Ferran's Map

by T. L. Shreffler

  He slowly refocused. Silas was yelling at him. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you!” the pirate bellowed. “Have you no idea how much coin this venture has wasted? Thousands in gold, all sunk to the bottom of The Bath! You bastard! I’d kill you, but I expect you to pay me back in full!”

  Ferran abruptly reached into his pocket, withdrew The Book of the Named and offered it to Silas. “Would this suffice?” he asked.

  The pirate’s eyes widened. He paused mid-rant, the stream of words cut off from his mouth. Then he grasped the book in his eager hands. “You found it!” he said. Sudden glee lit his face and he released a loud whoop. “Aye! Forget the ship, I can order a new one built—this book is priceless! I never thought I’d see it again. You’ve done the impossible, my friend.” His entire demeanor changed. Silas grasped Ferran firmly and kissed his cheeks, then ran off to the stables with The Book of the Named clutched to his chest. Ferran could already hear him shouting to his crew: “Liven up, lads! Break out a deck of cards. Tomorrow is a new day!” He soon disappeared from sight.

  “Was that wise?” Lori asked dryly. “We need that book, and Silas isn't very intimidating to an assassin. They might try to steal it back.”

  Ferran raised an eyebrow. “No, perhaps that wasn’t very wise,” he admitted, “but the book belongs to him for now. It’s part of his collection, remember? I’ll borrow it back in the morning.”

  Lori sighed. “Well, at least that’s done with. Where did you find it?” She gave him a searching look. “Is that where you disappeared to all afternoon?”

  Ferran nodded. “I’ll tell you later tonight. In the meantime, I have another surprise for you.” He indicated the carriage behind him. “I’ve recovered another valuable asset...but he's injured. Can you take him to the stables and have a look?”

  Lori frowned in confusion, then turned to the carriage and held her lantern high. After a moment, she gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Burn?” she stuttered. “He's alive?”

  “Yes, but he’s sorely in need of your skills,” Ferran said.

  “Of course,” she replied, already walking toward the carriage door. Then she paused, turned and gave him a strange look. “On the off-chance,” she said, “did you see Sora today?”

  Ferran felt a sense of foreboding. “No.”

  “She’s missing, and Caprion as well.” Lori paused and adjusted her cloak. “I’m sure they’re fine, but with Crash joining the Shade, and Sora out by herself…I’m trying not to worry….”

  Ferran sensed the hesitation in her voice, and instinctively took her hand. Her fingers were cold. He warmed them briefly with his own. “Sora is strong. She can protect herself,” he said gently. Then he glanced at the falling snow. It thickened into an opaque curtain before his eyes. Soon the front drive would be impassible, and the servants wouldn't be back until tomorrow to clear it. For the time being, they were snowed in.

  “Ferran,” Lori finally said, “if something happens to my daughter...what if the Shade take her...?”

  He released a white plume of breath. “Let's not assume the worst,” he said, trying to sound confident. “We have no options now. We'll have to wait until morning. Let’s hope she's with Caprion and they’ve found shelter from this storm. It’s going to be a harsh night, and Burn needs us now.”

  Lori looked unsatisfied with his answer, but didn’t argue. She pushed past him to assist Burn from the carriage. Ferran felt a sense of unease. He watched her for a while, wishing he knew what to say. If the weather weren’t so dangerous, he would take a horse from the stables and go search for Sora himself, but that would be a foolhardy venture on a night like this. He would likely turn up dead from exposure in the morning.

  With a sigh, he reluctantly turned back to the manor and entered the rear door of the kitchens; he owed his brother a few words. The map still rested in his pocket. Why would it lead him to the Shade's hideout? He didn't want to assume the worst—but perhaps Martin had secrets of his own.

  He strode through the silent kitchens, down a narrow servants' corridor and into the main foyer, then stopped. The front door of the manor stood open. His brother sat on a wooden bench nearby, still dressed in costume. Donwick stood beside him with a tray of hot tea. Ferran's quick eyes noted the bandage on his brother's forearm. His costume appeared wet and his hair drenched. He must have just returned from the parade.

