Ferran's Map (2 page)

The fifth gate, a doorway into the shadow
realm, remained blocked. His demon could cross over into the world
of Wind and Light—but how did a man enter his own shadow? The key
to unlocking the fifth gate lay in deep meditation, finding the
door within himself and opening it. Then he would be able to open
shadow portals between different lands, traveling hundreds of miles
instantaneously.

"Soon," Grandmaster Lachesis said only a few
days ago, "soon, you will break through the fifth gate, and the
secrets of the shadow realm shall be yours."

Then only the sixth gate would remain.
Eventually, after exploring the hidden paths of the shadow realm,
one unlocked a new demon—a second, stronger form of his darker
self. Only then, as a Grandmaster, could he choose a name separate
from the Hive, uniquely his own, to be included in the scrolls of
the Hive's history.

And the seventh gate? No one spoke of the
seventh gate.

Viper paused next to a large boulder. He
brushed the snow from its peak and climbed easily onto it and sat
in a cross-legged position, quieting his thoughts. It was easier to
meditate after physical exertion; his mind was quieted and ready to
sink into his body.

He placed his hands palm-down on his knees
and took deep breaths, allowing the tension to leave his neck and
shoulders. His mind pooled at the base of his skull, becoming still
as a frozen lake, empty as a riverbed. Time slipped away, removing
its chains. He heard only the slow thump of his heart.

Somewhere deep within him, a dark pit
opened, an eager, gaping maw.
Come,
the demon whispered.
Come….

The sudden sound of footsteps, intentionally
loud, broke Viper's concentration. Assassins did not make noise in
the snow. He recognized the pace of the steps, the subtle brush of
robes against the ground.

His eyes snapped open.

Cerastes stood at the fringe of trees.

Viper stared at him.

His Grandmaster had been absent for years,
occasionally appearing in their colony without warning, only to
disappear again with little explanation. He visited rarely and said
few words to Viper during his visits. Before his long absence,
Cerastes spent much of his time with books and scrolls, delving
into the ancient lore of the Dark God and the history of their
race. Viper suspected Cerastes' thirst for knowledge eventually led
him away from their colony, but he couldn’t know for sure.

Cerastes’ doings had weighed heavily on
Viper's thoughts for a long time. The student could barely contain
his own self-doubt. In some ways, he felt like he had failed an
unspecified test. Despite his unrivaled progress, his Grandmaster
had lost interest in training him. Perhaps Cerastes simply found
him lacking in some way.

After Cerastes’ first disappearance, Viper
felt lost, cut adrift and listless without his guidance. Other
Grandmasters turned him away; no one dared take over Cerastes’
tutelage. Grandmasters often became possessive of their students,
particularly talented ones, and in the Viper’s case, few were
willing to risk Cerastes’ wrath.

But as time wore on, the possibility of
Cerastes’ return seemed less and less likely. Finally, a year ago,
an eccentric hermit took up residence at the fringes of their
colony—Lachesis. He was of the Hive, but not a member of any
specific village. Viper eventually received new instruction under
the unusual Grandmaster, although he felt no true loyalty to
Lachesis or his teachings. This strange man was not of their
colony; he was a traveling vagabond who visited various factions of
the Hive briefly, then disappeared for weeks on end. Viper was
still basically alone.

As Viper gazed at Cerastes, he felt that
powerful bond again. This was his true master, the one who had
melded him into a lethal assassin, who had made him as strong as
tempered steel.

Viper felt a distinct tightness in his
throat as he waited for Cerastes to speak. However, no words were
forthcoming. Finally, he asked his master, “Why are you here?”

“To check on your training,” Cerastes
said.

A lie,
Viper sensed, though it was
difficult to read his old teacher. “My training is no longer your
concern,” he said, hiding his disappointment. “I study under
Grandmaster Lachesis now.”

Cerastes' eyes remained flat and
expressionless. Viper’s skin prickled. He had never seen such an
eerie, unreadable facade, as though a thin veil covered Cerastes’
face, hiding something utterly grotesque.
This is wrong,
Viper thought.

“Come,” his Grandmaster murmured, and raised
his hand in a beckoning gesture. He moved slowly, almost mockingly.
“Let us spar. Show me your new skill.”

