Ferran's Map (5 page)

“Capable of killing the bloodmage,” Cobra
offered. His voice sounded nasally and thin, as though he spoke
through a broken nose.

“Yes, but what else?” Cerastes intoned.
“Knowledge is a weapon. We cannot be taken off-guard.” The
Grandmaster released their shoulders and began pacing around the
outer circle of the chamber. Perfectly black hair trailed to his
waist, blending with his dark robes. A heavy gold chain with the
emblem of a boar’s head upon it, the human king’s royal seal, hung
around his neck. Only recently did he begin wearing it, though
Krait didn’t know why. Cerastes kept much of his doings secret,
sharing only what was needed to know for a mission. She only knew
that he tended to some mysterious business in The City of
Crowns.

Her Grandmaster paused at the side of the
circle. “I wanted you both to see this creature from the Dark God’s
realm,” he said, his voice echoing around the chamber. “A
masterfully honed piece of magic. Is the wraith not beautiful?”

Krait raised her eyes slowly, gazing at the
phantom. “Your power is unrivaled,” she murmured.

Cerastes sneered. “This creature is not my
work,” he corrected. “It was summoned from the Dark God’s realm…but
that is unimportant now. Do you see its weapon?” Cerastes stepped
very close to the barrier of dried blood. His face came into full
view: gaunt, angular cheeks, a narrow jaw, deep-set eyes and a
stern nose. Subtle lines marred his brow and lips. His form was
lean and powerful beneath his robes, his muscles taut and defined
over decades of vicious training. He looked capable of cruelty.

The wraith lunged in his direction, coming
up against an invisible barrier. It paused, unable to pass over the
line of blood. The two stared at one another,
hooded-face-to-hooded-face. Then the creature let out a terrible
shriek—a piercing, unnatural sound—and raised its arms.

Yes, she saw it then: a longbow, seemingly
molded from onyx. A black arrow manifested between the wraith’s
hands. The phantom drew the bowstring taut and aimed the arrow
directly at the Grandmaster’s chest but did not release it. Rather,
the creature held the arrow drawn, trained on Cerastes’ heart,
quivering.

“A creature of wrath, bred of vengeance,”
Cerastes murmured. “Immortal…unstoppable. And here, the black
arrow, the Dark God’s third artifact. Somehow, we must separate the
weapon from its keeper….” He trailed off, deep in thought.

Krait watched silently. The wraith didn’t
look like an easy opponent; it wasn’t a physical being, but an
apparition of mist and shadow. She wondered if she could actually
strike it, or if her hand would pass right through the creature.
She watched her master’s pensive face as he stared at the wraith.
She knew he planned to contact the Dark God in some way by using
The Book of the Named
and the sacred weapons. He would need
to retrieve the weapon from this creature and collect the last two
weapons from Viper. But she knew nothing more.

Why is he showing us this?
Cerastes
didn’t flaunt his trophies without some purpose. She shifted. “What
are your plans for the Viper?” she asked softly. “Does he also seek
this arrow?”

Cerastes released a slow hiss, then spoke
without looking at her. “He will come for the last weapon. He
travels with the same Dracian who once kept
The Book of the
Named
. Perhaps we have found ourselves an adversary….” He
paused as though amused. “He knows of us now, and he will seek us
out. But perhaps that’s to our benefit. The sooner we retrieve the
weapons, the better.” He looked at Cobra. “I must know the Viper’s
plan. And I want to know how he killed the first two wraiths.”

Cobra twitched, his body tight with
anticipation. “It shall be done, Grandmaster,” he murmured.

Krait frowned. “And after we have the
weapons?” she asked.

Cerastes glanced at her sharply. She knew
she had made a mistake. Cerastes never shared his entire plans,
only small pieces, whatever he deemed necessary for her to know.
After a moment, he replied coldly, “We shall see.”

Krait lowered her head again. The Cobra’s
rigid stance seemed to mock her disobedience—a reminder of just how
unworthy she felt as Cerastes’ student. She wanted to impress her
Grandmaster and earn his favor. But her eagerness to serve made her
talk out of turn, anxious to exceed his expectations. She yearned
for his blessing, like a wayward child seeking a parent’s approval.
He had saved her life and taken her under his wing, so she felt
eternally indebted to him.