  His brother looked up at the sound of Ferran’s boots. “Ah,” he said. “I wondered where you went.”

  Ferran looked him over. “What happened?” he asked, attempting humor. “Did you fall in the snow?”

  Martin wearily tossed his heavy mask to the ground. “Actually, I fell into the river. Damn cold. Horrible luck at the parade today. A group of bastard peasants attacked the royal family.”

  Ferran blinked. A ripple of shock moved through him. “What? Who?”

  “The King's Guard says it was a group of farmers angry about the plague,” his brother replied. “I don't know if that's true. With all the madness in this city, last thing we need is an assassination attempt. Lord Seabourne couldn’t catch all the traitors. They shot flaming arrows from the rooftops. A few boarded small skiffs and tried to attack the royal family head-on. An arrow struck my float—the whole barge went up. I had to abandon ship.”

  “Goddess’ bells,” Ferran uttered.

  “Indeed,” Martin nodded, then stood up stiffly. “Managed to burn my arm something fierce. I need to change out of these clothes—but perhaps you'll join me soon upstairs? A glass of malt wine on parade night is family tradition.” He started toward the large staircase to the upper floors, motioning for Ferran to follow. “Come, brother. I'll meet you in my study in twenty minutes. Donwick, bring up our best bottle of wine and a plate of cheese!”

  Donwick bowed shortly and strode away as Martin ascended the staircase. Ferran watched him thoughtfully, put a toothpick in his mouth, and followed.

  * * *

  Ferran looked up when Martin entered his study twenty minutes later, wearing a simple white shirt, black breeches and a blue velvet dinner jacket. He looked warm and comfortable, if a bit sore after his fall in the river. Ferran sat in a large armchair next to Martin’s desk. A large fireplace warmed the room with the scent of burning pine.

  His brother didn’t acknowledge him immediately, went to his cabinet and took out a thick cigar, then lit it. After a few puffs, he offered the cigar to Ferran.

  Ferran felt his hands itch, but declined.

  “I’ve noticed some of my papers are missing and I think know where they went,” Martin said casually. Ferran watched him fill a cup of malt wine to the brim; apparently, Lord Ebonaire planned to make a night of it.

  Ferran chose a direct response. He had spent the last twenty minutes considering how to confront his brother about the map, and he wasn’t in the mood for word-sparring. “What are you hiding, Martin?”

  “Nothing at all,” his brother replied easily. “I assume you had a nice, long look at that map, and maybe rifled through a few drawers?” Ferran met his gaze. “The King is building a new clock tower; you might have heard about it. We’re funding the construction. But a few drainpipes were in the way, so we needed to look over the original plan. Nothing unusual about that.” He opened his hands, as though to show he had no cards up his sleeve.

  Ferran placed his palm solidly on the desk. Despite twenty years of absence, Martin was still his younger brother, and he could hear the lies on his tongue.

  “I know trouble when I see it, Martin,” he said. “This map is unusual, to say the least. Was it drawn by the King’s own hand? Why seek the original? Why not a copy?” He searched his brother’s face. “Have you run into some bad business? I can help you.”

  “Help me?” Martin demanded. His jaw tightened. “Why would you help me? Our father exiled you. You just want a share of the profits.”

  A stunned silence filled the room.

  “That’s truly what you think of me?” Ferran asked, his hand stil
l pressed onto the desk. “That after so long, I’d drag myself here just to worm my way back into the family fortune?” He stood up and turned to walk away abruptly.

  “No, Ferran, wait,” Martin said suddenly, going around his large desk and pausing halfway. “I spoke wrongly. It was unfair of me to accuse you. I’ve been grappling quite a bit with our family's past since your arrival....”

  Ferran turned to face him with a raised eyebrow. “Have you now?” he asked. “By that, I assume you mean my past.”

  “Father exiled you, and I did nothing!” Martin burst out. He ran his hand through his long, dark hair; a few strands fell around his face. “The family could have revoked your exile twenty years ago, but instead, we let you slip off on your own. I let father kick you out on the streets. I wanted the title, Ferran. I wanted your birthright.”

