Sora's Quest

Sora's Quest

(The Cat's Eye Chronicles, Book 1)

by

T. L. Shreffler

Copyrigh
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©
2012. Redistribution is prohibited.

Published by The Runaway Pen.

Edited by LindaJay Geldens

http://www.catseyechronicles.com

The Cat's Eye Chronicles

Sora's Quest
(Book #1)

Viper's Creed
(Book #2)

Volcrian's Hunt
(Book #3)

Prologue

There was blood on his hands. Blood and flowers and the sickly smell of spilled perfume.

Volcrian grasped the body, crumpled in front of the apothecary, cold and limp in the doorway. Petals were strewn around the cobblestones, glints of yellow, blue and white. It had been a horrible mistake. He had warned his brother—but his brother had not listened.

He had hoped to meet him here on these steps, to convince him to leave the city, but he was too late. Etienne's enemies had arrived first. His brother had been too friendly, spreading word of their practice to the wrong people. There were dangers in using magic, risks that one should not take, especially in a world where magic was thought dead.

“
We're the only ones who can use it, Volcrian,”
his brother said, his eyes gleaming with a passionate light.
“Don't worry! Humans are weak. It will be like the olden days, before the War, when Wolfies were powerful.”

But magic was dying for a reason....

Two days ago, a member of the nobility had bought a potion from them. A tonic to make a woman fall in love. But young Etienne botched the tonic; he had forgotten a key ingredient, and it hadn't worked as planned.

He read of the woman's death in the papers: a well-respected
noble Lady, suddenly taken with a mysterious illness. The paper insinuated she had been poisoned. With a gut-sinking dread, he immediately realized the truth.

And, knowing the
nobility, he knew there would be repercussions. He raced back to the apothecary...but not fast enough.

Volcrian's nostrils flared as he touched his brother's face, and then he saw the sticky red pool of blood on the ground. His brother's blood crowned the tips of his fingers like expensive paint.

Something trembled within him, crawling from the tips of his fingers to the back of his throat. He could feel his brother's blood like a rush of heat, an itch, a knowledge carried as deep as his bones. On the outside he was silent, calm, still...but inside, magic surged through him, thick like black water. He was drowning in it.

Who did this?

Suddenly Volcrian didn't see the apothecary, or the cobblestone street; his eyes clouded over, turning from ice-blue to chilly silver. A vision came to him of his brother's final seconds. He saw the bushes across from their shop, the long stretch of paved road, a clutch of stars high overhead, twinkling in the solemn night, and then—a shadow. A knife. A face. The last image that had flashed before Etienne's eyes: his killer.

Volcrian memorized what he saw: a man dressed entirely in black, a veil hiding the lower half of his face. A knife: long, wicked, curved to a vicious point. The man fleeing down the road.

Then the vision slowly faded, leaving him dizzy, momentarily disoriented. He blinked, his eyes dry from staring, his nose filled with the fresh scent of his brother's blood. He glanced down at the body again and watched the slowly widening pool of blood on the ground. His brother had only been dead for minutes. It should take no longer to catch up with the killer.

Volcrian leapt to his feet. There was no time for funeral rites; he would take care of that after he took his revenge.

He took off running in the same direction the assassin had fled, racing down the cobblestone side streets. Volcrian's body hummed with energy, with the ancient power of his race. This magic was his birthright, his heritage—his blood—more natural than learned. His eyes were lined with silver, and he could see the assassin's trail like a bright light against the ground. It led straight and true, no alleys, no jumped fences. Perhaps the killer did not know he was being followed.

Mist rose with each breath he took. Volcrian passed scores of sleeping houses. The only light was from the moon overhead.
Faster. Faster.
There was a beast inside of him roaring to be released, tearing up the ground in fury. If the assassin got away, it would be the worst disgrace, a complete dishonor, a final insult to his Wolfy kind.

