“Well, come, see for yourself.” She gestures a bit impatiently toward the staircase, then picks at the hem of her sleeve with nervous fingers, her eyes wide. “You must come quickly, milady knight. She’s going to take everything we have, and we don’t have much. We'll be ruined! We need your help. Please, hurry!”
I blink, and then I nod.
I reach over my shoulder and grasp at empty air.
There is, of course, no sword in the scabbard buckled onto my back.
Because I do not have a sword.
Each knight’s sword is bound—by magic—to that knight and that knight alone. Another person could attempt to use a knight’s sword, but the weapon will work against any stranger wielding it. The knights care for their swords with pride and even love, because the weapon is an extension of themselves, connected to their hearts by a spell woven on the day that they swore the vows of knighthood.
So I have no sword, and I never have.
Because I’m not a knight.
I stand up straighter, feeling the blood drain from my face. I have nothing with which to defend this tavern. And I don’t know what to expect down below, but if it’s a highwaywoman bold enough to come into Arktos, she is likely more skilled at fighting than me—a stablehand who spends the majority of her time mucking stalls and chatting with ornery horses.
Oh, what a mess this is. At the end of it all is my undoing. I'll be found out. The knights will say that I stole both mare and armor, and impersonating a knight must be a crime. I don't believe anyone else has ever dared to do it, because there are some things that are simply not done.
Lellie’s gone. She’s left the tavern.
Goddess, what have I gotten myself into?
All of these thoughts, worries, and regrets rush through my head in an instant, along with the futile wish that I hadn’t allowed a horse to talk me into a night on the town.
But I come to my senses almost as quickly.
Because this isn't about me.
At all.
There are people down below who may be in danger, and I have to help them—as much as I am able.
I glance back into the room wistfully. Cinda’s sitting on the bed, repositioning her skirts and the neckline of her dress. Her face looks as worried as I feel.
“Talis, what’s going on?”
I gaze at the beautiful lady I was about to bed, at her loosened hair falling in soft curls upon her shoulders. Everything about this woman is lovely, and I wanted… Oh, I wanted her so much. I wanted a tumble. I wanted a few hours' escape from my cares. But, in truth, I got more than that. Cinda made me feel something. Not lust, though I certainly felt lust. This emotion was something novel, something deeper...
And now our time has run out.
And I feel swindled.
“I’m sorry, Cinda,” I murmur, glancing about the room for something, anything, that I might use as a weapon. The furniture here is sparse: a bed, a trunk, a washstand. The bed is made out of thick unfinished logs, and I wonder what’s supporting the mattress... I cross the room, offering my hand to Cinda, which she takes with troubled eyes as I draw her to her feet.
“There’s been a disturbance down in the tavern,” I explain, and kneel down on the floor. “I’m needed.”
“Oh,” says Cinda, understanding and disappointment evident on her face.
Heartsick, I tear my eyes from her and concentrate on the task at hand. It’s the work of a few moments to shove away the thin mattress and discover, as I thought, that there are slats resting against the logs on either side of the bed. I pick up one of the rough wooden slats and break it over my knee, creating a pointy dagger.
Good. Now I have a sharp stick. That’s helpful.
I draw in a deep breath and stand, feeling a little woozy as I try to remind myself that a pointy stick is better than nothing, just like I’m better than nothing—even though I’m no knight.
…right?
Cinda rests a hand on my arm. “Don’t...um, forget your gloves.” She looked as if she had been about to say something else but changed her mind midsentence. She gives me my gloves before taking up the other half of the broken slat.
“I’m good with a rolling pin,” she says, winking.
And there’s that winsome smile again. It almost distracts me to enough to ignore the fact that she intends to follow me downstairs.
She wants to help.
She's going to place herself in danger.
“Oh, lady, I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask me, did you, silly knight? Now, we need to take care of whatever's going on down in the tavern so that we can get back to what we were doing—as swiftly as possible.”
And just like that, my whole body flushes.