Six years ago, he found Krait, emaciated,
lying on the beach. She was a half-dead shell of a person, her
memory full of gaping holes and horrific nightmares from her years
spent in the Harpy dungeons, where young warriors had used her as
practice fodder for their magic. Through his dark and majestic
powers, Cerastes restored her burned-out eyes and built her spirit
anew—consequently, she served his will without question.

That bond of loyalty gave her a sense of
purpose—the seed of a new identity. Given how low she had once
fallen, and how high he had raised her, she would do anything to
repay him.

“Go now,” Cerastes said, and raised one
long-boned hand. The shadows coiled in the corner of the room,
circling together until they formed a misty portal. “Watch their
ship carefully. Return to me as soon as you have learned their
plans.”

Krait and Cobra stood as one. Then Cerastes
spoke again, “Cobra, stay for a moment. I have one more task for
you.”

Krait wore the composed mask of an assassin,
but she couldn’t dismiss her jealous thoughts. Why would Cerastes
choose Cobra? He might be superior in skill, but he was still a new
member of the Shade. Did Cerastes not trust her with his plan?
He has no reason to doubt me
, she thought. A willing tool,
she would do anything for her Grandmaster, without question, even
take her own life. Cerastes must know that.

We all have our place,
she told
herself. As hands
of the Dark God, we must do as we are asked,
and nothing more.

Krait bowed slightly to Cerastes, then
turned her back to the Cobra and swiftly traversed the room. With a
running leap, she jumped through the portal into inky darkness.

CHAPTER 2

Below deck, the
Dawn Seeker
held a
surprising amount of cabins, each about the size of a closet, with
just room enough for a narrow cot, a porthole window and little
else. Sora’s room contained her bags, a change of nightclothes, a
lantern, and a few small knicknacks she had picked up on the road.
The sacred weapons of the Dark God were stashed under the cot.

Her staff rested behind the door. It had
proved too bulky to carry around. The simple, sleek, gray-blue
wooden rod stood about two hands taller than Sora's head. Bright
yellow woodgrain could be glimpsed beneath the dark surface. The
initials K.W., perhaps the insignia of some past owner, had been
lovingly carved toward the top.

She had purchased the weapon in Mayville two
years ago, when she first left the Fallcrest lands, and before
journeying through Fennbog swamp. The staff was made of a rare kind
of wood only found in the Bracken, an ancient forest in the far
East, where travelers said the trees were so old, their roots and
branches had grown together into a single living organism.
Eventually, the wood of those trees became so strong, it could not
be cut by humans, but could only be carved by magic. Any artifact
made of "witchwood" had to predate the War of the Races, when magic
had been an everyday occurrence.

The moment Sora lifted her staff, her arms
tightened in anticipation. She intended to lose herself in a long,
hard workout—the best way to overcome her irritation. It had been
several weeks since her last bout of strenuous exercise. She left
her cabin and headed to the bow of the ship.

As Sora walked, she thought of her mother’s
warning, but that concern felt misplaced. Now more than ever, Sora
felt the need to trust Crash. The next leg of their journey would
be the most dangerous. On the horizon lay the City of Crowns, home
to the King and the most powerful nobility in the land. And within
that City, the Shade awaited: a secret cult of the Sixth Race,
trained since childhood in the art of killing; they worshiped the
Dark God and wanted to resurrect His power.

Sora's small band now followed the Shade on
a desperate hunt for
The Book of the Named
, an ancient text
that contained secret knowledge of the Dark God. Lori and her
friend Ferran, a once-renowned treasure hunter, claimed the book
would help them stop a deadly plague from consuming the land. The
disease had already spread over a hundred miles, from the lowlands
to the coast. Sora didn’t know how helpful the book might be, but
without it, they didn’t have much to go on. No one knew much about
the plague, and the only way to cure it was to use a Cat’s-Eye
stone.

Crash denied any knowledge of
The Book of
the Named
or the Shade. He said the cult was only a rumor among
the Sixth Race, and she believed him.
I can’t let myself
doubt,
she thought, turning her staff over in her hands. In the
past month, Crash had more than proved his friendship, his
alliance, his intentions. Why couldn’t Lori see that?

