Sora's Quest (6 page)

Dorian seemed to notice her discomfort, and another sneer pulled at his lips. "I suppose you're used to soft feather beds and warm meals, eh? Well, don't expect anything like that around here. You'll be sleeping on dirt until we find a way to get rid of you."

She ignored him, though the words circled around in her head.
Get rid of me.
Would they kill her? Dispose of the body? Or worse, sell her? She glanced again to the man in black, who had finished with his horse and was now sitting at her far left. He held a long, thin sword across his lap, and his fingers moved over it expertly, turning and flipping the blade in his hands as he polished it with an old rag. He worked deftly, silently.

"Ah, the meat's done," Dorian said, and leaned forward to poke at the rabbit with a wicked knife. His face finally came into full view, brightly illuminated by the orange fire.

Sora drew in a sharp gasp. Two long ears protruded from his hair, elegantly sloped, pointed. Ashen skin and brilliant blue eyes, the color of an arctic sky. Dorian caught her stare and cocked his head slightly to one side. Twitched one long ear. His large, pale eyes met hers.

Then he showed his teeth—no, not teeth. Fangs. The man had fangs.
Dear Goddess, fangs!

He chuckled and speared the meat from the fire in a vicious movement. "What's the matter, sweetness?" he said, addressing her stare. "Never seen a Wolfy before?"

"A...a Wolfy?" Sora stuttered. She didn't recognize the term.

"Perhaps you're more familiar with Wulven," he suggested.

Sora's eyes grew wider. Now she didn't know what to think. She would have laughed if he hadn't been holding a sharp knife. "Wulven!" she exclaimed softly. "Impossible. They don't truly exist...!"

His look made her fall silent. She glanced at Crash, who was still polishing the sword, ignoring the conversation. "But...the Wulven race....They've been dead for centuries...."

"Obviously not, since you're looking at one," Dorian responded wryly.

Sora couldn't think of what to say.

"Rich and ignorant. Typical," he grunted, and went back to slicing meat.

Sora couldn't help herself. If there was one thing she had earned in life, it was an education. "I'm not ignorant!" She burst out. "I've...I've heard about your kind, but only as legends. Not even in history books," she tried to explain. There were countless mentions of Wulvens in the tales of Kaelyn the Wanderer—Wolfies, as Dorian so casually called them—but those were stories from ages past, before magic had been lost, before the great War of the Races....

And could she truly believe this man? He was an outlaw, a common thief. He might be playing another game...but his ears, his unusual hair...his
fangs
....

Dorian turned away from her toward the menace in black. "Seems like she'll be very useful," he said, and offered Crash the first slice of meat. Sora heard the sarcasm.

Crash ignored the comment, as he seemed to ignore everything. His silence was not comforting. It caused a sense of foreboding, like a dark cloud hanging over their camp. Sora wished he would speak; she couldn't guess his thoughts. The lack of insight made her breath quiver.
I'm of no value to them.
Would they kill her after all? It was only a matter of time....

Crash lowered his cowl to eat. She stared in rapt attention, trying to glean some sense of the man. And again, she was surprised.

His features were almost pleasant to look upon. His face was clean, without a hint of stubble. A straight nose rested evenly above hard, unforgiving lips. A tight jaw, stern brows and deep-set eyes. She would have described him as a rogue fox or a wolf, ruffled from the wilderness yet strong and sleek. He appeared in his mid-20s, around the same age as Dorian. His skin was tanned by the road, creased by the sun. His form was lean and wiry, fit but not bulky, clothed in black leather and a well-used belt. She caught sight of a wide silver scar traveling down his jaw into his shirt. It looked like it had once been a ghastly wound. She shuddered.

He stared boldly back at her. She looked away quickly, only to give another jump of surprise. Hovering before her face was another slice of meat, proffered by the...the self-proclaimed
Wolfy
.

"Come now, sweetness," Dorian said, with a slight bite to it. "Plain meat not good enough for you?"

Sora glared at him, thinking all sorts of horrible things. She forcefully grabbed the piece of meat, though it was hard to hold with her tied wrists. She bit into it and chewed through, trying not to grimace at the burnt flavor, the stringy, tough sinews that caught between her teeth. It was, in a word, disgusting.

The man snorted and sat back, then took a healthy portion of the rabbit for himself. "'You're welcome,'" he said, mocking her once again.

Sora refused to rise to the bait. She concentrated on eating and kept to a stubborn silence. She didn't want their attention, so she wouldn't ask for it.

Eventually, her two captors finished their meals. They shared a glance, then stood up, moving away from the fire. They paused somewhere just beyond her line of sight, hidden by a thin curtain of foliage, conversing in quiet tones. She obviously wasn't supposed to overhear their conversation.

Sora glanced around, wondering if they had a clear view of her. She was absolutely certain that they were discussing her death. In that moment, she was ready for anything, especially the worst.
I won't sit here like a docile sheep!
She scooted to the side and curled up, as close to the thick tree roots as she could get. She sent a silent prayer to the Goddess. She waited for some sign that they were watching, but there was none. Carefully, she stretched out.

The knife was only a few inches from her hand.

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt.

She snatched the blade up into her palm, slipped it between her hands and started cutting one of the bonds. The rope was thick and tough, unexpectedly resistant. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, tight with the effort. She glanced up again, squinting against the glare of the fire, trying to glimpse the two figures between the leaves....

There was a blur before her eyes. A shadow flitted above her, a sudden rustle in the brush.