Well, I have to admit, she’s making me feel a bit surer of myself. The truth is, I'm no stranger to combat. I train every day, and don’t I spar with Lellie often enough?
I glance at the broken bed slat in my hands and take one last deep, determined breath.
All right.
Let’s do this.
I nod to her, and then I toe the door fully open. The girl on the other side takes a step back and gapes at me, forehead creased. “Milady knight, where is your sword?” Her dinner-plate eyes latch onto the piece of wood in my hand.
Time to lie.
“I left it at the barracks. I didn't expect to need it this night,” I tell her flatly, and I can’t help but wince. Everyone knows that a knight never leaves her sword behind, no matter where she goes…
I am not a good liar.
The girl seems dissatisfied by my explanation, but with a shrug, she turns and leads the way—on quiet cat feet—down the hall.
Following her, I grip the slat so hard that small splinters dig into my sweaty palm. I’ve never done anything like this before. People's lives may be at stake. What if—
And that’s when we reach the top of the stairs.
Down below, the tavern patrons have fallen as silent as the grave. The hush and stillness is eerie, wrong, in this place of frolic and merriment. But as we watch, the silence breaks: my attention snaps to a woman who yells at the top of her lungs—“Empty every purse and pocket!”—and leaps onto a table.
I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I try to gulp down air, but my throat is too constricted, and there are spots floating in front of my eyes...
It’s not possible.
No, no, no.
I stare—I can't look away—as the woman whirls with a flourish; her chestnut cape flares dramatically behind her. She tips her head to one side, eyes flashing with a brilliant blue fire.
As theatrical as always.
I suppose some things never change, I reflect dolefully.
This highwaywoman standing on the table—brandishing a sword as she sweeps and spins and shouts, threatening the crowd—is my sister, Tahlia.
With a shrewd glance, she notices the three of us on the staircase, and her eyes, as if by force, lock with mine. The look we share speaks volumes, encompassing two lifetimes of love and loss.
I haven't seen my twin sister Tahlia in three years. I was nineteen when I left home, and I’ve changed fundamentally in the time we've been apart.
Tahlia has probably altered in some ways, too.
But the essential parts of us can never die. And, for Tahlia, that essential part is her, well, Tahlia-ness.
Because her mouth widens into an impish grin, and she drops into a low, sarcastic bow, encouraging her cape to soar out around her as she turns her hand in the air.
“Why, hello, knight.” Her eyes twinkle with wickedness. “Have you, by any chance, come to vanquish me and save these poor, innocent folk from my dastardly deeds?” She snorts, amused by her own histrionics.
I breathe out a shallow sigh and grimace at my sister, the thief.
We’re twins, though we look—and act and think—nothing alike. For nine moons, we quarreled in our mother’s womb, tumbling about, tussling, hat
ing every moment of our confinement together.
And, after we were born, things only got worse.
Even as infants, Tahlia and I were competitive. We fought over every plaything, and we nursed with a stoic stubbornness, glaring into one another's eyes hatefully as our mother laughed and laughed.
Our sameness ends with our matched height and our deep blue eyes. Whereas I have untameable red hair, Tahlia's mane is a rich mahogany so fine and shining that she could use it for currency. Her body bears curves that mine never grew; I’m fairly straight up and down in proportion. To be truthful, I think Tahlia's very soul is made up of curves. She’s charismatic to a fault, and can typically convince anyone to do anything for her.
She also has a flair for the dramatic—as indicated by her current ensemble: black breeches beneath black boots that rise up to her thighs; a black corset over a poufy-sleeved white blouse; and, of course, that shiny cape. Her hair tumbles in gleaming waves down her back, and her rouged mouth is twisted into a wry—but somehow pleased—grin.
Tahlia and I say nothing for a long moment, as we're each daring the other to break the silence.
I move down the staircase carefully, one step at a time, keeping Tahlia within my sights. I’m still holding the slat, but it strikes me as even sillier now than when I wrested it from the bed frame. Tahlia’s sword could make quick work of this wooden stick.
