Ferran's Map (33 page)

Ferran paused in surprise. He fingered the
cinnamon stick in his pocket. “A novel?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course Simeon doesn’t remember you
as I do; he was so young, he could barely walk when you left.”
Martin grinned ironically. “If he knew you a bit better, he might
not feel so enamored by your adventures.”

“Well, that was a long time ago,” Ferran
muttered.

Martin didn’t seem to hear. “We didn’t all
agree with your exile, you know. Father was old-fashioned. Said the
honor of our family had been questioned; we couldn’t have a thief
running the Ebonaire estate. But for what it’s worth, no family
like ours has a lick of honor.”

Martin laughed wryly at that while Ferran
remained uncomfortably silent. He wasn’t fooled by his brother’s
jovial manner. When his father threw him out, Martin certainly
hadn’t stood up in his defense. He had the entire estate to
inherit. Ferran wondered if he was only being welcomed home because
he wasn’t a threat.

“Well, you’ve certainly filled my shoes as
heir,” he mentioned, watching his brother’s reaction.

Martin shrugged at that. “I suppose it’s in
the blood,” he said easily, then changed the topic. “What brings
you here, after so many years? And who is your lovely companion?
You appear to have journeyed far.” His eyes lingered on Sora again,
glancing over her with keen interest. He ignored Crash completely,
typical of a Lord of the First Tier.

Ferran felt a strange surge of
protectiveness. Sora was a lovely girl in the prime of beauty. She
had an innocent look about her—a heart-shaped face and full bottom
lip with large, wide-set blue eyes. Her petite figure was toned
with muscle and attractively proportionate. He didn’t like the way
his brother’s gaze lingered on her.

“This is my daughter, Sora,” he said,
keeping to the roles they had rehearsed on the
Dawn Seeker
.
But his satisfaction went deeper than that. He liked seeing the
twitch on Martin’s face. “My wife is a respected Healer who studied
at the royal seminary here in Crowns.”

Martin’s eyes darted between them. “I have a
niece?” he said, and a charming smile came over his face. He set
the cigar down, stood up, and took Sora’s hand. “My Lady, you
certainly carry a noble grace.”

“Thank you, Milord,” Sora said, and curtsied
slightly while holding his hand. She released his grip with the
perfect amount of propriety, but Ferran still felt ruffled.

Then Martin turned back to Ferran. His tone
became grave. “I am actually relieved at your arrival. It must be
serendipity. This season has been hard on us. There seems to be a
particularly nasty illness spreading around this winter. My wife….”
His voice faded. “The illness claimed my wife three months ago. And
now my daughter, Danica, has fallen ill….”

A look of anguish passed over Martin’s face,
and Ferran felt his chest squeeze. He noted again his brother’s
somber dress. “You’re in mourning,” he said, making sense of the
general malaise of the house. “My condolences….Martin, if I had
known….”

His brother waved a hand. “She is sorely
missed, but we are surviving our grief.” He recovered his
composure. “The Healer’s seminary is overrun and our house Healer
is unable to treat Danica’s illness. We’ve brought in three other
Healers, and they’ve tried everything, but Lady Danica only grows
worse.”

Ferran could hear the genuine concern in his
brother’s voice. He cleared his throat. “It must be serendipity
indeed,” he murmured. “My wife, Lorianne, is quite skilled.”

Martin’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps, if your
wife is so well-trained, she could see my daughter?” he asked. He
glanced around the room as though Lori would appear any second.
“Where is she?”

“She remains on our ship,” Ferran explained.
“She wasn’t sure how we would be welcomed. But I can send for
her….”

“We shall do that,” Martin said quickly.
“I’ll send a man to your ship at once. Where are you docked? What’s
the name of the vessel?”

Ferran hesitated. He wondered if it was wise
to let Martin’s servants see their pirate ship. Or perhaps it
didn’t matter. What harm could a simple summons do? “We’re at the
south pier, anchored at dock 54 near the bottom end. ‘Tis a large
schooner named the
Dawn Seeker
.”

