by Rachel Dunne
Tare smiled a little, shook her head. “You’re still funny. And stupid. You get two sentences to convince me.” She flipped Rora’s dagger into the air, caught it by the hilt. “Or else I start cutting until I find some answers I like.”
Rora squeezed her eyes shut, tried to shake her thoughts into working. “Someone was gonna come after me’n Falcon.” She was proud of herself, remembering to use the name Aro’d given himself in the Canals. “Running was the only choice we had.”
Tare shrugged. “Not convinced.” She moved faster’n a snake, darting forward, one hand in Rora’s hair yanking her head back and the other pointing the dagger at Rora’s eye.
“We’re twins!” Rora shouted, and the dagger stopped moving forward. Rora couldn’t help staring at its tip, glinting right above her eye, and she babbled out all the words that jumped up in her head. “We’re twins and they would’ve killed us, and I couldn’t bring them down on you—they’re scary fecking bastards. You probably would’ve killed us, too, if you found out, and all I could think of was to run. I’m sorry, Tare, I didn’t mean to leave the pack—I was just scared.” The words stopped vomiting out, and it was just Rora staring at the dagger’s tip and praying harder’n she ever had before that Tare’s hand stayed steady.
Tare’s hand tightened in Rora’s hair, used it to turn her eyes away from the dagger. Tare’s face was more open now than it’d been this whole time, but there was still a hardness there, and the dagger still stayed near Rora’s head, ready to strike. “Where is it you’ve been since you left?”
A hysterical laugh bubbled up out of Rora’s mouth before she could swallow it. “I’ve been north, all the way North.”
“Got anything to prove that?”
“I’ve got four people can tell you about it, and Falcon’s one of ’em.”
“That sounds more like a trap than proof.”
“I’ve got the coin of the man who paid us to go with him.”
Tare raised an eyebrow at that, leaned over to cut away Rora’s coinpurse with two neat slices. She lifted it up, made an appreciative noise at its weight. She tossed it onto the desk so it landed next to Rora’s other dagger. “You can get coin from anywhere. Now I’ve got a bag of coin that don’t prove shit. Anything else?”
“I didn’t bring anything with me.”
Tare shrugged again. “They should’ve given you a better lie before they sent you back.” She lifted the dagger again, pointed it back toward Rora’s eye.
“Who?” Rora asked quickly, the panic rising up again. “Tare, whoever you think sent me here, I promise you’re wrong.”
“Dead girls will tell any lies.”
“I came back because I need your help. The man who hired me wants to hire more knives, he’s got a job—”
Tare snorted. “Right, we follow you to this man, and then all your Blackhands friends jump us.”
“Blackhands friends?” Rora repeated, and then the realization hit and that crazy laugh came out again. “You think I ran off to the Blackhands! Tare, gods no, Tare, I’d never, I hate those bastards as much as anyone.” The dagger was still moving toward her, and Rora took a chance—fixed her eyes on Tare instead of the dagger, said as calm as she could, “I didn’t think you thought so little of me. I run off for a while, and you just assume I’m screwing pigs now?”
Tare laughed at that. “Still funny,” she said again, smiling, and then she brought the dagger down sharp and sudden—through the air next to Rora’s head. Relief flooded through her, right up until the moment Tare dangled Rora’s ear in front of her face. That was when the pain hit, and Rora howled with it.
Tare dropped the ear into Rora’s lap, a smear of blood across her breeches, and she could feel more blood flowing down the side of her neck. It wouldn’t kill her, wounds to the head just bled a lot, but it felt like enough blood that it’d all leak out of her soon enough, and it hurt like a bloody hell. She struggled against the ropes on her arms like getting out of them would let her run away from the pain, thrashed as much as she could, howled until the screams broke on the way out, and then all her straining muscles gave up at once. She went limp and hang-headed, staring down at her own ear in her lap as her body shook. “Tare,” she sobbed, not knowing what she was begging for.