When I reach the floor, my heart is pounding harder and faster than that of a spooked horse.
“Lady knight!” the barkeep calls out, looking flabbergasted. “Where is your sword? You must have a sword! This is the Fox Queen!”
I glare at my sister, holding tighter to the slat as she lifts her chin, defiant, then chuckles a little beneath her breath. She pounces with catlike grace to the floorboards, and she places the blade over her shoulder, cocking her head as she takes me in, one hand on her hip.
“I need no introduction, my good woman,” Tahlia advises the barkeep, though her eyes are trained on me. “Especially to this knight.”
I glance past Tahlia to determine whether any of the robbers have accompanied her, and of course they have; Tahlia would go nowhere without them.
Yeri guards the front door, her thick legs spread as wide as her hips, the tip of her massive broadsword, which is gripped by its pommel in her large hands, pointed toward the floor. Her muscled shoulders curve forward, imposing. I notice that her salt-and-pepper hair is shorter, and spiked, and she has a few more scars marking her bare bronze arms and face. She’s surprised to see me: her one good eye is wide.
Yeri taught me combat when I was a young pup; she was my confidant and friend. She was also my mother’s lover. My mother cherished her. Seeing Yeri now, I’m struck with a pang of homesickness stronger than any I’ve felt for years. But I shake it off, must shake it off. There's no returning to that life for me.
I soon locate the other usual suspect: Bay, Tahlia’s right-hand woman, and her best friend since all of us were children. Bay and I have never seen eye to eye; she always sided with Tahlia in every argument. When I was younger, I actually found her stubbornness to be a bit attractive, and I tried, in vain, to impress her. Gods, Bay is gorgeous, and she seems to grow prettier with each passing moon.
Her blonde ringlets are swept up into a long ponytail, her eyes are as blue as the morning sea, and her lovelier-than-can-be-expressed curves are filling the hell out of a forest green dress. She’s poised behind the bar with her hands in the tavern’s moneybox, and when our eyes meet, she gives me a brash grin.
Great.
The gang’s all here.
Of all the taverns in all the world...
As if she's reading my thoughts, Tahlia drawls, “Fancy meeting you in a place like this.”
I grip the end of the slat and raise it toward her, my mouth set in a thin, hard line. “Why are you in Arktos City? You know how dangerous it is, robbing a tavern within the city walls. This is a fool's heist.”
Tahlia shrugs languorously, and, in so doing, she allows the sword’s edge to slide off of her shoulder, bringing it down to level the point of the blade in the general direction of my heart. The gesture is threatening but lazy; she actually yawns, placing the back of her leather glove against her red mouth. “Oh, sorry. Were you saying something? I'm afraid I was too bored to listen.” A wicked smile slides over her lips. “Do you really think you're going to stop me? You, Talis? Truly?”
I don’t speak, don't move.
The truth is, I have no desire to fight my sister, especially not here, in front of so many people. But I can't let her hurt anyone.
Granted, it was never her style to physically harm the victims of her robberies, and I can only assume that's still the case.
Mother taught her well.
Oh, gods, did I really just think that?
I suppose, when you’re the daughter of the greatest Fox Queen of them all, you tend to make allowances other people might not.
So there it is: my secret. This is why the knights don't want to let me join their ranks—because of who I am, what I once was, and the family I was born into.
For I am the daughter of Thea, Fox Queen, the empress of all thieves. I was born and raised in Fox Palace, at the hidden heart of Fury Wood, and I was groomed from the day of my birth to take possession of the “throne” of thieves. My mother, Thea, wasn’t a queen in the true sense of the word, but she did reign over the other robbers.
There is a long and illustrious legacy of Fox Queens, a title transferred from mother to daughter throughout the centuries. The Fox Queens have enjoyed a reputation across Arktos for being wild, stealthy, and unbeatable. By the time my mother inherited the name, however, her manner had gentled, and her plots were quieter, more strategic—but more ambitious.
And, as a result, her heists became legendary.
