It was one of the oldest spells, manipulating the very life force that tied the soul to the body. His great-grandfather's writing had hinted to its origin, back before the War of the Races, a spell that had survived their family's destruction. It was dangerous to use, black-blooded. The book had warned him of the consequences. A weak-willed and inexperienced sorcerer might be manipulated by the bond, become as dumb and soulless as the wraiths themselves, a servant to his own creations. The magic could burrow into one's mind, change one's thoughts.
But Volcrian's bloodlust was pure, his thoughts clean, his purpose clear.
Drawing a knife, the mage muttered a few words of power under his breath to concentrate his energy. He frowned, focusing on his hunt,on the assassin, his prey. Then he held his arm above the first pool of blood and slit his own skin, spilling a few precious drops of his lifeblood into the mix. It sizzled and bubbled. He allowed a small smile. The wound stung at first, but it was soon covered by a rush of energy. Of pleasure. His veins began to sing, his entire body vibrated with strength and vitality. Magic.
Steam began to rise from the first pool, a sign that the spell was working. He moved to the second, then the third, offering his blood and murmuring the few words of power. A dull wind picked up, slowly swirling around the fields where he had began the ritual, as though awakened by the magic.
Such power flooded Volcrian's veins, he could barely contain it. Fueled by a clear sense of purpose, the magic flowed much more strongly, thrumming down his arms, his legs. He could feel the spirits gathering. The shades of the dead men were thick in the air, practically solid, a tangible vapor.
"Rise," he whispered. "Rise and bond to me."
The steam rose faster, the blood swiftly dissipating into a dense mist, clouding thicker and darker. Soon the woods were consumed by it. The sun's rays grew dull, the air heavy with charged energy. Volcrian's eyes watched the fog sharply, waiting, unsure of what might happen next. This was the most uncertain time in the spell—one wrong word or move and the spirits could slip the noose, return to the dark forest between life and death.
But the blood was fresh and the bodies newly dead; the spirits would miss their physical forms and be drawn to the heaps of skin and organs next to each pool. He was confident that they would respond to his call.
Dimly, shapes began to appear in the mist, as though built from the air itself. The three figures began to solidify, turning darker, until Volcrian could make out humanoid forms, shaky and insubstantial as shadows. Then the piles of flesh began to tremble. The mist closed around them as though sucked inward, creating a whirlwind that brushed through Volcrian's hair, teasing it, tempting him. Finally the mist fully dispersed.
Three beings stood before him, shrouded in cloaks of darkest black. The cloaks seemed to dissolve into the air, as though made of smoke. Volcrian was not fooled—these were powerful beings, magic that reached beyond the veil of life and death. He took in their figures, neither feminine nor masculine, neither tall nor short, neither heavy nor thin. In fact, getting a good look at each creature was difficult. They seemed to constantly shift, blurring over before reappearing, each moment subtly different.
Volcrian grinned and licked his lips. The wraiths were perfect. "Minions," he murmured. "Do you know your master?”
The center wraith, who was slightly more substantial than the other two, raised one dark sleeve toward Volcrian, then pointed a skeletal finger. The Wolfy mage nodded, still smiling. It was the only answer he needed.
“Correct. I will give you your first task. Find the four that evade me: Viper, Sora, and two Wolfies. Kill them. Do not return until your task is finished."
The figures looked at him for a moment longer, or at least, Volcrian assumed they could see. He could make out no eyes in their empty black hoods. Then they shimmered in the air. There was an eerie wail, so faint it might have been an echo of the wind—and they were gone.
Perhaps you have put some distance between us, the mage thought to his prey. But you're not free of me yet.
The hunt would be over soon. He wanted to laugh, to kick up his heels in giddy exhilaration—but suddenly he staggered. Volcrian was hit with a wave of exhaustion.
He felt he had been punched in the stomach. He collapsed to the ground, shaking, sweat pouring out of his body. It was impossible to remain upright. The cut on his arm burned, his muscles were cramped—he could have sworn his crippled hand was on fire. He clutched the limb, gritting his teeth, willing himself not to cry out.
