Sora's Quest (6 page)

The man—if it was a man—stepped forward and nodded to her. She could see a nervous tic begin around his mouth. He kept himself turned slightly away from her, one hand hidden beneath his cloak, but she caught a glimpse of what lay inside: warped fingers, bent inward like claws.

A cripple.
Bad luck.
It almost made her pull away, suddenly sick to her stomach. There were some who cared for cripples, who embraced them as victims to be pitied—yet she was country-raised. She believed in curses. In signs from the Goddess and the old ways.

Another eerie chill settled over her shoulders, like a frosty cloak. The hair on the back of her neck stiffened.

"M-may I help you?" she asked, steeling her nerve.

He responded in an equally soft voice. "I heard there was a murder last night. This will sound strange, but I would like to see the body."

Lily nodded, feeling more and more uneasy. “I'm not sure I understand. Who are you?”

"Someone you can trust. Not a Lord, not the King's men," the man replied. His voice was unsettling. "I am hunting a very dangerous man, an assassin, and his trail has led me to this place. I thought it was no coincidence when I heard of the accident.”

“Oh.” Lily's mind raced. Lord Gracen's suspicions came suddenly to mind. Here, a complete stranger as good as confirmed the Lord's theory. He could clear Sora's name! She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. But Lord Gracen had already left...and this man was...strange. She didn't trust him yet.

“Why do you want to see the body?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

The silver-haired man bowed his head, acquiescing. Lily watched him closely, but besides his eerie appearance, he didn't seem threatening. “I can recognize the assassin's work very easily. I have been trailing him for several years now. I have simply to see the wounds, and I'll know.”

Lily thought on this. It didn't seem out of place, considering the last twenty-four hours. Since last night, her life had been one gut-wrenching surprise after another. In fact, this was perhaps a most normal thing to happen.

Anything to help Sora.
“All right,” she finally said. “This way. But we must respect the body.”

She led him through the ballroom, stepping carefully around piles of glass shards, then entered the foyer and started up the first staircase. They had placed the body in her Lord's study, simply because it was close to the ballroom and fairly out of the way. Her upbringing had demanded that she hang ceremonial bells above the doorway to ensure that the body was blessed. Her Lord had been a strict man, not warm or loving; yet he, too, deserved to be carried on the Winds of the Goddess.

When they reached the doorway, the man hesitated for a minute. She noticed his hands quiver as he crossed the threshold.

This was a chamber she had cleaned and dusted many times. It was richly decorated with indoor plants in the corners, bookshelves along the walls, and a magnificent fireplace on one side, with a long couch in front. At this moment, the couch was occupied by a body shrouded in white linen. A hint of blood showed through the cloth. Lily frowned at this. They had done their best to dress the wound, but even after death, blood had seeped stubbornly down her Lord's neck.

Lily brought the strange man next to the body and carefully pulled back the sheet. She averted her gaze from the blue-tinted skin, the slightly bloated eyes, the flat jowls. “Here he is. We did nothing to the body but move it.”

The man stiffened at the sight of the blood. She could only assume that put him off, though somehow she was not reassured. “I see,” the man murmured, his voice thick. “And was there a blade?”

“Only a shard of glass. We thought it fell from the roof, but....”

“Yes?”

Lily swallowed. She could clearly hear Lord Gracen's voice in her head, and repeated his words almost by rote. “The force and angle of the projectile was different. It...it came from the side. As though someone had thrown it.”

The man was standing icily still. The corner of his mouth lifted. His arctic-blue gaze remained trained on the body.

“Were there any witnesses?” he asked.

Lily let out a slow breath. “No,” she paused, then bit her tongue. Should she tell him about Sora? Of course, and yet, she was still disturbed. His skin was too pale; his teeth were too long.

He was waiting. She could tell he could read her like a book; he knew she had more to say. Finally, she relented. “His daughter, Lady Sora, is missing.” She licked her lips nervously. Something almost made sense about that, now that she said it aloud. No witnesses, and the Lady missing. Had Sora seen something...?

