Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (21 page)

After several minutes, the darkness waned and the sailor's body went limp. Lori heard an audible change in his breathing—it sounded deeper, less constricted.

Ferran stumbled backwards, catching himself on the wall. He winced, holding his wrist as though sprained, his face pale.

Lori rushed to his side, instinctively grabbing his upper arm. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Ferran grimaced and spit out his toothpick. “Bitter,” he grunted, and then, “This is not clean magic. It's tainted. I don't know how much the Cat's Eye can take.”

Lori kept her hold on his arm, checking his skin, wondering if the plague could infect him while wearing the Cat's Eye. The stone had its limitations, just like the human body. Would the Dark God's power be too strong? She was struck by a terrifying thought—if Ferran became sick, there would be no one to cure him. She gripped his arm a little tighter.

Unexpectedly, Ferran placed a hand over hers. When she met his eyes, she saw a reassuring smile on his face. “Don't worry about me,” he said. “Worry about him.” He nodded over his shoulder to the prone figure on the bed.

At that moment, Silas entered. He carried a small crate of supplies and two sailors followed him with a keg of fresh water. They set the keg down in the corner of the room.

Lori stepped away from Ferran quickly, and Silas gave her a curious look, his eyes passing between them. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked wryly. Then he looked at the patient on the bed. A slow smile touched his face. “He already looks much better. Is there anything else that you need?”

Lori nodded. “Just be ready when we call for the next one,” she said. “It might be a little while.”

“My men will be at your door,” he promised. Then Silas deposited his crate on a desk in the corner. He turned and signaled for his men to leave. They walked out the door and shut it behind them.

Lori spent the next hour mixing a powerful herbal tonic that would clear the body of toxins. She treated the sailor on the bed, then she and Ferran administered a sponge bath, applying aloe to his dry, flaky skin. After a half-hour or so, the man opened his glassy eyes and gazed at Lori. She knew the look. He was coming out of his fever.

She finished the man's treatment with a blessing from the Goddess, passing her hand over his forehead, speaking words of power. It was not magic...but she hoped it would protect him, allow him to heal faster.

Finally, they were able to call in the sailors to carry the man away. He would be placed in an isolated room where he could recover in peace.

Lori watched them turn down the hallway out of sight. Then she wiped a tired hand across her brow. Her back was sore from leaning over the bed for so long, and she stretched it out, looking up toward the ceiling. “How many more?” she sighed. It wasn't truly a question.

“Six,” Ferran replied, then approached her from across the room. He had a way of strolling rather than walking; shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets. He paused by her side. “But first, I need to see to you.”

Lori looked up at him, curious. “What?” she asked.

“Give me your hand,” he explained. “I want to make sure you're not infected.”

“Infected?” Lori gave him a searching look, trying to read his eyes. “I don't think you'd say that unless you already knew. Am I?” She glanced down at her hands, inspecting her skin, her exposed arms and elbows. But there was nothing unusual.

Ferran reached out and took her left hand. He smiled at her again, a lazy quirk of his lips. “The Cat's Eye sees it,” he said, indicating the wrist cuff.

“Oh.” Lori glanced at the stone. It was dormant for the time being; it appeared like nothing more than a deep ruby. A strange thought occurred to her. “Can you...
see
magic? That which is normally hidden to the eye?”

Ferran nodded. “I can smell it, too. In fact, that was the first way I communicated with the stone.” His grip tightened on her hand. “Be still, this will only take a moment.”

As she watched, the Cat's Eye began to glow gently at his wrist, spreading to his hand. Then Lori felt a strange sensation, like all of the air was being sucked from her lungs. She tried to pull in a breath, but it felt hollow, empty.

Suddenly, her knees buckled. Her muscles lost strength. She collapsed slowly, struggling to draw breath, raising her free hand to her neck. The skin puckered on her arms, a cold chill sweeping through her body. Her instincts told her to struggle, but she forced herself to remain calm, her eyes locked on Ferran's.