Martin jotted the location onto a piece of
parchment. “This illness is unlike anything we’ve seen before,” he
continued as he wrote. “You’d be wise to avoid some areas of the
city. They say as many as three hundred have already died on the
west bank. Can you believe that? Three hundred! It’s a wonder the
King hasn’t closed the gates. We’re hoping Headmaster Duncan will
persuade him. The King might listen to the head of the seminary….”
Martin sighed as though he had already abandoned that hope. “For
now, King Royce is pacifying the lower tiers for winter solstice.
He has such a soft touch with his people. Too soft, some say.”

“A travesty,” Ferran muttered.

“I’d say so!” his brother agreed, missing
the sarcasm. “The First Tier is pressuring the King to close the
gates as soon as possible. It’s for the good of the Kingdom. What
if the royal family were to fall ill?”

Ferran shifted uncomfortably. “The lower
tiers can’t be left to face this affliction on their own,” he
said.

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you
suggest?” he asked ironically. “There is no cure. This plague will
pass eventually. The lower tiers will survive—the peasants are
countless in number—but should the upper tier fall, who will
replace us?”

Ferran searched his brother’s face, not
quite trusting the man’s expression. Martin had never worked with
his hands. He didn’t see the peasants as his countrymen; he didn’t
understand their lives or day-to-day struggles. His brother was a
true Ebonaire—arrogant and aristocratic, all smoothed over by
deceptive warmth and charm.

“Please,” Martin continued after he finished
his note. “Stay and tell me of your journey. I’ll have Donwick
bring up lunch. This is a day for celebration—I have a new
sister-in-law and niece, and my long-lost brother has returned
home. Let’s not argue about the Kingdom’s fate.”

Ferran nodded, still uneasy. He didn’t
expect to be welcomed home warmly after so many years. Had all the
hatred come from his father alone? He couldn’t know for sure. And
he didn’t know if Martin was ready to know the full story of the
plague. Humans did not accept magic any more, especially in the
modern City of Crowns. And with the Shade residing in The Regency,
he felt reluctant to mention the Cat’s Eye, the Dark God or the
races. He knew how servants listened and talked. He didn’t want
word of their quest traveling around.

“Sit down, sit down!” Martin insisted,
indicating the large armchairs around his desk.

At that moment, Donwick the butler strode
into the room with a prestigious air. Ferran surmised he had been
standing outside the entire time.

“Send a footman to the waterfront to arrange
for Ferran’s wife,” Lord Martin said, and passed him the small
folded parchment. “And bring lunch for my guests, and a bottle of
our best wine! This will be a day of tall tales!” He turned to give
them an engaging smile. “And I want to hear
every last
detail
.”

* * *

Sora lay back on the stuffed feather
mattress and stared at the wide canopy overhead. The bed was soft,
like lying on a dense, woolen cloud. Rain thrummed against the tall
window next to her. As she watched, the rain lessened and large
white snowflakes began to drift down from the sky, glowing in the
light of a single lantern on her bedside table. They looked like
flecks of crystal drifting down from a pitch-black oblivion, silent
as ash. The first snow of winter.

Her eyes roved restlessly around the dark
room: two ornate bedside tables, a large writing desk, a majestic
wardrobe and vanity. The walls were covered in oil paintings of
spring gardens and placid sunrises. A wide, elaborate strip of
crown molding framed the high ceiling.

Ebonaire.
Ferran was their eldest
disowned son, and she would spend the next two weeks at the
Ebonaire estate. She still couldn’t quite believe it. She
half-expected to fall asleep and wake up back on the
Dawn
Seeker
, still sailing up the Little Rain.

All this time, she had treated Ferran like a
scruffy ragtag pirate, only to discover he was next to royalty. The
reality hadn’t fully struck her until she saw him standing in
Martin’s office, face-to-face with his brother, and she felt that
air about him—the unmistakable confidence of a lord.

She put one hand on her head, still unable
to absorb it all. How long had her mother known? The entire time?
Why hadn’t Lori told her?

Sora wished she could ask, but her mother
wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. Meanwhile, Lady Danica’s fever
worsened in the room across the hall. She could hear the low
chatter of maids as they came and went. She wondered if Lady
Danica’s health was the only reason for their stay. Martin Ebonaire
was obviously desperate for a skilled Healer. He might have
welcomed them warmly, but he had asked after Lori all through the
afternoon, and again at dinner. Sora wondered if he would toss them
out as soon as his daughter recovered.