“You never could take any pain.” Tare’s feet stood next to her own, and the older woman crouched down. She slipped the dagger under Rora’s chin, used its point to lift her head up until their eyes met. “Even if I wasn’t already going to kill you,” she said, and she almost sounded sad about it, “I’d have to kill you anyway if you’re a twin. Either way—” and she poked the dagger’s tip up into the soft triangle of flesh under Rora’s chin, pulling out another scream “—it’ll go easier for you if you tell me the truth.”
“I am,” Rora whimpered. “I swear it, Tare. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Time was, I could believe that.”
“Please. Let me go get Ar—Falcon. I’ll get him and the man who hired us. They’ll tell you.”
“Right, I’m just gonna let you go. I’m sure you’d promise to come right back, hey?” She tapped the dagger against Rora’s lips, leaving a smear of her own blood. “Should I cut out your lying tongue first, or cut off your ugly fecking nose?”
“Where is Falcon?” a soft voice asked, and Tare’s head swung around. With the dagger so close, Rora didn’t dare move, but she knew that voice. “I’d like to see my boy again.”
“Sharra,” Tare said, standing real fast, and with the dagger gone Rora could lift her head to watch. Sharra Dogshead stood before the waterfall, wrapped up in a soaked-through cloak, bent over like a crone. She looked older’n Rora’d ever seen her, and Tare was quick to block her from Rora’s sight.
The waterfall was loud, but Rora’s nerves were singing and her ears—ear, she corrected herself, and she almost laughed again—strained to catch any sound. She could hear them, though it hardly sounded like more’n whispers. “I’ll finish with her,” Tare was saying.
“What if she’s telling the truth?” the Dogshead asked.
“She’s not.”
“She’s one of ours. We should be certain.”
“Sharra, I know you want to think the best of the boy—”
“Do not talk to me like I’m a child. I know Falcon, and I’ve told you—he would never go over to the Blackhands, not even for his sister. There’s more to this, Tare.”
“It’s too great a risk. It could be a trap, and even if it’s not, the streets are full of trouble.”
“We will not sit here like children afraid of the dark. We still hold power enough, and this is a small thing.”
“Or it could be big, and we’ll all wind up dead.”
“I am still packhead here, Tare.”
Tare’s mouth was tight when she turned back to Rora, looked like her anger was ready to spill out. She still held Rora’s dagger in one hand, and Rora flinched away when Tare leaned in close. She held the dagger between their faces, her eyes hard. “Where’s your brother?” she demanded.
“Just off East Market,” Rora said quickly, relief flooding her again. “Big tavern, the sign’s got a pig on it. He’s with the world’s ugliest merra, a tall man, and a bastard with a burned face. I can take you—”
Tare’s fist cut the rest of her words off and left her jaw aching. Rora heard the door open, low voices. She glanced over at the Dogshead, who stood where she’d been, not moving, her face pale and sad and old. They didn’t speak, either of ’em. The door closed and Tare stalked back into view, wiped the dagger clean on Rora’s breeches as she went by, then sat on the edge of the desk to slowly sharpen the blade’s edge. She held Rora’s eyes while she did it, just waiting, all of ’em waiting.
The energy was leaking out of Rora, leaving her weak and aching, and the blood dripping from what was left of her ear was the loudest sound. “Please,” she said softly, half expected to get hit for even opening her mouth, “what happened here? Where’s the pack?”
“Dead, mostly,” Tare growled. “Probably have you to blame for most of them, yeah?”
“I’m not with—”
“Garim’s dead,” Tare went on. “Your friends drug him into an alley and cut him up slow. Peeled his face right off. They figured they were clever, him being the face and all. But I’m sure you knew that already.”
She hadn’t, of course, and it made her stomach churn. “Tare . . .”
“You pointed them right to enough of us that we had to abandon the Den—can’t hold that big a space with just a handful of fists. We’re real cozy now. I guess being hunted will do that. You’ve really brought us all closer together—wouldn’t you say, Sharra?” The Dogshead didn’t answer, but Tare didn’t seem to expect one. “You’ve cut us down piece by piece, so I have to think your new masters are pretty happy with you. So why’d they send you back here? What’d you do that made them send you here to die?”