Suddenly the city gates rose before him, giants in the night. Two guards stood silently outside the gates. Yet the blood-magic resonating in his veins said that the killer had passed this way. His eyes flicked to the left, where a dark alley cut between the houses. He saw a large stack of crates leaning against the wall.

Volcrian ran into the alley and up the pile of crates, then leapt over the wall, landing smoothly on the ground. He stumbled slightly, unprepared for such a long drop. Then he paused in the darkness. No human would have been able to hear, but he had Wolfy ears: keen and pointed. He noted a disturbance in the forest, felt the path that the assassin had taken, and followed.

The woods were dark and tangled, heavy with the scent of spring. Pine needles brushed his face. He pushed his way through the trees. No sooner had he entered the forest than a figure leapt out before him, as silent as a ghost. A glint in the darkness indicated a knife—probably the same poisoned blade that had killed his brother. Volcrian was no warrior, but he had the advantage of magic and rage. All of his senses were heightened.

With incredible swiftness, he knocked the knife away from the assassin's skilled grasp and pulled his own knife from beneath his cloak, then lashed out wildly. The Goddess was on his side, and his blade sunk deep into flesh, striking the man just above his hip. Bearing his fangs, Volcrian dragged the knife up the man's body all the way to his neck, gutting him from navel to jaw. He smiled grimly.

A true human would have collapsed within seconds, but not this assassin. Instead, impossibly, he grabbed Volcrian's hand and twisted it back. Volcrian heard his bones crunch, saw his fingers twist into unnatural shapes. Excruciating pain shot through him as his strength crumbled. He screamed and fell.

The man yanked the knife out of his own flesh and threw it into the darkness. Then he turned and fled, darting into the shadows, swift as a phantom. Volcrian hit the ground hard, stunned and breathless, his mangled hand cradled to his chest. He stared after the man who had killed his brother.

The assassin left a trail of blood behind, marking a clear path through the trees. Its scent was overpowering, clogging Volcrian's nostrils, imprinting his mind. He tried to climb to his feet and stagger forward, but he was in too much pain; he could barely focus his eyes. Wearily, he sank back onto the dirt. In that moment he hated his body, his weakness, his powerlessness to control his own limbs. Guilt clawed at him, mixed with the cold knowledge of failure.

It would be impossible to follow the assassin now. He had to find a Healer, someone to bind his hand. He wanted to slam it on the ground in frustration, or else cut off his arm with the missing knife.

He would have to return to Etienne's body, bury his brother while the killer still lived. And afterward...he would slit the
noble's throat, at least partial justice. The guilty must be put to rest.

He was alone now, friendless, a stranger in the world. Etienne was his only family, his sole companion, one of the few remaining from the Wolfy race. How long had they struggled? How long had they fought to stay alive, to survive in human cities, to protect their lineage and magic?

I failed him.
The thought crushed him like an avalanche, pressing him down into a pathetic, bestial position. He wished for his own death; perhaps it was only seconds away, lying in wait, eager to pounce. “Finish me,” he grunted, eyes darting about the bushes, desperate. “You coward! Kill me and be done with it!”

But the woods did not answer.

Something dark writhed in his gut, something wrathful and ravenous. He bared his teeth. The mage raised his head and howled to the trees, to the moon, to the cold silence of the night.
I failed him.
Etienne was dead, never to grow old, never to find peace.
I failed him.
All of their plans—gone, blown away.
Nothing left....
The overwhelming thought kept spinning around him, flashing. The vision of Etienne's face, curved into a smile. His smooth, clear voice.

“Nothing left,” Volcrian murmured. He felt himself slipping from reality. Spinning, falling....“Nothing left...Etienne....”

No, nothing but revenge. His brother deserved as much. Blood demanded blood. The noble would die first...and then he would follow the assassin's trail, crystal-clear through the trees.

A rictus of pain split his face, the gaping mouth of a predator.

Oh, no, Etienne. I will not fail you again.