After she gave birth to Tahlia and me, Mother instilled in us the desire to work for the common good of the rest of the robbers, women who we had picked up along the way, women who were good at stealing or conniving or who simply needed someplace to call home. Mother had a big heart, and Fox Palace was big, too, and hidden well. So, in effect, she gifted Tahlia and me with a patchwork family: a group of women who would, quite literally, die to protect us, because they loved our mother and vowed to be loyal to her until their very last breaths.
I was taught how to steal, how to pick locks. I learned the tricks of highwaywomen and of the greatest thieves. My talent was in stealth, so I rarely carried a weapon, not even a knife. I was naturally good at my job, and since Tahlia and I competed for Mother’s praise, I pushed myself to become even better. Neither of us knew how Mother intended to divide her kingdom, or who would inherit the title of Fox Queen, so we were constantly trying to one-up one another.
Until that terrible night when I was eighteen.
The night that changed everything.
I pale at the memory and squeeze my jagged slat tightly. I don’t want to think about that night. And I won't. I push it from my mind, force myself to act the part of a knight, despite the fact that I'm only masquerading as one.
“Tahlia, you won't rob this tavern,” I say simply. “Not on my watch.”
My twin stares at me, and she almost looks surprised by my unyielding tone. But the surprise quickly gives way to another wide, wolfish grin.
“My dear, I don’t care whether it’s your watch or the watch of a skinny old tomcat. I came here for some fun, and that’s what I’m going to get.” She glances over her shoulder at Bay, who’s tying a bag of coins to her belt. The two women exchange meaningful nods.
They’re going to take all of the coin from this tavern and then disappear without a trace, because that’s what Fox Queens do best.
“No.” I place my broken slat along the flat of her blade in clear challenge. Her metal, my wood, connecting us for only an instant—and then Tahlia lets out a snort and steps close to me, her smile sour.
She pitches her voice low. “Listen to me, Talis. This isn't a game. Y
ou need to—”
And that's when Cinda comes rushing forward. She’s gone from so-quiet-I-forgot-she-was-here to yelling something unintelligible but unnerving at the top of her lungs. She’s brandishing her half of the bed slat in her hands, and as she advances on Tahlia, I am shocked to see my sister, who has never quailed before anything, take a step backward, her mouth forming a round O of astonishment.
The element of surprise.
Cinda lifts the bed slat over her head, exactly like a sword (or a rolling pin, her apparent weapon of choice), and she brings it down—hard—toward Tahlia.
Tahlia moves on instinct, blocking the strike with her sword.
And when Tahlia’s sword comes up once more, the bed slat is slashed in two. It splinters apart in Cinda’s hands, and before Cinda can react, Tahlia strides toward her with a dancer’s (or a thief's) grace. She wraps an arm around Cinda’s shoulders and spins her around, so that Cinda’s back is held tightly against her front…
And Tahlia’s blade is poised at Cinda’s throat.
I gape at my sister, who holds the woman I was kissing only minutes ago in a near-deadly embrace, the sword pressing delicately against Cinda’s milk-white neck.
This is a nightmare.
Everything is happening far too fast.
I’m caught up in something I could have never predicted… But that’s been the whole bloody day, hasn't it? For better and for worse.
Tahlia raises a brow with calculated elegance, her grin deepening as her blue eyes bore into mine. She’s considering something, I can tell, as she watches me and then glances down at Cinda.
Her smile becomes shrewd.
“You've lost, knight,” she says, loud enough for all of her hostages to hear. They’re staring at me, I realize, waiting for me to act, as any true knight of Arktos would. I don’t think my sister will kill or even wound an innocent...but I can't be certain about much when it comes to Tahlia. It's been years since our last interaction. Maybe she's changed, grown coarse, cruel...
“I think,” Tahlia announces thoughtfully, theatrically, “that I'm going to take this lady with me. For...ransom.”
“Ransom?” I hiss, then shake my head, dropping the slat at her feet. “No. Let her go. She’s done you no harm.”
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