The exhaustion increased until he felt as though he would be sucked into the earth. A massive boulder weighed down on his chest. The effect of using so much magic was immediate and intense. Each breath became a laborious undertaking—even keeping his eyes opened drained him of energy. He wanted to scream, but couldn't drag enough air into his lungs.
For each wraith created, two years of life were sucked from the mage. He had read as much in the journal. But he hadn't actually thought he'd experience it.
He was weary—drained to his very bones. He finally gave in and laid his head down, unable to move his body. It felt as though the hands of death were pulling him into sleep, as though he would never wake up, and he could do nothing to fight against it. Perhaps he would die from this spell, and meet his gentle Etienne on the other side of eternity. It wouldn't be such a bad thing.
Volcrian sank into a deep sleep.
Chapter 10
Several weeks passed as the swamp became more and more dense, the trees larger, the ground softer, until it was like wading through the slough all over again. Sora tried several times to help Dorian, usually at night by the campfire, putting her hands on his temples and trying to vanquish the spell. But the Cat's Eye remained dormant, as though it didn't sense any magic.
She asked Burn about it, and he could only shake his head. “That is the true power of a Wolfy mage,” he murmured. “Blood magic is physical, not purely energy. Perhaps the necklace can't detect any magic inside of Dorian. Or perhaps it is too weak a spell.”
Dorian didn't experience any more episodes. Still, she wasn't allowed to practice with him anymore. Crash took over her instruction. Surprisingly, it became a welcome change. He was a much different teacher than Dorian—strict and logical. He hardly ever spoke unless he was teaching her a new technique. He corrected several things, forcing her to relearn her staff, her daggers, her footwork. For the first week, she did nothing but push-ups and basic exercises, over and over again. “Repetition is key,” he said brusquely. “No sparring until you master the forms.”
The beasts grew thinner and weaker over the days, and had to rest more frequently. Grass was harder to find, and the horses were reluctant to eat moss or any of the other roughage in the swamp. The group was running low on feed, and the beasts would sink into the mud if they stood in one place too long. Sora began to wonder why they had brought the horses in the first place, and more than once, Dorian mentioned eating them. There was no other sign of game or wildlife. She didn't like the idea of killing their steeds, but a slow death by starvation sounded even worse. She was worried about taking the animals much farther into the swamp.
The trees continued to change, thickening and growing despite the soft earth, or perhaps because of it. Their bark became grayish-white and they leaned at odd angles, split at the trunk. They appeared like large, sinewy hands reaching for the sky, thick and ancient, wider than houses, growing into a shadowy mess above their heads. The clouds became thicker and thicker until they were like a solid roof.
As far as Sora was concerned, this was a place that should exist only in her nightmares. She could easily see how travelers could get lost there, with or without a curse. Thick vines hung down from the branches, like the bodies of giant snakes. Silence enveloped the four travelers, and she felt a vague depression come over her, a sadness that she couldn't explain. She wanted to go home, she wanted to sleep, she missed sunlight, and she longed desperately for a soft chair and a warm fireplace.
But I d
on’t have a home anymore, she thought. That thought sat in her gut like a rock.
They continued through the damp gray world, sleeping in trees at night so as not to sink into the soft ground, eating handfuls of berries and a rare strip of dried meat. Her beautiful mansion seemed like a dream now, although it couldn't have been more than a month since she had last seen it. It seemed as unreal and nonexistent as the once legendary races.
* * *
“Block! Now, while I move like this. Raise your staff—there! Again! Again!”
Crash was seldom this vocal during their sparring. But he wanted her to get better at anticipating blows. Sora felt like she was being attacked by a thunderstorm. She barely raised her staff on time. Clack! Crack!
“Excellent!” Burn called from a nearby tree branch. Sora barely heard him, nor Dorian's light applause. It was nighttime, a fire crackling nearby, contained by a circle of rocks in the crook of an ancient trunk.