Chapter 1

Sora looked in the mirror, staring at the swirls of face paint and the long, layered, elaborate dress. It was burnt pink, a shade too close to her skin tone, with sparkles and sequins. Several crystals were expertly sewn into the neckline.

“It's hideous,” she finally said, tugging at the long, ruffled skirt.

“No!” cried her handmaid, Lily, bursting from her side. “No, not at all! It's...decorative. You're beautiful.”

“I look like a smoked salmon.”

“My Lady....”

“Honestly, Lily?” Sora turned to look at her maid, one sleek blond eyebrow raised. Her expression bordered on comical, exaggerated by her gold-flaked eyebrow paint, which arched dramatically across her forehead. She hadn't been able to touch her face all day. The artisans had come that morning to paint her skin in rich, deep tones, all in preparation for the Blooming. The makeup had taken hours to apply. “I don't want to go through with this,” she said. “I've never had a birthday party before. Why start now?”

Lily opened her mouth, but no words came.

Sora turned to face her maid fully, her solid blue eyes lit with a sudden idea. “Let's cut out, Lily!”

“What?”

“Leave the ball! Forget the Blooming! Let's just go!” Her eyes returned to the mirror, to the thin gold clay that caked her face, the silvery powder overlaying her cheeks. “I've never gone to town before,” she murmured. “It's my birthday, isn't it? Let's go exploring.”

Lily, a frail young woman with bobbed black hair, seemed rigid at first, like a ruffled swan. Then her shoulders slowly melted. Her face softened. Her long, pale neck lost its tension. She took her mistress gently by the arm, turning her toward the antique vanity, perhaps the least decorative article in the room. It was broad, standing on four solid oak legs, the bases carved to appear like lion's feet.

Sora's bedroom was large enough to house several families. The rich, heavy rug that covered the floor was a deep rouge color, far more vibrant and beautiful than her salmon-pink dress. It was thicker than grass and softer than wool. Her massive bed took up an entire corner of the room, enclosed by red drapes, decorated in smooth silks, thick furs and a dozen pillows, all of the softest goose down. The furniture, ornately carved of dark cherrywood, had been passed down for generations. Frivolous silks clung to every surface. Intricately detailed tapestries covered the walls, portraying outdoor tea parties, great hunts, dashing hounds and a giant, rearing stallion.

“It's not just a birthday party, you know,” her handmaid said, assisting Sora into her chair. Lily was five years older than Sora and knew her mistress's moods as surely as the weather. She undid Sora's hair, a cascade of deep golden waves, and combed it out with a boar-bristle brush. “Your father has been preparing for this all year. He's invited half the royal court and almost the entire Second Tier.”

“Second Tier, that's fine. I am one, after all,” Sora murmured, rolling her eyes. “Country
nobility I don't mind. It's the city nobles that I can't stand. Snooty gossips, the lot of them. I hope they don't show.”

“Oh, hush. Your father invited a few. Marrying into city nobility would be quite a dream come true...”

Sora turned in her chair, staring up at her maid—who also happened to be her closest friend. “Truly?” she exclaimed. “Have you forgotten every other conversation we've ever had?”

Lily shrugged in exasperation. “I still don't understand it! Any normal person would jump at the chance to marry
city nobility. You would never have to lift a finger again, not even to eat your own breakfast! Huh, what I would do with that kind of coin....” Her eyes glazed over, as they always did when Lily thought about money.

Sora sighed and turned back to the mirror. She understood as much. As
country nobility, or the “Second Tier,” she lived with comfortable wealth. Just not
considerable
wealth. Noble blood didn't guarantee fistfuls of money, after all. Her family's nobility had been won through military service. The Fallcrests had spawned several generations of Captains and Generals. But now the times of war and battle were long past. Peace had flourished in the Kingdom of Err for five hundred years. It had been a long, long time since a Fallcrest had done anything of note.

