Chapter Fifteen The Fight Between Mates #2
“Good,” the healer said briskly. “Mutual imperfection established. Hold still while I make your arm less dramatic.”
Mara muttered, “I am learning so much about marriage.”
Hessa said, “Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Learn.”
Jory whispered, “Too late.”
Willa laughed.
Bad idea.
Ribs.
Torren looked up immediately.
“Pain.”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Yes.”
“Riksa?”
“Already aware,” Riksa said. “Because the patient made the face people make when pain occurs.”
She bound Willa’s ribs next, which was a new category of cruelty. By the time she finished, Willa was sweating, shaking, and no longer interested in proving anything except that lying down had virtues.
Torren remained beside her.
Not holding her down.
Not hovering above.
There.
His hand open near hers.
She took it after Riksa finished.
He looked at their hands.
“I will still want walls.”
“I know.”
“Doors.”
“I know.”
“My wolf wants to carry you to Pike Hollow and put the mountain over the entrance.”
“That seems excessive.”
“He disagrees.”
Her mouth softened.
“Tell him I am fond of sky.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles.
“He says sky has birds.”
“That is where birds go, yes.”
“Suspicious.”
“Your wolf is very tired.”
“Yes.”
The mark warmed.
Not healed.
Not settled.
But less raw.
Willa looked toward the center of Northroad.
Varric had not wasted the time.
Of course he had not.
He stood with Oren, Davra, Kalen, Orla, and three traders near the shrine wall.
Red Creek held Derren and the crossbowman.
The Redjaw attackers from the wagon fire were bound separately.
The masked man Torren had pinned was unconscious but alive.
Rauk had withdrawn, leaving lower pass and moonrise hanging over everyone like a blade suspended by thread.
Marek stood apart.
Selka stood apart from him.
Not far.
Far enough.
Willa watched Marek look at Selka, then at Oren, then at the ground.
“He will run,” she said.
Torren followed her gaze.
“Maybe.”
“Can we stop him?”
“Yes.”
“Should we?”
Torren’s jaw flexed.
“I do not know.”
That answer mattered.
Before, he might have said yes because Marek was useful. Or no because Marek was contemptible. Now he said he did not know because the shape had changed.
Marek had failed.
Marek had spoken.
Marek had become dangerous to everyone, including himself.
Selka turned suddenly and walked toward them.
Her face was too pale, her mouth too firm.
“He remembers more,” she said.
Willa struggled to sit up.
Torren’s hand moved, then stopped.
Good.
She sat with her own body and a small amount of help from the plank behind her.
“How do you know?”
Selka looked back at Marek.
“Because he is trying not to.”
Hessa came closer.
“That could describe half the men here.”
“No. I know this shape.”
Selka’s hand pressed briefly against her own hidden mark.
“The bond is pulling like a hooked thread. He is afraid of what he knows and more afraid that I will feel it.”
Willa’s stomach tightened.
“Do you?”
Selka’s face shut.
Then, to her credit and pain, opened enough for truth.
“Some.”
Riksa turned sharply.
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
“Coercive?”
Selka’s lips parted.
“I do not know.”
Riksa came to her immediately.
“Sit.”
“I am fine.”
“You are all fine until the ground proves otherwise. Sit.”
Selka sat on the edge of Willa’s plank, which looked strange and felt stranger.
Willa shifted to give her space and only regretted it a little.
Torren watched Selka with suspicion and concern fighting for the same narrow doorway.
“What does he know?” Hessa asked.
Selka closed her eyes.
“Mother.”
The word barely sounded.
Davra had said remember your mother.
Marek had broken.
Willa looked toward Marek again.
“His mother?”
Selka nodded.
“She died when he was young.”
“How?”
Selka’s throat moved.
“Frostmere says fever.”
Hessa’s face went blank.
“Frostmere says many things.”
Selka opened her eyes.
“When Davra said remember your mother, Marek remembered something with the lower archive. Not just grief. Fear.”
Riksa’s gaze sharpened.
“You felt that?”
“Yes.”
“Through the sour bond?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Horrible,” Selka snapped.
“Often related.”
Willa touched the blanket under her good hand.
“Could his mother be tied to the lower gate?”
Hessa answered before Selka could.
“Everyone old enough is tied to the lower gate now.”
Not an answer.
Also true.
A shout rose near the shrine wall.
They all turned.
Varric had lifted both hands again, calling for attention.
“The Redjaw challenge cannot be answered by private vengeance,” he said.
Of course.
He had found the next shape.
Torren’s hand tightened around Willa’s.
Varric continued, voice carrying across wounded Northroad.
“Rauk calls the north to lower pass at moonrise tomorrow. He names old debts, old gates, old blood. If each pack answers separately, he wins. If Pike Hollow answers alone, the north burns. If Frostmere hides records, suspicion grows. If Stonewatch claims command, mistrust grows. Then let us appoint a road council for one night only—”
Hessa swore.
“—to determine who attends, under what witness, and with what records.”
Traders murmured.
Minor-pack wolves listened.
Oren looked displeased but not dismissive.
Davra looked thoughtful.
Orla looked furious.
Varric had wrapped a permanent ambition in temporary language.
One night only.
Order, not rule.
Witness, not control.
Willa hated how reasonable it sounded after blood.
“He is good,” she said.
Torren’s face was dark.
“Yes.”
“We cannot just say no.”
“No.”
“We need a better answer.”
“Yes.”
Hessa looked at her.
“Do you have one?”
Willa was tired. Bleeding. Ribs bound. Arm throbbing. Mark aching. Smoke still in her throat. Redjaw had nearly taken her blood. Torren had nearly become their story. Marek knew something about his mother. Varric was turning panic into structure before the mud dried.
She wanted to sleep.
She wanted to bite something.
She wanted a bath, which seemed absurdly distant.
Instead, she looked at Orla.
Red Creek witness.
Mara.
Traders.
Miri and Arlen, back at Red Creek.
Bluebank’s Nera Saff beside the rescued chest.
Selka, sour-bonded and still speaking.
Hessa, bloody and old-grieved.
Jory, idiot hero with a small knife.
Noll, steady as a mountain.
Torren, feral alpha, exact enough to save witnesses who hated him.
“Not council,” Willa said.
Hessa’s eyes narrowed.
Torren turned toward her.
“Circle.”
Hessa smiled slowly.
“Witness circle.”
“No appointed head. No Stonewatch coordination. No Frostmere locked records. Everyone who attends lower pass brings one record, one witness, and one person who can contradict them.”
Selka looked up.
“That is chaos.”
“No. It is inconvenient.”
Mara, listening nearby, nodded.
“I trust inconvenient more than orderly when alphas are involved.”
Hessa said, “One person who can contradict them.”
“Yes,” Willa said. “Frostmere brings Davra’s record and Marek.”
Selka went still.
“Stonewatch brings Varric’s road claims and Derren,” Willa continued. “Pike Hollow brings Hessa’s memory and Torren. Bluebank brings Arlen’s account if he can speak, or Miri/Nera if he cannot. Red Creek records. Traders attend because roads feed them before they feed alphas.”
Mara lifted the pan.
“Correct.”
Orla heard enough to begin walking toward them.
Torren looked at Willa.
“You are injured.”
“Yes.”
“You are still building traps.”
“No. I am building something Varric cannot sit at the head of.”
His mouth almost moved.
Pride warmed the mark.
Fear under it.
Still.
He did not say no.
Good.
Orla arrived.
“Say that again.”