“And no idea where she might have gone?” The man's eyes sharpened.

“N-no,” Lily bit her tongue again. The energy around him was decidedly cold. “But Lord Gracen, of the King's Private Guard, you know....He suspects that she arranged the murder.”

The man nodded slowly. When his eyes met hers, there was a strange pity in them, as though he was gazing at a wounded animal. “And she might have,” he spoke carefully, watching her reaction. “Assassins rarely kill on their own whim. This man had need of money...and your Lady had motive to kill, I take it?”

Lily felt her hopes plummet. This man wouldn't understand. Her mistress spent her time in the open fields, whittling wooden flutes and studying birds. She didn't have a vicious bone in her body.

But something had happened last night. Her gut twisted sickeningly again. Sora had witnessed something. Bumped into the killer, perhaps?

“Do you know what this assassin looks like, sir?” she asked. “Perhaps I could ask the servants if anyone else saw him....”

“Athletic build,” the man replied idly, almost disinterestedly. “A little over six feet, perhaps. Young, barely in his prime.” He stepped away from the couch, slowly touring the room, obviously finished with the body. Lily let the white sheet drop over the corpse, then watched the man closely.

He gazed at the Lord's bookshelves. Then he picked up a large crystal sphere, a decorative paperweight, from Lord Fallcrest's desk. He slowly turned it in his hand, watching the light play off the surface. “Black hair, green eyes,” he continued thoughtfully. “And I expect—yes, I expect he'd be dressed in black." The man grinned, strange for such a conversation. "He has an immeasurable capacity for violence. To state it quite plainly, my dear, he is a very highly trained murderer. Some might even say his thirst for blood is...
inhuman.
" Then he grinned wider, and his fangs flashed in the light.

Lily tried not to flinch. "Uhm," she said slowly, her mouth dry. "I will certainly ask around. Would you like to speak to Lord Gracen? He would be very interested in this. You might catch up with him in Mayville....”

“No,” the traveler said shortly. “My investigation is private. It is of a personal nature, you see. And the killer is a cunning man. The less he hears of me, the better.”

A personal nature? Lily wasn't sure what to say to that. She wanted to ask, but then didn't. She doubted this man was as good-intentioned as he seemed.

Finally, the man set the crystal back on the desk. “I have imposed on you long enough. Thank you for your help, miss, and...” his face pulled into a frown, “I am sorry. This is a tragedy. Lord Fallcrest was well respected by his serfs, by what I have heard.”

Lily nodded slowly. "Yes. A tragedy.” She wondered which serfs he had spoken to. Her Lord had been a businessman, concerned with trade and money, his sights set on the First Tier. He had governed with a strict, if consistent, hand, dealing harsh punishments in all disputes. But who knew? In the lawless countryside, perhaps that was necessary. The serfs did not love him...but they did respect him.

The traveler stood for a moment, eerily still like a frozen lake. Then he turned toward the door. “Your assistance has been invaluable. Never fear, child. The killer will be put down. Lord Fallcrest will have justice.”

Lily nodded again, still sick to her stomach. Justice? And who was this man? She had never seen him before, and she doubted he knew much of her Lord beyond a serf's conversation. She watched as he stepped swiftly toward the hallway, his blue cloak swirling around him, his crippled hand clutched against his body.

On impulse, she called out, almost choking on the words, "If you find the killer, could you see that Lady Sora is safe?” She doubted this man would do that. But she could easily imagine Sora's dead body lying in a ditch somewhere, cold and stiff after a night in the forest, perhaps gnawed by animals. It was not so uncommon. “I feel there might have been an accident....”

“Murder is never an accident,” the man said harshly.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the door slammed in her face.

* * *

A thin smile spread across Volcrian's lips as he walked out of the manor. He passed scurrying servants and pockets of guests on his way to the spindly tree where he had tethered his horse. The rush of excitement kept his thoughts optimistic and clear. Viper had been here. He could smell the assassin on the Lord's body, on the blood spilled in the ballroom. Death always left a memory of the killer, after all.