Her father would be ecstatic if she landed a city noble. Rumor had it that Sora was beautiful enough to slip into the highest ranks, the First Tier, second only to the King himself.

But she wasn't like other country nobility, who daydreamed of the Royal City of Crowns, of riverboats, masquerades and, of course, the yearly Carnival. An entire four weeks of mystifying feats, fine wines and legendary debauchery. No, Sora's experience of city nobility was much the opposite, and it had left a bad taste in her mouth.

The memories brought on a momentary pang of embarrassment, and she bit her lip, her brow furrowed in thought.

“This birthday has nothing to do with me,” she finally grumbled.

“Well, of course not!” Lily replied, rolling her eyes.

“Then you'll admit that this is all about my father! And...and marriage.”

“You're seventeen, 'tis tradition!” Lily nodded, and glanced up, catching her mistress's eyes in the mirror. Then she recited in a singsong voice, “On a
noble Lady's seventeenth birthday, she must show the kingdom what she is worth! All families with eligible bachelors are invited. They dance with the Lady and make their suits.”

“Make their suits....” Sora muttered, cutting off Lily's tirade. “It's like they're buying me. That's what the kitchen staff say.”

“Yes, well, that's the kitchen staff for you. Be thankful you're not one of them. Have you ever thought they might be jealous?” Lily gave a firm nod and began braiding Sora's hair in a series of small, neat rows. Her fingers moved deftly through the blond locks. “But you're country nobility, and this is how it has always been. You have an estate to worry about. And marriage is not such a bad thing.” Her maid tapped Sora's shoulder knowingly. “Your Lord father wants to ensure the future of his House.”

“Ugh!
Enough!
” Sora threw up her hands and jumped out of the chair, yanking her hair from Lily's grasp. It was so long and thick, she hardly felt the pull. “
His
House,” she mocked. “His lineage, his marriage, his grandbabies, his future—all
him!
When was the last time my father even spoke to me, Lily?”

There was an awkward pause. Her maid glanced away.

“Am I ever going to get the chance to leave this place?” Sora continued. It was an old song, one she had sung before. “Hells, I am seventeen years old and I've never ridden off my father's lands!”

Her maid looked flustered. She fiddled with the ivory comb, running her hands along its length. “Your father doesn't want you befriending the wrong kind of people....”

“I don't care what he wants! A few common friends are better than complete solitude.”

“Solitude? Excuse me? Aren't you forgetting someone?” Lily replied with a wry smile. She smacked Sora playfully on the arm with the flat of the comb.

Sora's mouth opened slightly. She flushed in embarrassment. “I...I'm sorry, Lily.”

“It's all right. You just need to calm down,” Lily said, and waved her hand in the air dismissively. “You'll dance with handsome suitors. The Ladies will all be jealous. Everyone will have a great time. You're just nervous.”

“I hate being the center of attention....” Sora muttered.

“I know,” Lily assured her. She went to place a hand on her mistress's shoulder, then paused, her palm hovering over the body paint. “Here, I'll do you a favor. I'm going to nip down to the kitchen for a calming tonic. That will take the edge off.” Lily finally found a place for her sympathetic hand, resting it gently on Sora's upper arm, then running it down the smooth silk dress. “I'll be back in a minute, all right? Don't go anywhere.”

Sora gave her a pained look in the mirror, and Lily smiled in return. Then, with a click of her black boots, she turned and walked quickly to the door, her deep blue skirts swaying with each stride. A second later, she was gone.

Sora let out a long, slow breath. Her eyes turned to the distant window, watching the sun set in a blood-red glory, a sacrifice to the coming night. Far down in the courtyard, a dozen stable boys ran back and forth along the front drive, trying to keep up with the constant arrival of carriages and guests.

She twisted her hands around her boar-bristle brush. Lily had a point. She
was
nervous—about her dress, her body paint, the Blooming she would have to perform. And, of course, the hundreds of eyes that would be staring at her. All for what? A hand in marriage?
When do I get to live my life?