Rora couldn’t find any words, couldn’t meet that anger with anything. She just shook her head, looked down from the murder in Tare’s eyes. She startled real bad when a knife thunked into the floor between her feet. It was Rora’s second dagger, plainer than the one with the big stone, but still strong and sharp. “I gave that to you,” Tare snarled. “Put that knife right in your hand. How many of our people have you killed with it since then?”
“Enough, Tare,” the Dogshead said quietly. “We’ll have answers soon enough.”
“Or we’ll have more dead fists to thank her for.”
The silence hunkered down again, just the sounds of water falling and whetstone sliding along the edge of the knife. Rora stared down at the dagger between her feet, but she couldn’t even muster up the effort to think of how to get it in her hand. Her head was spinning again, maybe from blood loss, maybe from hurt, maybe because she didn’t want to let her mind land on anything specific and have to think about what was happening.
She didn’t hear the door open—might’ve passed out for a little while—but when she felt the arms around her, her first thought was that it’d be Tare again, with the knife to her throat. She tried to jerk back, but the chair held her still, so she thrashed as much as she could until she finally heard the words, “Rora, Rora, you’re okay, it’s me, you’re okay.” She fixed her eyes on Aro’s face and a choked sort of sob worked its way out of her throat. He pressed something to the side of her head, against the bloody space where her ear wasn’t anymore, and then he held her face down against his shoulder. She hated crying almost more than anything else, but she couldn’t stop the tears. It was a sick sort of thing, but if she was gonna die here, she was glad at least she wouldn’t die alone.
“What in all the hells were you thinking?” Aro demanded, his voice heated over the top of her head.
“You’re not the one here to ask questions,” Tare snarled back.
“You let her do this?” Aro asked, and Rora knew he was talking to the Dogshead now. “I thought you kept your wild dogs on shorter chains.”
“Things have changed, my boy,” the Dogshead said, and there was some disapproval in her voice when she added, “since you left.”
“Where is it you’ve been?” Tare asked.
“We went to the North, got hired on by him to look for some stupid thing in the snows.”
Rora lifted her head up, met Tare’s angry gaze. “See?”
Tare laughed. “Two people telling the same lie doesn’t make it truth.”
A new voice got added to the mix, Joros sounding like he was talking through clenched teeth. “I would request that you release her immediately. We’ll be on our way.”
Tare snorted loud and mocked a courtly curtsey toward where Rora guessed Joros was standing. “Awful fine words. Are you some disgraced lordling, or just an actor paid to play one?”
“Leave him out of it,” Aro snapped. “This is between us.” He stood up, his arms sliding from around Rora and leaving her feeling cold. He stepped forward, toward the Dogshead, and his eyes didn’t leave her even though Tare stepped between them. “Why?” he demanded.
Rora could see the sad smile on the Dogshead’s face. “I would ask you the same, my boy. Why?”
“My sister needed me. Family comes before anything.”
“Pack is family,” Tare said.
“Blood is deeper.”
Softly, the Dogshead said, “Your twin needed you.”
That startled Aro—she saw the surprise of it run through him—but it didn’t shake him. “Yes,” he said. “My twin needed me.”
“Tell me your tale, Falcon. Tell me all of it.” The Dogshead still looked old, but her eyes’d gotten sharper, keen like the edge of a blade. “I’ll pass judgment after that.”
“Untie Rora, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Tare bristled at that, but Sharra put a hand on her arm. “I don’t think so,” the Dogshead said carefully. “She’s a wild dog, too, and you can’t trust wild dogs to keep from each other’s throats.”
It took Aro a while to answer, but his voice was soft when he did. “You shouldn’t be standing so long.”
That put a smile on the Dogshead, and she gave a small nod, gestured toward the waterfall behind her. “Shall we talk?” Aro glanced back at Rora, then pointedly at Tare. “Your sister is under my protection. Tare won’t do any more damage, will you?”
Tare shrugged and spread her hands, and her grin was like an animal baring its teeth. “I’m perfectly harmless.”
“Still funny,” Rora muttered, and the glare Tare shot her had daggers in it.
