Sora's Quest (5 page)

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.

Chapter 3

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.

A small crowd of serfs had already formed on the back steps; many had brought copies of their land contracts and a few even had swords. Lily didn't know where to start with them.
My Lady!
she admonished in her mind.
Where could you have gone?
She felt as though her younger sister had disappeared. She had known Lady Sora almost since birth, and knew her better than anyone. Her mistress rarely had both feet on the ground. Had she fled the manor? Taken a fright? Or perhaps, more likely, run away from the humiliation? Lily chewed her lip, determinedly examining the situation. There were no horses missing from the stables, and no one had seen her outside....

But her dress was found last night, torn to pieces, shoved in a hallway closet. The servants were now in the process of turning the manor upside down, looking for more evidence—any evidence, really—of what had happened.

“I will see to it that she is found,” Lord Gracen murmured. His tone was unexpectedly dark, not the least bit reassuring. Lily looked up to realize that the Lord was gazing at her with a cold expression.

“My Lord...?” she asked slowly.

“I will leave my footman with you, in case she returns to the manor,” Lord Gracen continued. “You must alert me immediately if she makes an appearance.”

He turned and strode across the foyer, his black cane tap-tapping. Lily hurried to keep up. It was considered rude to walk next to the First Tier, yet one didn't dare fall too far behind. Lord Gracen strode confidently across the white tile, through the wide open doors and into the shattered ballroom. He stepped around scurrying servants and piles of broken glass.

Lily recalled that he had been present at the dance last night. He had witnessed the catastrophe firsthand. He had even held a handkerchief to Lord Fallcrest's neck, until the man had finally stuttered and died.

She frowned, watching his broad shoulders encased in sleek velvet. It suddenly seemed strange. Why would someone as prestigious as the King's personal Captain attend the birthday? There were hundreds of
country nobles, all similar to Lady Fallcrest in rank and station. Their manor was several weeks' journey from the City of Crowns. Had he truly come to offer suit?

“It is absolutely essential that you report to me, should she appear,” he repeated, stepping around a particularly large pile of glass. “As of this instant, she is under warrant of arrest by royal decree.”

“M-my Lord?” Lily stopped dead in her tracks.

Lord Gracen looked at her levelly, his eyes still hard, as dark as his military badges. “The guilty often flee the scene of the crime, my dear girl,” he murmured. “Lord Fallcrest did not die innocently last night. What we have on our hands is a thinly guised murder. In the case of nobility, that usually points to a guilty relative.”

“B-but, the glass!” Lily replied. “The skylight! The shard went straight through his neck! You can't imply, m-my Lord!”

Lord Gracen passed his hand through the air, dismissing her lapse in etiquette, her frantic tone of voice. “I inspected the wound thoroughly. The angle and force of the projectile do not make sense. The shard did not fall from above, but from the side.” Lord Gracen glanced upward to the broken skylight, then to the chips of glass that littered the ballroom carpet.

Another breath squeezed out of her. Lily followed his eyes, pale and shaken. She knew that Lady Sora had been distant from her father...even resented him, perhaps. But her Lady was not a murderer!

Lord Gracen turned and retraced his steps, heading back toward the ballroom entrance. Lily followed on his heels, bobbing her head. “My Lord, with all due respect...Lady Fallcrest is not a murderer...she wouldn't know how!”

“She must be questioned.” Lord Gracen turned one last time and slammed his cane down. The sound reverberated off the ballroom floor and echoed around the walls. Several servants stopped in their tracks, staring with wide eyes. “And if you, or any other members of this House, hide the Lady on purpose...you will be hanged for obstructing the King's justice. Have I made myself clear?”

Lily nodded shakily, her mouth as dry as parchment.

“Good.” Lord Gracen turned on his heel and continued out of the ballroom to where his manservant awaited, stiff in his blue uniform and top hat. “I will be continuing to the town of Mayville, where I will alert the local guard and put them on the hunt. We will find her and discover exactly what happened last night. In the meantime, I will contact Lord Fallcrest's brother in the City. Your estate will be handled according to law.”

Lord Gracen gave her a polite nod, unnecessary of the First Tier, and excused himself. His footman fell into step behind him, utterly ignoring Lily's presence. The servants of the First Tier acted superior to those of the Second, though it was all hierarchical nonsense. Lily wrinkled her nose at the manservant's back, wishing she could push him down the front steps.
Snooty servants for snooty nobles,
she thought angrily. No wonder Lady Sora didn't want to marry.

