“You’ll always be my baby sister,” Tor argued. “Whether you’re seven or seventy, I’ll never stop wanting to protect you.” He moved a step backwards. “Now, why did you risk coming here, Mouse? Did something happen?”
Mouse.
Little mouse.
Her father’s nickname for her.
Kiva had to blink back tears, having forgotten that Tor used to call her that as well. It took her a moment before she could respond, “Something’s wrong with me. I need to talk to you and Zulee, somewhere private.”
Torell held her gaze before he nodded and grabbed her hand, leading her back into the tavern. His skin was firm, his fingers callused, bringing Kiva’s attention to the deadly array of weapons strapped to him, just like last time.
Her brother, the warrior.
So different from the young boy who had picked wildflowers with her and chased butterflies in the meadow beside their cottage, from the child who had nursed an injured fawn back to health and declared he would spend his life aiding sick animals. There was no trace of that gentle boy in the hard young man leading Kiva through the gloomy tavern, every part of him edged and lethal. At least physically. On the inside, she still saw traces of the brother she’d always felt closest to.
The first time Kiva had used magic, it was Tor whom she had gone to for comfort, her parents having never shared about Tilda’s bloodline in the hope that none of their children would inherit her healing power. Kiva still remembered begging her mother for stories of the ancient royals Sarana Vallentis and Torvin Corentine, just as she remembered wishing for her own magic.
When the golden light had exploded out of her one day, it was Tor who had held her close as their mother finally shared her secret, warning that a target would be painted on Kiva’s back if anyone learned the truth of what she could do; it was Tor who had wiped the tears from her eyes and promised he would keep her safe, that nothing would ever happen to her.
He hadn’t been able to keep that promise. Not as a child.
But something told Kiva that the man he’d grown into would fight until his last breath if it meant protecting her from harm.
“Pull your hood up,” Torell ordered quietly as they reached the tavern exit. He dipped his chin in farewell to the barmaid, but there was no sign of the innkeeper. Kiva would just have to thank him when she returned.
“I have a mare in the stable,” she said as he led her toward a dark horse tethered to a wooden hitching post. “Should I —”
Before she could finish, Torell swung onto his mount, hauling her up behind him, her legs catching uncomfortably on his bulging saddlebags.
“Keep your face covered,” he told her, “and hold on.”
Kiva’s hood flew back as they took off at a gallop, but she didn’t dare loosen her grip on him, certain she’d fall straight off the rear of the horse.
Reaching the edge of the village, Tor steered them away from the main road and into the dense trees, dodging branches and splashing through creeks at an alarming pace. When they finally slowed, Kiva was breathing heavily and clinging to him with a white-knuckled grip.
“Are you trying to kill us?” she cried, slapping his shoulder.
Torell had the audacity to chuckle. “Olix knows these woods inside and out. We were perfectly safe.”
“One misstep and we could have broken our necks!”
“You know I’d never let that happen,” Tor said. “Is your hood still up?”
“No, my hood isn’t up,” she gritted out. “It hasn’t been up since you tried to beat the land-speed record for fastest idiocy on horseback.”
“That’s not a thing,” Tor said, humor threading his tone. “We’re coming up to camp, and I don’t want to risk anyone seeing your face, so pull it back up.” He dug through one of his saddlebags and withdrew a silvery object, passing it back to her. “Put that on, too.”
Kiva was vaguely aware of Tor withdrawing another silvery object, keeping that one for himself, but her focus was on what she held.
Between her fingers was a mask — one made almost entirely of coiled serpents.
Vipers, if she had to guess.
Leaning around Torell, she saw he also held a mask, his forged into a distinctly canine shape.
“The Viper and the Jackal,” Kiva mused. “They really have no idea who you are, do they?”
“We don’t trust easily,” Torell said, affixing the mask to his face. “Not even among our own.”
Kiva followed his lead, donning what must have been Zuleeka’s mask and raising her cloak again.