  Ferran allowed his brother’s words to settle between them, like the snow falling outside the window. Finally, he replied, “I know.”

  Martin blinked. “You do?” And then said, with an ironic smile, “I suppose you would. Quite the realist, I presume?”

  Ferran shrugged. “I’m not naive.”

  “Then you know I’m a selfish man at heart.”

  “What Ebonaire isn’t?” Ferran grinned lazily and thrust his hands in his pockets. “That was twenty years ago, Martin. If I still held a grudge, you would know it. I didn’t come here for gold, or any claim to my title. Honestly, life has treated me well...” as well as to be expected. “I simply thought it was time to make an appearance. I never had a chance to see Father before he died. You are my true family. I only wish I’d come sooner so I could have met your wife.”

  Martin stiffened at that, then seemed to relax. He clasped his hands behind his back and casually turned to a nearby window in thought. Ferran watched the flurries of snow turn into solid white sheets.

  “It really should have been you,” Martin finally said.

  Ferran almost snorted. No, he thought. “How so?”

  Martin’s words sounded bitter as he sipped his wine. “Father prepped you so thoroughly, for all your life, until you left. I wasn’t ready to take over the business, and father was never pleased with my performance. Said I had no imagination, and wasn’t willing to take risks. And then,” waving his glass, “when I decided to take a risk, it all fell through. Perhaps he was right. Every choice I made was wrong."

  “Seems our father was a hard man to please,” Ferran commented dryly. He wondered what risk Martin referred to. He couldn’t quite feel sorry for his brother. Such a hard life, running this golden palace, he thought ironically. Hardship of a different sort, but not what he would call daunting.

  “I’ve had many dark thoughts of late, Ferran,” Martin said solemnly. His brother gave him a piercing look, perhaps inspired by the wine, his cigar, or the heat in the room. “Our family has enemies, you know. I worry, now that my wife is gone and I haven’t remarried, what might happen to Danica. She is so young. I fear one day those enemies might come for our family, or for me, and she won’t be ready.”

  Ferran thought of Sora, so strong and independent, and only a few years older than Danica. “Nonsense,” he snorted. “She will survive. She’s an Ebonaire. Your enemies wouldn’t stand a chance. Besides, she would see them coming down your long front drive well in advance—it's far too long.”

  Martin smiled sadly, and Ferran realized his brother was gravely serious. “I worry about the Ebonaire line, should anything happen to me. Simeon is young. He wouldn’t know how to handle our accounts.” Martin abruptly reached into a drawer and withdrew a stack of leatherbound papers almost six inches thick. “This alone is not even one-quarter of the trade contracts and disputes we deal with every year. I used to hire bookkeepers and stewards to manage the accounts, but it’s hard to know whom to trust. I caught too many hands in the cigar box, so to speak….” Martin gave him a pointed look. “Some I still employ because I have to, but I must always check the numbers and make sure it all adds up. Beyond all that…” he sighed. “Simeon is a spendthrift. He burns through his allowance like reeds being fed to a fire. If the Ebonaire fortune were to fall into his hands….Well, one can’t keep a fortune by spending a fortune, hm?”

  Ferran frowned. Yes, he recalled his father saying much the same throughout their youth. Where was Martin going with this?

  His brother raised his glass in a mock salute. “I wish to make an announcement at First Winter’s Ball,” he said, “and I would like you to be there.”

  Ferran didn’t know what to say. “Martin,” he said slowly, “you don’t need to reintroduce me to society. I didn’t come here to lay claim to anything….”

  “I know,” Martin said. “And that’s why it must be you, don’t you see? Father thought you were an irresponsible, thieving rake when he exiled you. But that’s not the man I see before me.” He paused and examined his wine glass thoughtfully. “Taking the map shows keen observation and intelligence, and a certain boldness I have to admire. You always were the bold one, Ferran. Fearless, I imagine.”

  Far from it, Ferran disagreed privately, touching the map in his pocket.

