Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (7 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

SORA FELT A strange tingling sensation. A dull roar filled her ears, rushing in and out, over and over again. At first she thought it was a dream or some trick of her mind. Then she felt the gritty texture of sand beneath her, the light brush of wind.

A sudden thought jolted her awake.
The ocean.

Then a hot, terrible pain struck her. The tingling in the back of her skull moved forward, throbbing down her forehead, her nose, her teeth. She groaned, feeling as though her head had been split in two.

But her shoulder...her shoulder hurt worse. Every beat of her heart brought a terrible, swooning ache. She clamped her jaw shut, seething, trying to breathe.
By the North Wind,
she thought.
What happened?

A shallow wave rushed up, licking her foot. The water was ice-cold. She groaned again, opening her eyes and blinking against the harsh light. The sun was blinding, as though her face was an inch away from fire.
No more storm clouds,
she thought vaguely.
Where am I
?

After a moment, she attempted to sit up and almost screamed. Her arm was useless at her side, her shoulder stiff with a deep pain. She glanced sideways, almost afraid to look, and saw her shoulder jutting out at an awkward angle. Dislocated.

A wave of nausea rolled through Sora and she gritted her teeth. This would not do. If she waited too long, the shoulder would swell up and she would be crippled, which left only one option. She had to push her shoulder back in.

She wished, for a very long moment, that she were back at her manor, before she had ever met Crash and Burn or her mother. It seemed so long ago now. The world of wealth and riches was like another life, the story of another girl, one she had known in a distant past. She could still remember that girl's room, the gauzy white curtains blowing inward, the smell of bath salts and jasmine.

In that life, a half-dozen Healers knelt by the girl's bedside, applying ointments and soothing lotions. They would have gently relocated her arm, strapping it tightly to her chest. There might have even been a minstrel in the corner, playing sweet acoustic music on a guitar.

But she hadn't lived there in a very long time. No, for the past year she had been with her mother, in a log cabin in the wilderness, learning the tricks of the healing trade. Lorianne had taught her well. She could do this herself. She would have to.

Sora took a deep breath, trying to remember the technique that her mother had used. Countless children had been brought to their house with this kind of injury. Eventually, some had been able to right their dislocated arm by themselves.
If a child can do it, I can do it,
she thought. She kept breathing, trying to think through the pain.

Finally, she laid back down on the sand, easing her arm outward. She winced several times, slowing the movement.
It doesn't have to be painful,
she heard her mother's voice, gentle and warm in the sickroom.
Reach over your head like you're scratching your back.

Sora did so, trembling with the effort. It hurt no matter how slowly she moved. Finally, she thought she had her arm in the right position, with her elbow over her head and her hand down. She turned her hand outward, stretching the arm up and back.

There was a slight pop from the bone, the sense of something smooth and curved sliding into place. The pain flared for a moment and then subsided. Her body still ached, but her shoulder dislocation was much less pronounced.

Sora sat back up carefully. She straightened out her arm, flexing her fingers. Winced. It was still sore—but workable.

Finally, she was able to take stock of her surroundings. She glanced around the abandoned beach. The shoreline was long and curved, stretching into the distance with nary a flaw. Pebbles speckled the sand, glints of color against the fading sunset. Shards of driftwood interrupted the landscape, twisting up from the beach like tortured skeletons. Color drenched the sky, deep orange and vibrant pink, sinking into a glorious royal purple. She had less than an hour to find shelter for the night.

Crash, Burn, Laina...
she thought, still searching the horizon. She scanned the ocean, looking for a sign of the shipwreck. She saw shards of wood and tangled ropes that might have been from the ship. Then her eyes landed on a large broken door, listing in the shallow water. She vaguely remembered it slamming into her during the storm. She had managed to cling to the wood, possibly the only reason why she was still alive.

Besides that, there was nothing. No footprints.
I'm alone.

The sole survivor?

At the thought, her body shuddered uncontrollably. Alone. On an unknown island. Stranded.

Don't panic,
she told herself firmly. Goddess, were they all dead? The thought crushed her, suffocating, her heart rising to her throat. It couldn't be true. But as she searched the beach, she saw no sign of civilization—of life.

She couldn't accept it. Her head spun. Perhaps this beach didn't even exist. Perhaps she had woken up in the unknown limbo between life and death, in the twilight realm where ghosts lingered, trapped by memories. But no, her body was too sore. Her dislocated shoulder was evidence enough that she was still alive.

They're dead,
she thought again. It kept repeating in her mind, over and over, making her sick.

She took another deep breath, pressing her good hand to her chest. To her Cat's Eye. The stone was smooth, perfectly round, glinting with a secretive green light. Strength flooded through her, warming her muscles.

You don't know that for sure,
her inner voice murmured.
Calm down. Focus.
She needed to contain herself, to fight off the urge to scream. No, now was the time for survival. She forcefully quelled her emotions, shoving them into an old box somewhere deep in her mind. She would look at them later. She needed to find shelter and safety, some place where she could piece together what had happened.

Sora dragged herself to her feet. Her muscles quivered, then grew solid and firm. Her entire body felt as though it had been chewed up in a giant's mouth, then spit out on the ground. She glanced down at her torn clothing, bruised skin visible through the holes. Seaweed clung to her pants and shirt, tangled up in the cloth. She tried to rip the strands off, but the effort was too much.

She stumbled over to a pile of driftwood and pulled a large, long branch from the mess. It was fairly straight, made smooth by the ocean. She felt a sudden pang of loss, reminded of her witchwood staff, her favorite weapon. She would never see it again.