Then she saw dark mist slip from her mouth, thin tendrils winding through the air. The Cat's Eye pulled the cloud from her throat and into itself. The stone flared brightly—then released her.

Lori sagged forward. Ferran caught her by the shoulders, holding her up. She struggled to control her legs, but she felt weak and off-balance. Slowly, Ferran lowered her to the floor and sat next to her, supporting her with his shoulder, his hand locked in hers.

“Well?” he asked.

Lori struggled to catch her breath. “Not very pleasant,” she replied. She glanced at him, noticing his pale skin and the slight sheen of sweat on his brow. “What about you?”

Ferran winced. “Like drinking cheap rum. Can't get the taste out of my mouth.”

Lori nodded, still watching him. She wondered how many men they could heal before Ferran reached his limit. She would keep a careful eye on him. Otherwise he would probably push himself until he collapsed.

“You're worrying about me again,” Ferran said, that lazy smile sliding across his face. “Don't worry so much. It's bad for your heart, Healer.”

Lori raised an eyebrow. “This, from a shameless drunk?”

Ferran snorted. “I'm not a drunk. Shameless, maybe.” Then he stood up, pulling her alongside him. “We should call in the next man. The longer we wait, the more chance of the plague spreading.”

Lori nodded. They had wasted enough time. With a slight smile at Ferran, she turned and headed into the hallway.

* * *

Sora had never seen anything like this before in her life. It was magnificent—beautiful—awe-inspiring: The Shining Caverns.

The four of them stepped through the door filled with apprehension. Now they stood in shock. Sora's mouth was slightly open.

"By the gods," she heard Laina murmur next to her.

"I'll second that," came Burn's hoarse whisper.

The cavern around them was nothing like the dark, rocky tunnels from before. It glowed as brightly as daylight.
Sunstone,
Sora thought, remembering the word. She had never seen it before.

The first cave they entered was massive, more than one hundred feet wide. The ground was smooth and shiny. The walls were uneven and lumpy in contrast, but they were pure white, as though made of pristine quartz. Sora saw no evidence of mining carts or tracks. The caves appeared completely untouched.

A slight vibration moved across the walls. The air itself was thick with magic; it made her Cat's Eye shiver with excitement.

“Sunstone,” Crash said, affirming her thoughts. His face was pale, drawn, as though he was in pain. Sora raised an eyebrow, watching him curiously. He didn't seem excited about the caves—he looked as if he was sitting too close to a fire. She wasn't sure what to make of that.

“It's beautiful,” Laina said softly. Her voice echoed around the cave walls, carrying farther than natural. The stone had a way of stretching noise, tuning it, creating a perfect pitch. A simple word became like music. Sora's ears hummed with the sound.

Home,
something whispered inside of her, and she took a deep breath, tasting the air on her tongue.

“Can you feel it?” Burn asked. His blunt voice broke the spell. “I've never seen so much sunstone in my life.”

“Amazing,” Sora whispered. She felt her Cat's Eye tug at her, encouraging her to walk forward. After a few moments, she realized that her body felt refreshed and rejuvenated. The magic of the caves was overwhelming, a direct source of energy. Indeed, each breath seemed to fill her stomach, stimulate her limbs. She flexed her injured arm, surprised to feel no pain. After a moment, she took off her sling, stretching out her limb. It seemed to be fully healed.
By the North Wind,
she thought.
Incredible!

She turned to look at her friends, showing them her healed arm. She smiled at their expressions. “We need to go this way,” she said. “Trust me.” Then she turned back to the tunnel and started boldly forward.

Crash was the first to start following her, and the rest fell in step behind him. They walked in silence for a long way, each lost in wonder. Sora felt as if she was being led somewhere on an invisible chain. She couldn't fight it, and after a while, she didn't really want to. Her Cat's Eye moved inside her eagerly. Anticipation shot through her with each step.

