Sora's Quest (5 page)

Her thoughts were strange, surreal. She felt oddly disconnected. Then a fragile calm settled over her, like fine mist. She had to think logically. Whether Lord Fallcrest was alive or dead, nothing changed. If she ran back home, she would still have to take suits, marry, start a family.
Be realistic. You can't run an estate by yourself.
If anything, that thought terrified her even more than the man behind her. There was no avoiding that life, not after tonight.

No, she wasn't going home. She couldn't. Not after making it this far.

Which meant she would have to escape her captor.

She gripped the satchel before her, fingers cramped with anxiety. The ever-constant motion of the horse was almost soothing, the man behind her was momentarily silent.

Well,
she finally figured,
I need a plan.
Sooner or later they would have to stop.
Simple is best.
When her captor dismounted, she could knee him in the groin and run into the woods. It was the most logical thing to do. Then she would continue on her way to town. She didn't know the road, but she could ask anyone for directions....

And she still had her satchel, her lifeline. She had enough money to buy a horse and be gone before anyone thought to look for her. She would leave this killer and her ill-fated manor in the dust. Then she would begin the hunt for her mother. Local house servants, newsboys, the county recorders might know something. A Lord's business was everyone's business, after all.

It was admittedly a flawed plan, but the best she could do for the moment.

She reached up and touched the necklace that dangled beneath her shirt. The stone felt warm, even through the thick linen.

A line of trees appeared in the distance, a forest. Sora felt a sliver of doubt. She had explored much of her father's lands, but had never gone this far out. They had been galloping for almost an hour. This proved that she was thoroughly lost. The horse whuffed and panted, a sheen of sweat on its thick gray neck.

They reached the treeline and entered the forest. It was dark and overgrown, menacing, far different from the acreage around her manor. The branches overhead blocked out the stars, obscuring all hint of light. Sora leaned forward in the saddle cautiously, hit by another wave of sickly terror.

Without warning, the man grabbed her head and forced it down below a branch, drawing a muffled shriek from her lips. She thought for sure she would be beheaded. When she sat back up, she was not only breathing hard, but trembling and flinching at every small shift the horse made.
Did he put the knife away?
she wondered, still regrouping.

Sora looked ahead, peering between the darkened trees, as though they held an unseen solution. She was determined to be prepared for whatever came next.

She squinted. It seemed that there was a slight flicker of light ahead, the telltale signs of a campfire. A nervous grin came to her lips.
What kind of idiot leaves a fire burning untended in the middle of a forest?
Maybe this would be easier than she had first thought.

They reached the fire quickly; her captor halted the horse just outside the circle of light. Then the man dismounted smoothly, then grabbed her with firm hands and lifted her down next to him.

Sora found herself standing on a soft cushion of pine needles. She looked up at her captor, trying to see him clearly in the darkness, though he was almost invisible. Finally, she made out his shadowy, intimidating face.

Gathering her wits—
here it is, my chance!
—she launched herself at him, trying to attack him as she had planned. She fumbled, attempting to knee his unprotected groin.

He caught her easily and held her hands up by the wrists, barely concerned by her sudden action. Her lips parted, the air taken out of her, shocked by a sudden sense of failure.

That went well,
she thought sarcastically. All hope left her and Sora sagged in his grip. Her strength seemed to have drained out through the soles of her feet. She was lost.

Then she noticed the rope he was carrying. She watched numbly as he tied her hands in front of her. When he was finished tying her, he shoved her into the firelight without ceremony.

She looked around the camp, truly unsure of herself. The clearing was small and neat, a mere pocket of light and warmth amidst the trees. A rabbit was roasting over a modest fire, the delicious smell of cooking meat rich in the air. A heap of saddlebags rested to one side of the fire. She let out a breath. A dangerous-looking sword leaned against a tree, glinting in the firelight, and several other weapons were laid out alongside it. Next to that were two bedrolls.

Sora's breath caught. Two bedrolls?

Then her eyes saw a figure sitting on the opposite side of the fire, half-obscured by shadow. In this light, she wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. The fire danced, casting peculiar shadows. The person's nose was small and pointed, the lips not overly generous; there was a thin jaw with wide, exaggerated cheeks. Feminine. Yet a thicker neck, muscular shoulders and a flat chest. To her mind, the stranger was completely androgynous. He or she looked youthful, only six or seven years older than herself, and yet the hair was at odds with the age. The locks were pure silver, pulled back in a thick braid that trailed to the ground. Sora had never seen such a brazen color, like concentrated starlight—not even on her most elderly servants.

The figure shifted, scratching its back against a tree, then said wryly, "Bringing home stray pets, Crash? You know we can't keep it."

"Quiet, Dorian," her captor said, still the voice of Death. "I ran into her in the halls...couldn't just let her go, could I?"

The silver-haired Dorian snorted in response. "Couldn't you have killed her?"

Her dark captor remained silent.

"I see," Dorian murmured. Sora guessed it was a man by the name and his wide shoulders, but the voice was evenly pitched and could have gone either way. There was a slight accent to the words. It reminded her of the North, thick and rounded. "I trust that the job went well?"

"It did...though unexpectedly," Crash murmured. Sora thought it was a strange name. Crash. Perhaps not his true name at all.

"So what are we going to do with her?" Dorian asked.

Crash left the fire to unsaddle his horse. Sora stood awkwardly, wondering if she should sit.

Dorian spoke again. "This doesn't make our position any better, you know. We should just cut her loose, let her go."

"Volcrian will find her," the dark man replied. "And...she might be of some use."

"Right," Dorian replied. A lopsided grin split his face. "But I don't share my women."