Lily turned away from the front door before another
noble could flag her down. She had been on her feet since before dawn, sending off guests, loading chests of luggage and unopened birthday gifts aboard carriages. Shiny, expensive coaches were lined up almost a mile down the front drive, a river of polished wood and bright paint. An endless stream of horses were walking to and from the stables. Lord Gracen's accusations made her feel even more exhausted.

A murder!
She sighed, her thoughts returning to last night. When the skylight caved in, the manor had been thrown into chaos. No one knew what was happening. At first, they blamed it on the condition of the ballroom...the skylight had stood for generations, hardly maintained, rained on and rusted.

Then, people said it was bad luck. Lady Sora's botched performance brought on the calamity, and the Goddess had a wry sense of humor.

When Lord Fallcrest died, with no way to stanch the bleeding, everyone sank into stunned silence.

But who?
Lily ran the events over again in her mind. Who could orchestrate such a thing? And why? Lord Fallcrest had been gone for two years; letters had been consistent but vague, usually addressing estate matters. No one knew whom he had consorted with....

And what to do with the body? Lily felt quite over her head. Housekeeper Grem would have to contact Sora's uncle, the only remaining relative who could navigate the estate. The burial would be a stressful affair. They would need to hire a local Priestess to perform the necessary embalming and death rites. There would be no public ceremony, no eulogy, no tears.

In the meantime, the body of Lord Fallcrest lay stiff and silent behind closed oak doors, his glassy eyes wide open. The thin gash across his throat was hidden by an expensive scarf. Three small brass bells hung above the closed doors to his study, blessings for the spirit.

Lily was lost in thought when the smart tap of boots approached her. She recognized the steps before she raised her eyes. She sighed. Housekeeper Grem walked towards her, her face as rigid as a dead buzzard. The woman was tall, crane-like and suffocatingly proper.

She looked up into the matron's eyes.

“There is someone else asking questions,” Grem snapped. “He requested to speak to you.” She pointed an accusing finger at the ballroom. “Be quick about it. They need more help in the stables.”

Lily curtsied politely. Housekeeper Grem gave her a discouraging look as though insulted, then stalked away. Lily rolled her eyes at the old woman's back. Perhaps losing her job wasn't such a bad thing.

Then her gaze traveled curiously to the ballroom doors. She hadn't seen anyone unusual enter...and yet, the manor was full of guests. Perhaps she had missed this new visitor.

Sick with anxiety, she turned and headed back to the ballroom, where Lord Gracen had paced just moments before. Was it a reporter from the local newspaper? A curious Lord from a neighboring estate? Certainly not anyone offering to help. She couldn't believe how quickly word had spread of the disaster. It would be the gossip of the county within another day.

She spotted the man immediately. The first thing she saw was his long silvery hair. Yet he didn't seem old. He stood several dozen yards away from the ballroom doors, inspecting an area of smudged white tiles where Lord Fallcrest's body had fallen the previous night. The servants had tried to clean up the blood, but there was so much, some had sunk into the cracks between the tiles, almost impossible to scrape out.

She approached him quickly, trying to hold herself a bit straighter. Thanks to Lord Gracen's attention, she had garnered some sort of authority. Since, as Lady Sora's handmaid, she had the most contact with the noble family, the lower servants regarded her with mild awe—second only to Housekeeper Grem.

"Excuse me," she said formally, and made another quick bow. The man didn't turn around immediately, but when he did, Lily felt like she had swallowed a walnut.

He was unlike any man she had ever seen before. He held himself with a regal air, yet she knew he wasn't royalty. He might have been a Lord of noble birth, a rich peasant, or something in- between. His clothes were certainly well-made, but stained by the road. He wore no gold, gemstones or medals.

Perhaps another woman might have found his exotic appearance attractive, but Lily found him chilling. His skin was noticeably pale, his hair woven strands of silver, and his eyes a piercingly cold blue. That wasn't what startled her, however. Lily found herself staring at the man's sloping ears, which drew back into pointed tips.

He smiled at her, as though enjoying her surprise, and then Lily got a second shock—fangs!
Fangs?
Truly, there was no other explanation. His canines were long, sharp and wicked.