Viper couldn’t resist the invitation. He
slid off the rock in one graceful movement and drew his dagger,
then crouched slightly, prepared to fight. Cerastes drew a similar
dagger from his belt. This would be an equal match—at least, as
equal as master and student could be.

Cerastes lunged without warning. His hand
became a blur of motion. He thrust his blade directly at Viper's
heart.

Viper knocked the blade to one side, then
dipped under Cerastes’ arm and came up right beside him. He landed
a solid punch to the ribs, then a vicious kick to the sternum.

Cerastes grabbed Viper’s leg and dragged him
off-balance, twisting him until he fell into the snow. Viper
allowed himself to fall, rolled quickly back onto his feet, then
unleashed a series of blows that forced Cerastes back across the
clearing.

Still, his Grandmaster evaded each strike
with ease. Viper felt as though he was battling the wind.

Finally, Viper caught Cerastes’ wrist and
pulled him sideways, knocking him off-balance. As he rammed his
shoulder into Cerastes' ribs, the Grandmaster stumbled backwards.
Viper kept pushing at him, dragging his master to the ground until
his knife pressed firmly into Cerastes' navel.

Then, just as the Viper tasted victory, his
Grandmaster disappeared from beneath him. Viper collapsed in the
snow, disoriented. His knife struck the frozen ground.

Cerastes reappeared beneath a nearby tree,
materializing from thin air.
The fifth gate.
He had opened
that portal instantly and had used it to outmaneuver his
student.

Viper sat up, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“You have an unfair advantage,” he spat.

“Assassins use any and all advantages in
combat,” Cerastes murmured.

“Perhaps,” Viper returned, a hint of
rebellion in his gaze. “But Lachesis teaches differently. Engaging
a lesser opponent is pointless, if it is only for showing off one's
skill.”

“Then you admit you are the lesser?”

Viper's glare hardened. “I never claimed to
be anything else.”

“And this Lachesis….” Cerastes clasped his
hands behind his back. “Is he your new master now? Is he the one
who taught you to harness your demon, who made you a Named
assassin?”

Viper’s lip curled, but his years of
discipline kept him from jumping up. He bowed his head stiffly and
stayed on the ground. “No, Grandmaster,” he murmured.

“You’ve grown sloppy, Viper,” Cerastes said
flatly. “Lachesis is too encouraging with his words. You are far
from reaching the fifth gate.”

“Then I will strive harder,” Viper
growled.

Cerastes smiled—it was an empty expression.
“I see my absence has sorely impacted your progress,” he continued.
“Lachesis is a wild hermit. His teachings are untried and unproven.
Do you really think you will reach the fifth gate by meditating
hours on end? Lachesis is fooling you. He’s stalling your progress
and wasting your time.” His focus sharpened. “He fears what you may
become.”

Viper's pulse quickened. He didn’t want to
believe Cerastes’ words. Yet his Grandmaster would never mislead
him; despite his absence, the bond between mentor and student
remained strong. Viper had trained and studied at Cerastes’ side
since childhood, almost since birth—and a child’s loyalty is not
easily shaken.

“What do you suggest I do?” Viper asked
softly. Although he kept his eyes trained on the ground, he could
feel Cerastes’ approving gaze.

“Come with me,” his mentor said, his voice
low and heavy, as though burdened by some unnameable secret. “Be by
my side and I will teach you to harness the fifth gate. I will
teach you all the forgotten secrets of our kind.”

Viper’s eyes saw his Grandmaster’s gaunt
face. He searched the man’s wizened expression and the unfathomable
depth of his gaze. For years now he had struggled on his own,
always anticipating his master’s return. He had yearned for this
very moment….

Yet strangely, now that Cerastes faced him,
he did not feel the same. Over time, he had found a way to stand on
his own in the Hive, to continue training without his Grandmaster’s
guidance. He had built a new life among the sand. The Hive, after
all, was more than just a place. It was a community, a rigid one,
but consistent all the same, and saturated with tradition. This was
his home.

“You would ask me to leave the Hive?” Viper
asked softly.

His Grandmaster gave only the slightest
nod.