Crash cast a cold, pointed look at the silver-haired man. Sora shuddered, catching the gist of their conversation. She knew she was in a vulnerable position—they could do whatever they wanted to her, and she wouldn't be able to stop them.

Then Crash spoke again. "Her necklace," he grunted.

"What's that?" Dorian cocked his head to one side, then looked back to Sora, a curious glint in his eyes. His gaze fell to her neck. "Is it worth much? Let's see it, sweetness. Where is this necklace?"

Sora frowned. She was loath to pull the chain out into the open; what if they stole it? It was the only thing remaining of her mother. But one look at Crash changed her mind. Better her necklace than her throat. She pulled the piece of jewelry out of her shirt, dangling it in the open.

Dorian squinted for a moment, then his eyes widened. His brows shot up to his hairline. "Is that...?"

"Yes. I am almost certain of it."

"Ah."

And the two fell silent.

Sora dropped the piece of jewelry back into her shirt. She raised a hand to her neck self-consciously. She wanted to ask what they were talking about—demand that they explain themselves—but she was too terrified. They could still kill her. Why keep her alive, just for a necklace?
Just count your lucky stars,
she told herself, biting her lip.
At least they haven't disposed of you yet.

"So...is that the plan?" Dorian asked again. "We just bring her along?"

Crash was staring at her. His face was hard and cold behind the black veil. All she could see were those cool green eyes, like flecked algae, oddly unblinking.

And yet there was a sudden, inexplicable connection, an almost-understanding. She was reminded of her words in the hallway, desperate, breathless.
Take me with you.

With an abrupt move, the dark man crossed the campsite and grabbed her satchel, easily yanking it from her grasp. Sora practically dropped the bag, she was so surprised. He ripped it open, spilling the contents to the ground, and she gasped, looking down in despair.

A sudden flush of embarrassment crossed her cheeks—of all things! There lay her humble loaf of travel bread and a small lump of dried meat. Her shabby gray cloak, still fine next to her captor's grimy clothes. The coin purse and flute. She glanced up, quickly meeting Dorian's eyes, then looked away. A tension settled on the camp.

Sora gazed at her belongings, trying to remember all she had packed. Her knife? Where had her knife gone? Her eyes darted around in the shadows and she finally saw the glint of a blade, half-obscured by a gnarled tree root. She looked away quickly, trying not to think about it, to alert her captors.

But the two men were still staring at the spilled contents of the satchel.

"Well," Dorian said after a moment. "It seems that we have a runaway."

Sora's face paled, turning a stark white, humiliated to no end. Did he have to say it like that? Like she was a child sneaking off into the woods?

Crash picked up the bag of coins and tossed it to Dorian. It made a heavy sound in his hand. Then the assassin wordlessly sifted through her belongings, tucking away what he could use—very little. When the satchel was passed back to her, all it contained were a change of clothes and her wooden flute.

"Quaint," Dorian murmured, raising an eyebrow. "But quite a bit of coin. Seems unlikely that a servant would carry this much. I doubt you are a commoner, my dear. And you don't appear a thief. By the way, what is that all over your face?"

It took Sora a moment to realize what he was talking about—and that he expected an answer. "M-My face?" she echoed. She raised a shaky hand to her cheek, then pulled it away, only to see smudges of red paint across her fingers. "Oh."

"Yes. Oh." Dorian echoed.

"It's...eh...well," Sora bit her lip. Should she tell them the truth? Who she really was? Or would that endanger her even further? She was nobility, after all, even if it was only Second Tier. She could be worth a hefty ransom....

Her eyes slid to the man in black. He had been in the manor, had witnessed the Blooming, or had at least known of it. Her identity was no secret. They were playing a game.

"Sora Fallcrest," she said, resisting the urge to raise her chin. It felt strange to say her name without the "Lady" attached, but she was leaving that life behind. For good.

"Hmph. Fallcrest, eh?" Dorian raised an eyebrow and looked at Crash. "Our new pet has a pedigree?"

The dark man didn't reply.

Dorian continued, looking back to Sora. He spoke mockingly. "Well, then...it was your birthday, was it not? Happy birthday, my dear."

Her eyes widened. In all of the panic, she had almost forgotten. "Oh. Yes."

"Did you perform the Blooming?"

Sora was surprised by his knowledge of her, and more than a little insulted by his tone. He spoke as though she were five years old. Her brow lowered. What else did they know about her? Had they watched her family for some time? She didn't know much about the ways of criminals. It was very unnerving.

Her mouth was clamped shut. If they knew this much already, she wouldn't tell these bastards anything more. For all she knew, they had conspired to harm Lord Fallcrest, and she could well be next.

Dorian grinned at her silence, a sly, terrible look. "Any chance of a rendition?" he asked wickedly. "I've never seen a Blooming, but I hear it is quite...
provocative.
About fertility, you know."

Gross.
Sora glanced down, focusing on the fire. Her face turned even whiter with anger. The Blooming was a sacred ceremony. Young girls were prepped as early as eleven. They practiced for years...and here he was, scoffing at it like a jester's act.

Crash moved away from them, back to his horse. He finished removing the saddle and began brushing down the steed.

Dorian seemed to grow bored with her silence and let out a long yawn. "Sit down, girl. You're making my neck ache," he finally growled, and waved his hand.

Sora obeyed tightly, seething on the inside.
Better to sit,
she told herself firmly. Her legs were shaking from a mixture of fear and outrage, but she was trying to hide it. She sat as close to the hidden knife as possible. The dirt was cold and damp beneath the trees, and the chill crept straight through the seat of her pants.
Good thing I thought to bring a cloak.
She picked up the thick fabric from the ground, trying to drag it across her shoulders, though she was limited by her bound hands.