“Joros comes with us,” Aro said, and it seemed like he’d picked up all the sense that’d leaked out of Rora’s head.
There was real alarm in Tare’s voice: “Sharra—”
“Enough, Tare. I am not some frail old woman. It’s a fair trade.” Tare tried to argue more, but the Dogshead just held a hand in her face until she stopped speaking. “Sit. Stay. Be nice. I’ll return with my judgment.” She turned and walked through the waterfall, and Aro waited for Joros to step forward before they followed together.
The quiet settled over the room again, and Rora hadn’t even known the others had been brought along, too, until the heavy warmth of the bear cloak draped over her arms. She felt a touch on her shoulder, gentle like it’d break her. “Does it hurt?” the witch asked softly.
Rora almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “Yeah,” she said, “it hurts.” After a second, his fingers brushed over the stump of her ear, and she flinched at the touch until she felt the coolness that spread out from his fingers. It helped with that hurt at least. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. His touch lingered for a moment longer, and then he was gone, his muttering quieter than the waterfall.
Tare was staring at her from across the room, toying with Rora’s dagger again. She stalked forward, the dagger twirling and dancing in her fingers. “Rora,” she sneered. “Is that your real name, then?”
Rora looked back at her and wanted to be angry for what Tare’d done, wanted to hate the older woman for it, but all she could feel was sad and hurt. Everything else’d drained out of her like blood. “I loved you,” Rora whispered. “I never would’ve betrayed you. Honest word. You were the closest thing I had to family, next to Aro, and he’s the only thing in the world could’ve made me leave.” The dagger stopped its twirling. “I know I did wrong by you, by the pack, but I’d never’ve done anything to hurt you.”
Tare’s face went strange, and she didn’t try talking anymore. That was probably good. Rora let her head hang, chin against her chest, and closed her eyes. The heavy smell of the bear cloak stuck in her nose, fur tickling against her cheek, and she thought of Scal just before her mind refused to think of anything else anymore.
Next thing she knew was hands on her wrists, gently rubbing to get the blood flowing again. Aro pulled her up, practically holding all her weight with an arm around her. “You’re okay,” he said, like saying it made it true. “You’re safe.”
Around him
she saw Joros handing the Dogshead two of those coin-filled pouches he always seemed to have. “Two nights from now,” he said. “West Gate.”
“We’ll be there,” the Dogshead said, “all of us,” and the anger was in Tare’s eyes again.
CHAPTER NINE
They no longer gathered in the tribehome as the sun sank beneath the waving grasses of the Plains. Instead many of the plainswalkers would find Keiro where he stood at the edge of the hills, and they would sit before him, watching the sun fade away, listening as he wove tales that had never before been heard. He told them of what the Twins’ long imprisonment must have been like, the unending years of pain and fear and heartbreak and loneliness. And the anger, too, the anger could not be forgotten or forgiven. More importantly, he told tales of what life would be like once the Twins were freed. Each night, he looked into one of the plainswalkers’ eyes, chose a man or woman he had come to know so well these last months, and he spun a tale of their future, bright and happy and successful under the Twins’ rule. He didn’t know where the inspiration for these tales came from, for he had never been called a particularly creative man; but there was a new certainty in his mind, a shining surety that the words he spoke were true.
Poret had been the first, following Keiro to the hills one night and shyly apologizing for her distance. He’d forgiven her easily, knowing her allegiance lay with Yaket first, and they’d sat together, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun paint the hills in blues and reds. Cazi—who seemed rarely to leave Keiro’s side no matter how he tried to keep his promise to Tseris—had sniffed at Poret’s fingers, climbed her arm, and burrowed happily into the long hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Tell me a story,” she’d said, leaning her head against Keiro’s shoulder. With the certainty murmuring from the back of his mind, he’d told her how she would grow strong under the Twins’ rule, how she would be a mighty night-hunter and win the trust of a Starborn of her own, and they would be a fearsome team when the sun was gone from the sky. “Will there be a man to share my nights with as well?” she’d asked slyly. He’d told her there would be, though the certainty had told him also that it wouldn’t be him. He’d put on a smile for her. Things would be as they would be.