Sora reached the bow of the ship just as
they rounded the next bend in the river. Shouts arose from the
crow’s nest; countless Dracians leapt to the jib and yardarm,
adjusting the sails and rudder to guide the long schooner around
the sharp turn. The ship slowly tilted to one side, making its
lumbering way upstream. She could hear Captain Silas yelling
obscenities at a hapless young sailor who had tangled up the
ropes.

As the ship passed through a thick copse of
poplar trees, the Little Rain straightened out into a wide, flat
stretch of water, heading further inland. The current slowed
considerably, the banks half-buried in cattails and watercress. Any
number of obstacles might lay hidden beneath the murky, sluggish
water. She heard Captain Silas roaring orders behind her, directing
his men to steer the ship toward the center of the river.
“Straighten her out, boys! I’ll have your heads if we hit
bottom!”

Sora stood at the pointed nose of the
Dawn Seeker
, where the figurehead of a charging horse
protruded from the woodwork. The wind shifted, and she smelled that
strange, pungent odor again, like a pile of rotting fruit. She
leaned against the railing and gazed out at the riverbank,
wondering what the source of the smell might be.

Suddenly a strange vibration moved through
her, causing chills across her body. She looked up, surprised, and
raised a hand against the sun’s glare.
No, wait, that’s not the
sun….

“Sora!” a familiar voice called. Caprion! He
sounded unexpectedly distraught.

The winged Harpy plummeted from the sky and
Sora stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding a collision. Caprion
landed on the deck next to her, a frantic expression on his
otherwise handsome face. His hair looked mussed, his clothes
unkempt. She blinked up at him. His keen violet eyes were wide
open. Fear?

As creatures of Wind and Light, all Harpies
had pale hair and bright, luminescent eyes. Their voices were
entrancing and hypnotic. Their wings looked solid, but were really
manifestations of pure energy, starlight solidified into feather
and flesh. Sora had learned recently that Harpies earned their
wings through a complicated test called The Singing. A young Harpy
would pitch his pristine voice far above the heavens. If his Song
was strong enough, a star would sing back, and the light of that
star would be channeled into his body, manifesting as wings. The
larger a Harpy’s wings, the greater the strength of his star and
the more magical power he controlled.

Caprion was not a normal Harpy, but
something called a seraphim, bred for war. He carried six wings on
his back instead of just two, and had the rare ability to hide and
display his wings at will. He told her it was for his own
self-preservation—if he displayed all of his wings at once, the
constant energy would wear out his body, shortening his life. He
joined their party on the Lost Isles, where he helped them escape
the Harpy Matriarch in exchange for passage overseas.

“What?” Sora demanded. “What’s wrong?” She
glanced around. Three days ago, Caprion and two Dracians flew off
to investigate the surrounding forest. She thought that had
something to do with the growing stench, but Silas claimed they
were scouting the river for large debris and other obstacles.

“A town,” Caprion replied, out of breath.
“We found an abandoned village in the woods. I need to speak to
your mother.”

Sora nodded, taken aback. “A village? Out
here?” They were countless miles away from civilization.

Caprion headed quickly down the side of the
ship. His feet lifted easily from the wooden deck after a few
steps, and he glided forward, half-flying.

Sora jogged to keep up. “Where are the
Dracians?” she repeated. “What’s going on?”

“No time to explain,” he said. “Where is
your mother?”

“Uh…in the sickroom, I suppose, probably
tending a patient….”

“Tell Silas to drop anchor. We need to stop
the ship immediately!” Caprion went below deck into the long row of
cabins.

Sora stared after him. Then she recovered
and ran back to the bow of the ship, where she last remembered
seeing Captain Silas. But when she got there, the good captain had
disappeared, replaced by a half-dozen sailors.

“Where is Silas?” she called, grabbing the
arm of the nearest Dracian. The sailor gave her a startled look,
then glanced around and shrugged.

Sora gritted her teeth in frustration. For a
mid-sized boat, it was certainly easy to lose track of people.