As they passed, the walls captured their reflections like warped mirrors. The roof of the cave, which at first had been almost invisible, slowly lowered until they were walking down a narrow tunnel, like a hall of glass. The ground below them gradually became covered in white sand.

They came to a point where the path split into two tunnels, each veering off in a different direction. Sora turned to the left without even slowing her stride. The rest followed without question. They knew that the necklace was leading her.

Time didn't seem to pass—the light of the caves was unchanging. The travelers continued on, not knowing whether it was night or day, whether one hour had passed, or three. They were fueled by endless energy, bewitched by the white, shining labyrinth.

* * *

Volcrian's head snapped around as a cry echoed from the crow's nest.

"Look there! Up above!"

He squinted against the rain, searching the gray backdrop of the clouds. Finally, his eyes landed on a humanoid shape flying unsteadily through the windy skies. It glinted gold against the overcast sky.

Slowly and thoughtfully, a smile tugged at his lips.

"Cap'n, Cap'n!" one of his lackeys called. "'Tis some sort of demon!"

But not the demon I'm chasing
, the mage grinned. Then he glanced at the small, wiry sailor who stood on deck; the man motioned wildly upwards. His shipmates paused, also staring.

“'Tis unnatural,” one murmured.

“A sign from the Goddess,” another said shrewdly. “These are bad waters.”

“Aye,” a third agreed.

“Magnificent, isn't it?” Volcrian said loudly, striding before his crew. The last thing he needed was a mutiny fueled by superstition. “A rare sight, indeed. 'Tis only a golden eagle flying overhead.”

The first sailor looked at him suspiciously. He was a short, skinny man, perhaps underfed since a very young age.

“Doesn't look like a golden eagle,” the man muttered.

Volcrian waved an idle had. “'Tis the sun playing tricks on your eyes,” he said. “Why don't you break out a new flask of rum? Share it with the men? It's been a long voyage and you all deserve a break.”

The men grinned at this, lopsided looks that would frighten their own mothers. They lumbered off across the deck, shouting to the rest of the crew, heading below to the bunks. Only a scattered few remained on-deck to tend the sails.

Volcrian turned back to the sea. His eyes narrowed, following the Dracian's form across the sky. He hadn't seen a fully transformed Dracian in quite some time. He wondered where the fellow was going to, and whether it had anything to do with his prey.

There was no chance of pursuing the lone traveler. It would take far too long to turn the boat around. Even as he watched, the winds picked up and the Dracian was carried into the clouds, lost from sight.

He leaned against the railing of the ship, looking down at the fierce water. The scent of magic was strong over the waves. It crawled across his skin: the vague tint of iron and a rare sweetness, like rust. His Wolfy senses were keen enough to pick it up.

The spells were old, tied to the waves below and the clouds above. Immense power saturated the skies, turning them dark and turbulent. These were war spells, cast during a time when nature had been irrelevant, when the Races had viciously tried to stamp each other out.

“We are halfway to the Isles,” a voice reached him.

He turned slightly. The priestess stood about two yards away, smothered in her large cloak. She approached the railing and leaned against it in an identical fashion. “Our compasses are beginning to fail.”

“You must guide the ship,” Volcrian said. He wasn't worried. She wasn't a normal human anymore—not even a spirit, but something of his own creation. And as a vessel of magic, she had many uses.

“The dead can only do so much,” the priestess said tiredly.

“More than you think,” Volcrian murmured, momentarily lost in thought. Humans lived in a shell, ignorant to the ways of the afterlife. But the dead were far from asleep. No, they were sensitive to the balance in the world; they became part of it, ingrained in its threads, connected to a great energy that held all things together.

“Why do you follow them so?” the priestess asked.

Volcrian turned his icy gaze upon her. “What?”

“The assassin, the girl with the Cat's Eye—why do you care? Wouldn't you rather have peace?”