Sora's Quest (8 page)

"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 Wulven 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. Wulven magic was perhaps the most powerful of the races, and the hardest to learn. There were many different means to reach the same end.

For any spell he needed a sacrifice, an offering to the Sea Goddess. It could be as simple and basic as putting out a bowl of saltwater and fish scales. But usually, curses and enchantments demanded something more. It could take days to find the right animal, or in rare cases, a human. Volcrian grimaced at that. Hardly ever did he need a human.

He and Etienne had learned from their father. Their mother died in childbirth, as was common to the Wulven race. After his father's death from illness, Volcrian moved to the City of Crowns with Etienne. They opened an apothecary, the most obvious business for a pair of young Wulven sorcerers. On the outside, they proved to be an honest herb shop, dealing cold remedies and aphrodisiacs to the common public. And yet, for wealthier patrons, they would do more than just sell tea. Working magic, taking that risk, cost precious money. Nobility had money.

Volcrian shook himself, trying to brush off the chill that had settled over him. He had to admit that after using so much magic, he felt...
different
. Cold. It was the mantle of a Wulven bloodmage,
the badge of snow,
his father had called it. A certain indifference to life. A removal. Killing animals for sacrifices no longer bothered him. Once, a human sacrifice had seemed unthinkable, dirty, taboo. But even that had changed.

After practicing his craft so long, he was beginning to understand the true power of a Wulven mage. There was more than enough life inhabiting the world, and it was all a source of magic, ready to mold to his will. Humans were especially disposable.
Selfish, festering creatures.
They bred like rabbits, dirtying the water, raping the fields. The weakest of the races was now spreading across the earth. Volcrian grimaced at the thought. The Wulvens should be in power now. The magic-wielders. Not the flat-footed humans, useless as pigs.

His mind turned toward the journal and which spell he would use to waylay the assassin. Something fast and simple that wouldn't take too much of a toll. Time was of the essence; he didn't have days to spend in recovery. Just a simple animal spell, enough to track down the killer and slow his pace.

He thumbed through the pages of the book, glancing over titles, recipes, causes-and-effects. A plan slowly began to form in his mind, and as it did, another twisted smile came to his lips. This time he was sure to succeed, and then?....And then Etienne would truly sleep.

Sora awoke with the toe of a boot jabbing her in the back.