. Young children didn’t stray far from their bonfires, as dead spirits might come to take them away to the underworld.

  Sora wondered if there was any truth to that.

  “Let’s begin, shall we?” Ferran said, and cleared his throat. “Enough pensive staring into the distance.” He swung his legs around and stood down from the railing on his bare feet. “Let’s find a quiet place where we can concentrate. Too many distractions here.”

  He led her down into the galleys, then below that, to the absolute lowest part of the ship near the keel. Countless barrels and crates of food stood in the belly of the Dawn Seeker: salted meats, jarred vegetables, dried beans and flour, apples, limes, carrots and potatoes. This far below deck, Sora heard only the rush of water outside and the occasional thump of driftwood striking the hull. Ferran picked his way among the boxes until they found a clear space. He set down his oil lamp and adjusted the flame so they were bathed in golden light.

  “You’ve meditated before, I take it?” he asked casually.

  “Yes,” Sora said. “Plenty of times.” She winced at her last words. Actually, she hadn’t meditated since their ship sank at the Lost Isles. She had been too busy fighting for her life.

  Ferran seemed to sense her hesitation, but he didn’t mention it. “Good, then we don’t have to waste time with the basics. Tonight, we are going to try something different. Have you ever heard of guided meditation?”

  Sora frowned. “No.”

  “Even better. I want you to sit down comfortably and take a few deep breaths. Close your eyes. Relax and empty your mind.”

  Sora did so without complaint. It took her longer to clear her mind than it ever had before. A year ago at her mother’s cabin, there had been few distractions from her training. She had learned from books in her mother’s library that meditation was a strong method of connecting and controlling the Cat’s Eye. She had spent hours under the thick pine trees allowing her thoughts to slip away. Eventually, she had been able to forget the ground, the birds, the sky—there was just silence. The open pit of her body. And of course, her bond with the necklace.

  She didn’t know how much time passed in the ship’s hull. Thoughts of winter solstice hung over her head, stressful and troubling. Then she lingered on her tension with Crash, though after two days of training with him, she felt better about that. She sank deeper into herself, the worry smoothing from her brow. Her muscles began to relax. Silence brushed against her ears and she allowed her mind to expand. Her thoughts soared in and out of her consciousness like errant birds. Eventually, they faded away completely.

  Then, in the new stillness, uncontrollable images began to arise: her great fall in the Crystal Caves, when she finally learned the truth about the Sixth Race; Crash’s torn and bloodied body in the Harpy prison; the long and strenuous battle with Volcrian, the corpse-priestess who had tried to kill her and the second Cat’s Eye’s broken bond. Pain. Blood. Light. Each sudden burst of memory struck her like slaps to the face. Her heart twisted, coiling tightly into a thick knot of unresolved fear. I can’t face this again, she thought. Not enough time had passed since her last escape from death.

  It seemed like the deeper she relaxed, the clearer the images became, until sweat beaded her brow. She clenched her teeth against the urge to scream.

  “Breathe,” Ferran’s voice reached her softly, piercing the cloud of her mind. “Breathe, Sora.”

  She forced herself to breathe, barely able to inhale past her fear. Her chest constricted painfully and her heart hammered in her ears. She drew one deep breath after the next, as though bearing the pain of a broken leg. Breathe. She had to calm herself. If she didn’t, she would crumble against the panic, and suffocate under her own oppressive thoughts.

  It seemed like an eternity passed, but she slowly sank back into her body, using the energy of the earth to ground herself. The images still flickered, though dimmer now. Finally, after several more countless minutes, her vision returned to darkness. She remained there, breathing methodically, waiting.

  And then, she felt it. Weak at first, it pooled inside her belly and spread outward—peace. The knowledge that she was safe, unharmed and still breathing. Whole. She allowed herself to stay there, spreading her mind open like a wide blanket. Now, she thought. Here. Two simple concepts that changed the world.

  Ferran seemed to know when she had reached that point. Only then did he speak. “Sora,” he said quietly. “I want you to find your bond with the Cat’s Eye.”

  It seemed that her reply came from another part of her mind, a place separate from logic and reason. She didn’t hesitate. “It’s here,” she said through heavy lips.

  “I want you to take that bond and hold it in your hands. Do you see it?”

  Outwardly, she didn’t move. But in her mind, she glanced down. The images came to her like a dream. She could see something in her grasp—a thin chord of green light flowed through her hands. She gripped it.