And Viper is certainly a killer capable of this.
An entire ballroom of guests convinced it was an accident? Surely the work of a master. And yet, not quite the perfect crime. A Lady was missing.

As Volcrian mounted his horse and turned toward the forest, he continued to ponder the strange situation. The girl had disappeared, but no body had been found. Had she gone with the assassin? The facts didn't add up. A creature like Viper was incapable of sparing life. He had no concept of innocence, of mercy. Lady Sora was most likely dead, her body stashed in a closet somewhere, to be discovered when the corpse began to rot.

He didn't feel sorry for the girl. Those who dealt with Viper could expect nothing less. If she had devised to murder her father—which was a common thing amongst the higher Tiers—then she deserved her own fate.

He had spoken to quite a few of the serfs mingling outside, and was all but convinced this was the case. There had been no love between father and daughter in the Fallcrest household. She was of questionable birth and had a decidedly stubborn demeanor. He could easily see the girl hiring an assassin as a last-ditch attempt to escape her nuptials. With a dead father and no husband, she would inherit the entire estate.

Volcrian clenched his fist suddenly—pain cramped his distorted muscles. His crippled hand convulsed, twitching in spasm. Just thinking of the girl's wickedness made his head throb. Killing her own father? With any luck, the assassin would use her and toss her to the roadside, a wasted shell of a woman. Better yet, the mage might stumble across her corpse within the next few days, perhaps while the blood was still fresh. Good enough to be used for his sorcery.

Volcrian shook his head slowly, leading his horse down the long gravel driveway toward the acres of fields and forest outside the gates. His own brother had been dead for two years now. Two years, and never a night's peace. Always nightmares and memories, shadows plaguing his dreams. He knew Etienne's spirit wouldn't rest until the assassin was dead. He knew, because in his dreams, that is what Etienne told him.
Avenge me,
his voice whispered.
Finish this, and I will sleep.

At times, his brother told him other things, too...dark thoughts that played in his head, seethed within him, resurrected from beyond the grave. He had to push them away. He knew that his brother suffered, that his spirit writhed in the underworld. It followed him into the waking hours, drifting just beyond sight, the memory of those black dreams.

He finally passed through the wide iron gates and exited the Fallcrest manor. His nostrils flared, searching for a hint of a path. Now that he was certain of the assassin's presence, he knew what to look for. And he found it. The trail of a horse leaving the road, entering the tall grass. It was almost too easy.

Volcrian's smile stretched wide, his fangs gleaming in the light. Yes, Viper was in his grasp, only a day's ride away. Soon there would be justice. But Volcrian had been this close before; if he wasted too much time, the killer would slip through his fingers again. He needed to stall the travelers until he could catch up with them.

He wanted to feel Viper's blood running over his crippled hand. He needed to taste it dripping from his fangs....

He led his horse through a thicket of trees into a shallow meadow of bright green grass, nestled away from the main road. There was no movement but the gentle swish of wind. A lock of silver hair fell across his fine-boned face. He swept it aside absently, his eyes searching the underbrush.
I will need a spell to follow them...to keep them busy for a while....
To delay them while he caught up.

He dismounted from the horse and reached into his saddlebags, withdrawing an old journal. It had been his great-grandfather's, passed down by the men in his family, and once was Etienne's. A book of spells, of blood-magic. He knew each page, each flow of handwriting. Once upon a time, all Wolfy families had carried such spellbooks, handed down from parent to child, generation after generation, unique to each bloodline. The most practiced families had the most powerful spells.

That was hundreds of years ago, however. His own family's heritage had been destroyed long ago. This journal was a meager example of what could have been; the spells of only three generations were not very impressive. And it was always a challenge to pick the right recipe. Wolfy magic was perhaps the most powerful of the races, and the hardest to learn. There were many different means to reach the same end.