In that instant, Viper knew where he
belonged. “I can’t go with you.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” he responded without flinching. “I
won’t turn my back on our people.”

“And this is how you perceive me?” Cerastes’
voice became withering. “Someone who has betrayed his race?”

“No,” Viper said quickly. “I didn’t
mean—”

“Then speak what you mean.”

Viper stood up and sheathed his dagger.
“You’ve chosen your path,” he said clearly. “It is time I choose
mine. I can’t leave the Hive.”

Cerastes’ eyes became dangerous. For a
moment, the thin veil of his guarded expression slipped, and Viper
saw something sharp and malicious. Then the look passed.

“A pity,” Cerastes said as he turned away.
“You’re certain? I won’t ask again.”

Viper didn’t hesitate. “I’m certain,” he
said. “But you will always remain my first mentor. Wherever you go,
Grandmaster, your shadow encompasses me.” He bowed to Cerastes’
retreating back.

The Grandmaster hardly seemed to hear him. A
slight wind touched his long, black hair and rippled through his
robes. Then he entered the shade of the trees and was gone.

Viper stood back. He felt suddenly bereft,
as though all the air had left his lungs. He made his hands into
fists, wondering if he made the right choice, yet knowing in his
gut he couldn’t leave the Hive—his Name, his training, his
birthplace—simply to reach the fifth gate. He had allowed Cerastes’
absence to affect him for too long. It was time to let go.

He stared at the place where his master’s
feet had stood, as though the hand of some god had transported him
to another realm, and allowed himself to sink into the solitude of
the forest.
Farewell,
he thought, watching Cerastes' last
footprints slowly disappear under the falling snow.

CHAPTER 1

The
Dawn Seeker
sailed upriver,
impressive and sturdy, a three-masted schooner with billowing white
sails and over a dozen cabins. The ship traveled up the Little
Rain, a small tributary of the Crown’s Rush, headed inland from the
ocean. Early morning fog cast the world in gray, brooding light.
Tall trees loomed over the riverbanks, fading in and out of the
mist. The Little Rain traveled through flat marshland and dense
forest, lined by juniper thickets and bristling blackberry bushes.
The rainy season had made the tributary deep and wide.

Sora dangled her legs over the crow’s nest.
She always took the dawn watch, as she liked the tension in the
forest at daybreak, and the birds twittering in excited song at the
first hint of silver light.

The crow’s nest of the
Dawn Seeker
sat high upon the central mast, dozens of feet above the ground.
From this height, Sora could see Captain Silas’ crew stirring on
deck through the mist. The night workers filed inside as a fresh
crew took over their stations, adjusting the sails and manning the
wheel, calling out to one another, laughing. She could smell fresh
bread baking, as the aroma drifted up from the galley. Her stomach
let out a sudden, loud complaint. While she wanted nothing more
than to climb down the ropes and eat breakfast, she felt stiff and
cold, her woolen cloak damp with moisture from her three-hour
watch.

But I can’t leave yet
, she thought.
When Captain Silas first assigned her to the crow’s nest, he gave
her a long lecture about sailing upriver: the danger of opposing
currents, lightning, driftwood, debris, tree limbs and rocks in the
shallows. The ship’s safety relied on a good lookout…and so
breakfast would have to wait.

Her eyes drifted to a figure on the deck
below. At first glance, he appeared to be lying prostrate on the
wooden boards, but a closer look revealed he was doing a series of
short, quick press-ups. His hot breath misted the air. His hands
were placed opposite his shoulders, his palms flat on the deck, his
back rigidly straight. She didn’t know how many press-ups a man
could do in one sitting; as the fog thickened, she counted 200 and
then lost track.

He trained every morning around this
time—the same as her watch—and ran through a strenuous routine of
exercises: twenty laps around the deck, a series of kicks and
jumps, then a long chain of attacks using daggers or swords. His
broad, powerful shoulders immediately caught her eye. A myriad of
scars, visible even at this distance, covered his back. She
wondered if he had removed his shirt on purpose, if he knew how
much it distracted her.
No,
she thought,
he doesn’t want
anything to do with me.

She hardly spoke to Crash these days because
she didn’t know what to say to him. Not after what had happened on
the Lost Isles.