  “I think you’ve learned the right lessons over the last twenty years.” Martin offered him a small toast. “It would be an honor to have you rejoin our family. This punishment has lasted long enough.”

  Ferran couldn’t believe his ears. He played the conversation over in his mind and looked for an angle. What did Martin expect to gain in return?

  Martin raised his glass with a solemn look in his eye.

  “You’re joshing,” Ferran muttered.

  “No,” Martin insisted. “Really; let’s drink to it. You will be by my side at the ball for the announcement. No talking me out of it, now.”

  “I don’t think I could,” Ferran said dryly. He didn’t quite know what to say. Thank you seemed far too weak, and he wasn’t truly sure this was an occasion to be thankful for. He would be more than a curator of the family fortune; should anything happen to Martin, he would have to take on a vast world of responsibility. But Ferran had only just gotten control of his own demons. Perhaps his brother would sober up and change his mind; he couldn’t possibly want to reinstate Ferran as heir to the estate.

  Ferran took the goblet Martin handed him and quickly drank a toast. The wine burned his throat.

  Martin refilled his glass. “You’ve certainly changed, Ferran,” he said. “I sense the future holds many surprises and grand possibilities. This is a night to celebrate. Come, drink with me.”

  Ferran sat down resignedly. But one thought still nagged at him. “What of Danica?” he asked. “She is the current heiress, isn’t she?” Property usually went to children before wives or brothers.

  “She's only fifteen,” Martin said. “She can’t take over the accounts. And who would leave an estate as large as this in the hands of a young girl? She’ll need guidance.”

  “Surely you can’t expect anything dire to happen that soon?” Ferran asked.

  Martin shifted his gaze to the wide, dark windows. “Hard to say, brother…but let’s not dwell on that.”

  “I can help you,” Ferran repeated softly.

  Martin shook his head. “You already have.”

  Ferran sighed and sat back in his chair. Martin had his secrets, and perhaps after a few more glasses of wine, he would tell a few. But his brother seemed afraid to speak. Perhaps, in his own way, he was trying to shelter Ferran and Danica from his own failures—from the true extent of their family’s danger.

  Ferran's eyes wandered to the large tapestry that engulfed the far wall of the room. Their family tree stretched up and up, becoming lost in the shadowy corners of the ceiling. A map, his father had called it. A chart of the Ebonaire line. His name had been removed years ago, but now it would be written again on those winding branches. He would become a piece of a much larger picture. He would belong to that tapestry once again.

  Ferran raised his glass to his brother, and then to the tree, and drank deep
ly.

  Coming Soon!

  Krait's Redemption

  (The Cat's Eye Chronicles, Book 5)

  by

  T. L. Shreffler

  Continue Sora's adventures in The City of Crowns as they track down Cerastes and The Shade!

  Can't get enough of the world? Check out

  www.catseyechronicles.com

  for exclusive content, fan art, quizzes, and to

  purchase a Cat's Eye necklace handmade by the author!

  Don't miss this NEW dragon hunting adventure from T. L. Shreffler!

  Release coming soon in 2015!

  The White

  (The Dragon Pearl, Book 1)

  by T. L. Shreffler

  http://www.dragonpearlseries.com/

  “Ever since the White appeared in our valley of Windridge, my people have lived in fear. But today that fear ends. Finally, the King has sent his most elite dragon hunters to capture The White, the last of the imperial dragons. They want to use it as a weapon. Me? I just want it dead.”

  Since the death of her father, Sienna Foxburn hasn’t felt safe. The White, a fire-breathing imperial dragon, terrorizes the Valley of Windridge with no end in sight. But Sienna isn’t satisfied hiding behind the walls of her keep. She is tired of fearing the dragon, but she can’t fight it alone.

  Then a mysterious sorceress and two elite dragon hunters arrive. They want to capture the White and use it as a weapon in the King's war. But Sienna doesn’t care about war. She just wants the beast dead.

  Thus begins the great hunt for the White. Sienna embarks on a dragon hunting adventure through the exotic valley of Windridge, all while uncovering secrets and conspiracies that could endanger the entire Kingdom….