The two brothers seemed like night and day.
Martin was every inch an aristocrat, while Ferran sprawled rather
than sat at the dinner table. Martin didn’t seem to question their
story, as Ferran told it. The treasure hunter claimed to have made
gobs of wealth with his practice. He described the rolling sand
dunes of Ester and the black, polished surface of the Glass Coast,
where lightning storms ignited the sand. He described his
retirement, including his marriage to Lori and the birth of their
daughter. That’s about where the story stopped. Sora remained
mostly silent.

“And after so long, why visit now?” Martin
asked.

Ferran shifted, as though truly embarrassed
by his question. “Father died,” he finally said. “Five years ago, I
know, but I never made my goodbyes. Family seems more important now
than it once did.”

The conversation continued until she sensed
the late hour and retired for the night. Ferran and Martin remained
awake, to her knowledge, still speaking in the drawing room. She
wondered what Ferran would tell his brother after a few more
glasses of brandy. How far would his story go?

Sora bit her lip and watched the snow drift
languidly down from the sky. She tried not to think of the day
ahead. She couldn’t remember the last time she had socialized with
other nobles. Her Blooming, perhaps. Martin said he would arrange
for Danica’s handmaid to escort her around the Regency tomorrow for
a new wardrobe, fit for a daughter of the Ebonaire estate. In
short—dress shopping. She writhed uncomfortably at the thought. She
would much rather start hunting for the Shade, and track down Burn
as quickly as possible. She was only too aware of their wasted
afternoon. Her thoughts had returned to Burn over and over again.
If he was found dead, she would never forgive herself.

But Crash was absent; he vanished later in
the evening. She could only wonder where he went—perhaps he had
already found the Shade’s trail, and was hunting down Burn. She
couldn’t allow herself to hope.

Sora closed her eyes tightly, willing
herself to go to sleep. She rolled over, away from the large window
and swirling gusts of snow.

CHAPTER 19

Crash crouched on the ledge outside Sora’s
window. The steeply slanted tiles of the Ebonaire roof made
balancing difficult. Fragile snowflakes dusted the roof in a fine
white quilt. He watched Sora toss and turn inside her grand
bedroom.

Then he turned to the sprawling grounds of
the Ebonaire estate. A blanket of snow obscured the wide front
drive and expansive gardens. No light penetrated the darkness.
Still, to his nocturnal eyes, he was able to make out the trimmed
hedges, marble statues, and even the lumbering oak trees that
marked the beginning of the driveway.

He felt neither the snowflakes nor the cold
wind. As a creature of Fire and Darkness, his thoughts burned and
simmered like hot coals.

Ferran was wasting their time. Crash didn’t
see any evidence of the Shade in The Regency, and Burn’s life still
hung in the balance. He couldn’t wait for Cobra or Cerastes to show
themselves. He had made a promise to Sora, and he intended to keep
it.

He watched her for another minute, ensuring
that the windows were locked and that no one could enter from the
outside. He wondered how she felt, surrounded by such decadence
after so much rough time on the road. She didn’t seem as
comfortable as he had expected. She never spoke fondly of her life
as a noble—certainly never wanted to return to it.

He finally turned around and leapt from the
window ledge, sliding easily down the side of the tiered roof. He
caught hold of an ivy-covered trellis and climbed down the rest of
the way to the ground and started his solitary way to the city.

Burn. He didn’t want to frighten Sora,
didn’t want to tell her their companion would be dead soon if he
didn’t act. His kind were not merciful. If he told her the danger,
she would want to accompany him, and he couldn’t allow that.
Cerastes wanted her Cat's-Eye necklace, and he had to keep her away
from the Shade.

You’re a fool, he thought. She would never
forgive him for this. But sacrifices must be made.

Once in the city, he flagged a coach to take
him to the docks. Along the way, his thoughts dwelled on Caprion’s
interrogation of the female assassin. The Shade wanted the weapons
of the Dark God, and although Crash loathed the thought of helping
their enemy, he couldn’t justify leaving Burn to die. Sentiment.
Such thoughts went against his brutal training.

Logically, he knew Cerastes would use the
sacred weapons for his own dark purposes. So by bringing him the
weapons, Crash played directly into his hands.