Then she turned toward the forest, staggering up the beach. She could see a mountain covered in bright green foliage jutting over the tops of the trees. It was small compared to the mountains of the mainland. The sun touched the horizon behind it, sinking fast in the sky.

She turned her gaze back to the beach. Her eyes combed the trees, looking for a likely place to set up camp. She didn't know what kind of animals lived in this forest. It would be wiser to sleep in the trees.

She spotted a perfect climbing tree further up the beach. A large, thick trunk sprawled outward, split into many branches. The bark looked flat and shiny, different from the tall pines of her homeland. The leaves were longer than her hand, waxy in texture, bright green.

She walked to the tree, quite a distance across the sand. Strange, spiky gourds hung from its branches, dark brown in color, bigger than her fist.
At least I'll have something to throw if I'm attacked
, she thought wryly. Then she set about climbing the tree. She was barely able to pull herself up to the lower branches, her left arm still weak and useless.

She settled into the nook at its center, curling up against the shadows. The smells of the forest were strange—minty and sweet, tangy, like the lemon tree in her mother's garden. Harsh sounds pierced her ears—loud, shrieking birds and croaking frogs. The click of insects. Distant roars of unseen animals.

She curled tighter into a ball, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing she were invisible. The faces of her friends swam before her. Burn's easy smile. Laina's awkward grin. Crash's enigmatic gaze.
They're dead,
she thought, tears slipping from between her closed eyelids. Grief struck her, an abyss opening in her chest, large enough to swallow her whole. She fell into it, pain coursing through her, overtaking her body. She felt minuscule, as though still trapped in another ocean, tossed by the waves, helpless.

She began to sob, a choking sound. The pain was so great; it forced her throat to close, made her tears weak and pitiful. She couldn't even begin to fathom what she had lost.
They're all dead…and I'm alone.

* * *

Lori frowned. She thought she recognized the horse in the distance. It didn't seem possible, but she would know that dark coat anywhere, the white socks and blazed nose. She even recognized the saddle.

The sun was setting at the small port of Cape Shorn. It was a narrow hook of land that jutted out into the ocean, the last port town for the next sixty miles.

Ferran had brought her here in search of a book. A rare, priceless book that he had given to a whore some months ago. She winced thinking about it. The book had then been sold to some kind of a pirate that was supposedly anchored off of Sylla Cove. According to Ferran, the book held the secrets of the Dark God's weapons—and the method of returning them to the underworld. It was exactly what Sora would need once she killed Volcrian.

Without returning the sacred weapons, the plague would continue to spread, taking one victim at a time. She had kept a careful eye on the population of Cape Shorn, noting a few coughing sailors and merchants with pale, sallow skin. The plague had yet to take root on the coast, but it was only a matter of time. It was already sweeping across the farmlands.

She sat on the docks, coiling up various lengths of rope, repairing the weaker strands as fast as possible. The sun was setting fast and soon there would be no light to work by. Ferran was on board, stocking the cabin with dried meats and jarred vegetables, preparing his small houseboat for the voyage north. It was quiet this evening, unusually so. In a port city like Cape Shorn, countless merchants and fishermen stocked their ships before heading out to deeper waters. Tonight, however, the docks were unusually subdued, the sky gray with dusk, the sun at the brink of the horizon.

The horse approached them, coming to a stop. It whuffed in greeting, flicking its ears. Yes, she would know that steed anywhere. It was her stallion Mingo, the sire of two little foals back on her ranch.

A low, hunched shape struggled from the saddle. Her frown deepened. It could be none other than Cameron, her stablehand. But how had he found them? She couldn't guess. Her horses were well-trained, related to a distant bloodline that stretched back to the War. They were far more intelligent than most, in high demand amongst soldiers and the nobility. She had managed to secure a pair as payment from an especially thankful breeder. Since Cameron was mute, she could only assume that the horse's instincts had led him to her.

“What's happened?” she demanded, dropping the rope in her hands. Ferran glanced up, leaning out from beneath the roof of the houseboat. He looked at her questioningly, but she ignored him. She leapt to the wooden dock and ran inland toward Cameron, who looked ashen in the fading light.

The man didn't say anything—he couldn't speak, he was shivering so hard. He must have ridden all day. His face was bitten by the wind, bright red across his cheeks and nose.
Why is he here
? She could only think of one reason: trouble.

He held out a shivering hand, with a piece of paper clamped in it. She took the paper from his grip, prying his fingers open, and quickly read over the note.

It was from Sora. Lori gnawed her lip as she read. Her daughter had sent it from the Port City of Delbar, perhaps a week or two ago. But why the urgency? She kept reading, her heart in her throat, waiting for some indication that her daughter was wounded or trapped. But the message was much more surprising than that.

“The Lost Isles?” she muttered in surprise. Sora's letter detailed her journey to the city of Barcella, where she had met with the Priestess of the West Wind. Now she was taking a ship out to sea to the Lost Isles. Lori balked at the thought. It was a place of notorious shipwrecks. Sailors avoided those waters, at times making hundred-mile detours around the weather. The Lost Isles were said to be cursed by mysterious storms, residue left from the ancient War.

She was speechless.

“What is it?” Ferran called, stepping off the boat. He was a tall man, lean and muscular and in his late thirties, a few years older than her.

“Nothing,” Lori said quickly, and shoved the letter in her pocket. She was worried for her daughter, but it only made her own journey more urgent. Sora would need Ferran's book to deal with the sacred weapons. Killing Volcrian was only half of the problem. They would have to undo the curse, bind the Dark God back into the earth, and seal shut whatever terrible gate had been opened.
Stay focused,
she told herself firmly.
You need to help Sora, not chase after her.