They sparred above ground, high up in the canopy. The trees had grown so old and thick that they became like a second highway far above the soft, sludgy earth. The branches were so large and the trunk so huge, Sora felt as though they stood on a wooden deck, on the balcony of an exotic palace.
Crash came back at her, leaping across the thick branches. Sora braced herself for another impact. He lunged, forcing his staff down on hers until she felt the strain in her arms. Using what little strength she had left, she threw him off and leapt over a low swing aimed at her knees. Whirling, she went for his chest and head, but found that no matter which way she tried, she was blocked. It was still a mystery to her how someone could fight so well with a large branch. I doubt I’ll ever be that good!
With that thought, Sora wavered from her strict concentration. Then a blow from Crash came out of nowhere, catching her hard in the ribs.
With a cry of pain, she stumbled back against a tree. Her head cracked against a wide branch. She slid to the ground, clutching her ribcage, white-hot stars bursting against her eyelids.
When she refocused, Crash was above her, blocking out the firelight, his face in shadow.
“Foul, oh, foul!” she heard Dorian shouting, along with Burn’s soft complaints. It might have been her imagination, though—her ears were still ringing from the blow.
“Quiet!” Crash snapped over his shoulder. Then he turned back to her, kneeling down. His hands searched her ribs, traveling gently yet firmly over her shirt. Wow, gently? She hadn't thought he knew how.
"Nothing broken," he murmured, his hands pausing just beneath her breasts, where the staff had hit. Sora felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment, and she tried to ignore the awkward position. She looked away from his face, focusing on the tall trees and wide, waxy leaves.
“My head,” she said briefly. “It's a little tender.” She wondered if he truly cared. By his businesslike approach, she doubted it.
“A slight bruise,” he confirmed.
She nodded, still unable to make eye contact, his hands cradling her ribs. “Right,” she muttered. She tried not to wince as she moved her head. She didn't want to show weakness in front of these warriors; she was beginning to understand just how skilled they were.
“You're improving,” the assassin said abruptly. Then he was standing again, offering a hand to help her to her feet. “But you are not yet prepared. The Catlins could attack at any moment. You'll need to be able to defend yourself."
Sora couldn’t believe her ears. Improvement? “Thanks,” she muttered, partly sarcastic.
Crash frowned. She wondered if the sarcasm bothered him somehow. Not bloody likely. Why was he looking at her like that?
“Oh, come now!” Dorian protested. The Wolfy jumped up from where he had been sitting, his words directed at Crash. “Give the sweetheart a break. She's doing fantastic! She will be a seasoned warrior by the time we get through the swamp.”
If we get through, Sora thought, but she didn't mention that part. Honestly, her Cat's-Eye necklace had been disturbingly quiet as of late, and she wondered if they were still on a good path. Or any path.
“Take a break,” Burn agreed evenly. “It's late. Let's relax.”
“Fine,” Crash said.
Sora sighed. Hardly as much encouragement as she was used to. Back at the manor, her tutors would fawn over her, drenching her in praise every time she wrote an essay or balanced an equation.
“That brings up a good question,” she said, walking back to her bedroll, which she had tied between two branches like a hammock. She moved gingerly on her tired feet, wincing with discomfort. “We've been in this swamp almost a month. I'm sure we will be out soon. What happens next?”
The three men fell silent. They shifted, looking at each other, several expressions passing between them. It seemed that they were deciding who should speak first. Sora put her staff down and waited, raising an eyebrow.
“The coast,” Burn finally said.
“The coast?” she asked, surprised.
“Aye,” Dorian agreed. “Leave the mainland, start a new life. Volcrian has always followed us, no matter where we've gone. At first we thought we could find a way to kill him, you know...off with his head, that sort of thing, but....” He trailed off, scratching his ear, a frown coming over his face. Sora was reminded of the blood spell, of the fragile influence that Volcrian had over Dorian's mind. She wondered if it was a good idea to discuss their plans in front of him. How much control did Volcrian actually have—assuming that the spell was real?