  “I have it,” she murmured.

  “Good. Now what do you see in front of you?”

  Deep in the trance, she looked up. She stood in the garden of her manor at the back of the horse stables; large rose bushes bloomed on a white trellis that spanned the entire rear wall. She could smell them suddenly—sharp and sweet, heavy with perfume.

  “I’m in a garden,” she said.

  “Lovely,” Ferran replied. “Do you see the path?”

  “Yes,” she said, without wondering how he knew a path existed. A series of gray flagstones led around the horse stable to a wide field of long grass and wildflowers.

  “I want you to follow it,” he directed.

  She did so. In her mind, she walked over the gray flagstones, past the rear door to the kitchens and out toward the field. Everything seemed more vibrant, the colors impossibly saturated, every detail pronounced. The stone path led her to a corral at the far side of the field. She didn’t remember it. As she walked, she could see the wooden stakes wedged solidly into the ground, with metal poles fashioned between them. A large iron gate barred its entrance.

  “Where are you now?” Ferran asked softly.

  “A horse corral,” she replied. She could hear her words, but didn’t recall speaking them. “It’s locked.”

  “Climb the gate,” Ferran instructed. “Don’t bother with the lock.”

  She followed his directions and gripped the metal pole, pulling herself over the side of the fence. She dropped to the ground on the opposite side, then stopped. Something about the vision changed; it became smaller, more enclosed. Her manor disappeared, the field, and the forest beyond. Now it was just the corral; the gated walls seemed like bars to a prison.

  “Something’s here with me,” she said quietly. A chill crossed over her skin. She looked around the corral. At first it appeared empty, but then she saw a large, hulking shape at its center, standing quietly in the dirt with its back turned to her. She waited for the shape to fully take form, then recognized four paws, gleaming white fur, a thick mane of bristling quills and two long, spiraling horns. Her heart quickened and she almost lost focus. The garrolithe.

  “Breathe,” Ferran murmured. “Don’t move.”

  She waited until the fear passed. The garrolithe remained motionless, as though oblivious to her presence. She submerged herself in the trance once more.

  Ferran waited for her breathing to deepen. Finally, he continued, “Look down at your hands. Do you see your rope?”

  She looked down. The green strand of Cat’s-Eye bond still flowed between her fingers. She gripped it reassuringly, aware that she wasn’t alone in this vision. No, the stone was here with her. She felt a nudge of encouragement from the necklace, like a hand clasping her shoulder.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I have it.”

  “Look again,” Ferran said. “What do you se
e?”

  She blinked and the rope coiled around itself, forming a noose. That did not surprise her. She accepted the dream without question. “A lasso,” she said.

  “Approach the garrolithe,” Ferran murmured. “When you reach its side, I want you to take the end of the rope and slip it over its neck.”

  Sora clasped the rope firmly. She started across the corral, stepping softly in the dirt. The beast did not move. As she neared its side, she saw the curve of its muzzle, shaped somewhere between a wolf and a lion, with long teeth protruding past its lip. Its eyes were closed. It appeared to be asleep. Its head was huge and heavy; her hands were minuscule against it, like pale little butterflies. The beast stood taller than a horse, but in her vision, she had enough leverage to slip the noose around its neck…if only she could get close enough.

  She gently began to loop the noose over its great mouth. But the moment she touched its fur, its eyes snapped open, shining with vivid blue light, far brighter and sharper than a summer sky. She gasped.

  A loud, coughing roar burst from the beast’s throat, ending in the high shriek of a wildcat. Then the beast turned on her violently, thrashing its head. Sora stumbled, trying to hold onto the noose. It was like harnessing a rabid lion—its body was too powerful, twisting and writhing with furious strength. The garrolithe flung its head and sent the noose falling to the ground.

  She dragged the rope back, but it was too late. The beast turned its long fangs on her, snapping and snarling. She shouted in fear, dropped the rope and stumbled back across the dirt. The garrolithe leapt after her, eager to rip her throat out.

  Snap!

  Sora pitched forward, gasping for breath, her eyes wide open. A scream caught in her throat. She looked around wildly for a moment, prepared to fight for her life. Her heart raced, her breath came in ragged gasps….But all she saw were the timbers of the ship, the wooden crates and Ferran’s cinnamon stick rolling thoughtfully in his mouth.