“Sorry, Ana, didn’t mean to be tardy,” Ramson said, his sharp hazel eyes trained on Sorsha. “I see my baby sister’s made quite the mess. Here, Sister Dearest, I think you dropped this.”
And he let loose another arrow.
Sorsha fended off Ramson’s second arrow, swinging one of her iron plates to shield herself—but the arrow had achieved its intended purpose: to distract her from Ana.
A savage sort of spark had flared inside Ramson when he’d seen his half sister holding Ana. Every nerve in his body, every fiber of his being, had stretched taut, and he’d moved as though propelled by an invisible force, cutting through air like the gods willed him.
She was alive.
And she wasright in front of him.
Ramson slammed his blackstone helmet back onto his head, the visor snapping down just as Sorsha swung out a hand to him. He’d needed to show his face to goad her and lead her away, to execute his plan.
His men hid in the nearby alleyways, beneath shop awnings and behind walls, their entire bodies covered in blackstone armor. Undetectable. Several streets down, Daya’s forces lay in wait: a second line of defense should Ramson’s unit fail.
For now, Ramson strolled down the streets toward Sorsha alone, knowing that the eye of every single soldier in his squadand in Daya’s army was trained on him. He felt vulnerable—Sorsha could easily pierce his blackstone armor like paper with her iron spikes—but Ramson knew she wouldn’t do that yet. His half sister watched his approach with the slanted eyes of a cat trailing a mouse.
Sorsha wouldn’t kill him without playing a game first.
He raised his hand in a casual wave. “Salutations to you, Sister Dearest,” he said cheerfully. “Is murder on your itinerary again? Shame, you really ought to diversify your interests. Have you tried reading?”
Sorsha straightened, her face alight with frenzied bloodlust as she surveyed him. She wiped spittle from her chin and bared her teeth in a snarl. “Brother Dearest,” she simpered, and then her voice rose into a shriek. “Did you think you could chain me forever, with that little collar of yours?”
He looked to her neck, which was bare but for a strip of paler flesh where the blackstone collar that their father had used to control Sorsha’s powers had once rested. It was long gone now, as evidenced by the trail of destruction she had left in the wake of her journey through Cyrilia.
Ramson raised his misericord, the blackstone-enforced metal glinting pale in the drained morning light. “Interested in playing another game with me?” he called. “You haven’t won yet, as I recall.”
“Oh, I’ll win,” Sorsha snarled, spreading her arms, the iron spike and disk she held at her sides transforming into two long, thick blades. “As soon as I skewer this bitch.”
And then she turned and plunged an iron blade into Ana.
—
Ramson heard his own shout as though it had come from someone else. He was running, misericord out, each step thundering against the cobblestones, and yet somehow still he couldn’t move fast enough.
Through the pounding of his heart in his ears and the rush of blood to his head, he heard Sorsha’s laughter. “Oh, howprecious!” she screamed. “You love her, don’t you? Just like Daddy Dearest loved your filthy mother!”
Ramson reached to his hip, drew out a blackstone throwing dagger, and flung it. Sorsha’s face twisted into a snarl as she raised her hand to defend herself—but instead of iron soaring to her fingertips, flames exploded from her knuckles.
He heard her shriek as his blade cut into her flesh.
The fire subsided; she bent over, the blade of his dagger now protruding from her waist. When she looked up, her expression was ugly. “No moregames,Brother Dearest,” she snarled, and plucked out the dagger. She dropped it to the stone path of the bridge, its clink resonating even over the roar of the Tiger’s Tail below. “I won’t be fooled again.”
But Ramson was staring at her hand, where she’d conjured flames instead of calling up her iron.So she makes mistakes,he thought. Back in the Blue Fort, Ardonn had explained that siphons could only borrow the properties of that which they stole, and that siphon bearers had difficulty controlling their new Affinities. Bogdan himself had died when his Affinity spun out of control. Would it not make sense that Sorsha wasn’t familiar enough yet with all her Affinities to wield them effectively?
If so…
Ramson raised his hand. Crooked two fingers.
At his signal, his men poured out from every alleyway in thesurrounding area, their arrows nocked. Ramson made another gesture: one that would communicate to Daya and her army to remain where she was. He’d seen Sorsha pulverize a Redcloak from far away; her possession of Ana’s blood Affinity, coupled with her uninhibited penchant for violence, made her extremely dangerous to anyone without blackstone equipment.
Ramson turned to his half sister. She was bent over a balustrade between him and Ana, only twenty or so steps away. Still too far. And still too close to Ana.
He looked to her left wrist, where a sea-green band wound around her flesh.
“What’s the matter?” he called. “Too weak to handle the siphon properly? I always knew you were no more than a sniveling little girl, crying for Daddy’s approval.”
Sorsha looked up. Her eyes were blazing. With a wild scream, she flung two blades of iron at him. Ramson dodged them both, heard them crack against lampposts and trees behind him.