Then the knife was taken effortlessly from her fingers. Sora gasped. It was as though she had been holding a feather.

She sat up, shocked, to find Crash glaring down at her. The look made her heart stop.

"I don't make idle threats, girl," he hissed, and her blood turned to ice. "I spared you once. But we don't need you alive."

Thud.
The knife struck the ground, less than a half-inch from her foot. Sora flinched. Her eyes widened. She looked from hilt to hand, to the hilt, then back to his hand. She hadn't even seen him move.

Crash turned and walked away. She watched his broad back, the ripple of muscle thinly veiled by his black shirt. His strength was shocking. The knife was fully embedded in the dirt, buried up to the hilt. She remembered how he had lifted her onto and off the horse, how he had effortlessly dragged her from the manor.

He crossed to the other side of the fire and sank back into the treeline, his sword once again in hand. Then he sat near the base of a tree, all but removed from her line of sight; so still that, after several moments, he seemed to blend into the woods behind him. The shadows rose up, licking at the edges of his body, ready to swallow him whole.

Sora didn't know how long she stared at that tree. The man wavered in and out of sight, like a ghost. Finally her eyes turned to Dorian, who had returned to his position across from the fire, sprawled in plain sight. He had a deck of worn yellow cards and was playing a game, throwing the cards down in a circular pattern, then occasionally flipping a few over. She was thankful when he didn't return her look. She had had enough threats for one evening.

She turned to her satchel and folded it, plumping up her change of clothes. Then she stretched out and laid her head against it, a makeshift pillow. If she pretended to sleep, maybe they would leave her alone.

Well, at least I'm not dead,
she reminded herself, wrapping herself in the heavy cloak, trying to ignore the cold moisture seeping up from the ground. The forest sounds were loud and forceful, not soothing like she was used to hearing from her bedroom window. Bird calls seemed harsh and grating, the crickets like rusty violins. The fire snapped and crackled, eating at the air. The wind clawed and hissed through the leaves, branches cracking together. There were strange rustlings in the underbrush, the heavy bodies of four-footed animals. She tried not to flinch at every sound, not to groan with fear.
Will we be attacked by wolves? A bear?
Dark terrors seemed to loom between the trees, staring down at her.

And every time she closed her eyes, she saw her father drop to his knees, heavy as stone.

It was the morning after the disastrous birthday. Lily stood on the wide grand foyer, thick sunlight spilling down the walls like syrup. Two large staircases stretched up behind her, starting on either side of the room and arching above her head. The floor was pure white granite, the walls were painted a deep navy blue with bright white crown molding. A set of carved, wooden double-doors stood open to her left, leading to the ruined ballroom. Servants ran in and out with brooms, dustbins and buckets of glass.

She kept twirling her apron, picking apart the seams, running over the hem. She looked at the white floor, the mud that had found its way between the tiles. She thought of the amount of time it would take to clean those tiles.

A rather tall, dark-haired man stood only a few feet away. He was dressed in a midnight-blue velvet suit trimmed in silver thread. He was young, traditionally handsome, yet his hair was flecked with gray. She knew from the other servants that he was in his prime, a desirable 28 years. There was a firmness around his mouth that spoke of heavy responsibility, which would explain the gray hairs.

She watched him shift in the sunlight. His hands rested on a tall, dark wood cane. His velvet suit was adorned with small tokens of the First Tier—a large gold pin in the shape of two unfurling wings and three badges carved from perfectly black onyx: military honors. And his House insignia, a rearing blue stallion on a field of silver thread. She knew the House colors, of course. Lord Gracen Seabourne, Captain of His Majesty's personal guard...one of the few military positions reserved for nobility.

"Lady Fallcrest is...gone?" he asked slowly. Lily didn't respond right away. It was a redundant question. She had already told him the news.

"My Lord," she bobbed a curtsy. "I went to check her room this morning. We all thought she was asleep last night. But when I looked in, it was the same as she had left it. No sign."

Lord Gracen nodded slowly again. He had a stern face, as intense as an eagle, with dark, unreadable eyes. "And you are her personal handmaid?"

Lily nodded. He knew this as well. He had spoken first to Housekeeper Grem, the thankless woman in charge of the staff.

"I must ask....Did the Lady speak of any...discontent? Was she upset with her father?"

Lily's lips paled, set in a firm, tight line. She certainly couldn't lie. He had only to ask another servant or any of the serfs to know the truth. "The Lady argued with her father, just as any young person would. But...she is gentle, my Lord. She couldn't have...."

"And they maintained a stark silence these past two years? No letters? No pleasantries?"

Lily let out a slow breath. She knew what it looked like. "There were letters about her schooling. Few of them, to be sure. Lord Fallcrest was a...a practical man, good at business, not the warm or sensitive sort. Not the type to raise a daughter...."

Lord Gracen glanced up the first set of stairs to a large, closed oak door. Two servants stood outside the door, trying to appear alert after a long, sleepless night. Lily winced at their shabby appearance, crooked uniforms and mussed hair.

Beyond that tightly shut door was a very cold body. With Lord Fallcrest dead, the servants were holding their breaths, praying for Lady Sora's return. All of their jobs—their very livelihoods—hung in the balance. Unless the Lady reappeared, the estate would be seized by the King. A probate would ensue, the assets passed off to distant relatives. The King would keep a hefty chunk of money, to be given as gifts to his favorite courtiers.