“Our best chance is to head overseas,” Burn explained. “We can use our money to buy passage on a ship. Start over on some foreign coast, where Volcrian won't find us.”
Sora frowned, gazing at Burn's soft-gold eyes. Their plan seemed...empty, somehow. Hopeless. Is that it? Their master plan was to catch a boat overseas?
“Seems a little cowardly,” she mentioned.
Dorian snorted. “No one here denies it. We're not heroes, love. Just survivors.”
She glanced at him, then at Burn, who didn't say anything. But the look on his face spoke volumes. She wondered what Volcrian had done to them, since it seemed obvious that they were afraid of him. She cleared her throat. “So you're running? That's it?”
They shuffled, looking at one another again. Then Dorian said, “Not without good cause, love. What about you? Where are you going?”
“Excuse me?” Sora asked, taken aback.
“Aye,” Burn agreed. “Just where are you going after the swamp?”
Sora was surprised. She snorted in wry humor. “Are you saying that I'll be free to do as I wish?” she asked.
It was an uncomfortable question, met by a strange silence. They had grown closer since entering Fennbog, that was for certain. They relied on each other more, and—perhaps—had been forced to trust each other. But Sora wasn't one to forget the past. She knew who these men were. She hadn't come here by choice.
“Assuming we did,” Dorian finally said. “Where would you go?”
She frowned, subconsciously touching the necklace under her shirt. She had tried not to think of the future too much. No use making plans if she wouldn't have her freedom, and no use planning to escape while they were still trapped in the swamp. But her necklace was a constant reminder of her true quest. My mother.
She was searching for a woman who might be dead, whom she had no true connection with. Yet what else did she have? Where else could she go?
She looked at the three men lingering around the fire. Their dirt-streaked clothes and matted hair. The only thing clean about them were their weapons. Certainly not their consciences. How could she tell them the truth? Her eyes roved to the assassin, who stood quiet and stoic in the shadow of a tree, cleaning his blades again. He was listening, of course. And she would rather he not know anything about her. He had killed Lord Fallcrest—a thought that still haunted her, especially on the fringes of sleep, when she could still see her father's body falling to the ground. What if he had killed her mother too? She had a powerful weapon on
her neck—what would he do to keep it?
“Nowhere,” she murmured, looking down at the thick tree trunk. “I don't have anywhere to go.”
Burn nodded sympathetically, as he always did. “All that matters now is survival,” he said gently. He handed her a water flask, nodding to the trees around them. “No use making plans if we might not even survive.”
“Right,” Sora said. “I guess that's the truth of it, isn't it?” Then she looked at Crash, unexpectedly catching his eye. Survival—because he had put them all in danger. All of them, running blindly from a mad sorcerer, only focused on getting away, not reaching a destination. And now she was trapped, dragged into his mess, her fate irrevocably changed by a murderer.
And he had nothing to say. Crash turned and slid from the branches toward the ground, where the horses were tethered. He was the only one who hadn't spoken, despite having brought them here.
She had to wonder about it. The entire situation was his fault. Perhaps that was why he always walked away.
* * *
“It's quiet tonight,” Sora murmured.
Crash didn't even glance at her.
The two Wolfies were fast asleep, snoring softly, nestled in the crook of a tree. The night had fully enclosed them with shadows in all directions. Crash was on watch, sitting out on a lone branch, suspended hundreds of feet above the swamp.
Sora was unable to sleep.
Her thoughts lingered on her father's death. It felt strange. Now that Lord Fallcrest was dead, she had more questions than ever. Who had he been, far off in the City of Crowns? What sort of miserable business had he fallen into, trying to worm his way into the First Tier? Would she ever discover his true murderer—and why? It became such a confusing mess of conspiracies and emotions that she had to put a hand on her stomach, wincing in pain. If she had been eating regularly, she might have felt sick.
And only one man had the answers—the assassin who had brought her here.