Up to this moment she had put off thinking about the birthday, the suitors, the whole damn thing. She had focused instead on all of her usual activities: flute lessons, schooling, riding her horse through the vast acres of her father’s estate, fishing in the peaceful streams, painting, weaving crowns of wildflowers, romping in the meadow, on and on and on until finally, the day had arrived. It seemed too soon. She felt bushwhacked, betrayed somehow.

I can't do this anymore. I don't belong here,
she thought, gazing out the window across the open meadow behind her father’s house. The city nobles laughed at her—the country nobles avoided her. And now her father wanted to get rid of her.

I hate him,
she thought, reflecting on her father's two-year stay in the City of Crowns. He sent cold, disinterested letters, addressed to Lily, about her studies. She had felt this several times, but now she could finally confirm it:
I really just hate him.
It didn't matter who attended the party or how much body paint she wore. The First Tier would never want her. Not with a damaged pedigree.

On a sudden inspiration, Sora rushed across her room to her nightstand, where an ornate musicbox sat, a remnant from her childhood nursery. She glanced at the door, poised, listening for the maids. They couldn't know about her secret.

Turning the musicbox upside down, Sora thumped the heel of her palm against its base. An object rattled inside the box. She slipped her lithe fingers through a crack at the bottom and dragged the necklace out from its hiding place, holding it up to the light.

A single stone hung from a long silver chain, shaped like a perfectly round marble, sparkling in the sunlight like an expensive gem. She had never been able to identify the stone, though she had looked through countless books. Green-tinted, a yellow swirl shifted and swam inside it, as though alive.

It was her mother's necklace, or so Lily had confirmed. Her mother, common-born and now disappeared. And Lord Fallcrest's greatest mistake....

She didn't know if the rumors were true. If her mother truly was peasant-born or if that was just vicious gossip from the First Tier. Looking at the pretty green stone, she felt certain that it was rare, not something that a mere peasant would own. The musicbox, the only relic left by her mother, was forgotten in the nursery for years. Sora found the necklace about five years ago.

Lily had admitted to seeing it before. “She never wore it,” her maid had told her. “Only held it. And sometimes, she would speak to it. But I was very young. I thought the stone was magic, but...well, that's just silly.”

My mother left this to me. I know she did
, Sora thought, staring at the bright green bauble. She had  never worn it, worried that she would lose it somehow. But tonight seemed appropriate.

She fastened the clasp around her neck, careful not to smear the body paint.

Chills flowed over her as the necklace settled in place. A shudder ran down her spine. She jerked, resisting the urge to rub her arms, feeling as though a thousand needles were piercing her skin. She glanced around. Had there been a draft?

Sora frowned, jarred from her memories. Her hands traveled to the stone, which was warm to the touch, warmer than a stone should be.

By the six gods...if only I was free to do as I wish.
Her eyes found the small bells and tassels that hung from the bed frame, tokens of the Goddess. She had waited long enough. She wanted to find her mother. Perhaps it sounded like a fanciful dream—the woman could have been a harlot, a wandering gypsy who had caught her father's eye—but she would never know unless she found her. And sitting around in this manor house, waiting to be married, wouldn't help find her.

But how?
Sora's hand trailed along the side of her bookshelf, running over the old leather and gold-leaf titles. The bookshelf was an easy reach from her bedside, jam-packed with every single book she could get her hands on. Some were in languages she couldn't read, yet she kept them anyway, for love of leather and ink. The top shelf was dedicated to the mythology of the War of the Races, stories of heroism and adventure.

She wished she could be strong like the warriors of old, braving the wilderness, plunging into the unknown. She imagined hundreds of years ago, when legendary fighters had walked the lands, wielding deadly broadswords and enchanted arrows. Back in the time of the races, before city and
country nobility, before mundacity, before magic had drained from the world....