Now, more than ever, Vallen needed more wolves, more members of the guard, more defenders. But this month yielded up none at all. Anders couldn’t remember there ever being none before.
He slid his hand into a tall man’s fancy coat pocket as a frail-looking girl made her way down the steps, head low. The twins were a little closer to the dais—and a little farther from an escape route—than Anders liked to be. Rayna was completely confident as she tossed her braid again and accidentally bumped into a pair of merchers, but Anders didn’t have her courage, and his hand was shaking as he tried for one final coin.
He couldn’t help watching the girl making her way down from the stage, feeling bad for her. Her shirt and trousers were neat but plain, a little old-fashioned. She’d come in from the countryside with her parents, most likely, and it would be a long trip home with nothing to show for it.
He curled his fingers around a coin that felt heavy—silver, perhaps. And maybe because his mind was on the girl, imagining the creak of the cart as they drove home in silence, he caught his wrist on the seam at the edge of the pocket, and for an instant his hand was stuck. He cursed inwardly, easing it free, lifting onto the balls of his feet so he could step back the moment it was clear—but it was too late. The mercher turned his head almost in slow-motion, eyes widening, mouth opening to shout.
“Thief!” he bellowed, one hand clamping down on Anders’s wrist with an iron grip. Anders only had time to drop the coin back into his pocket before he was yanked off balance, hauled forward so the man could get a better look at him. No, no! Why did he always mess things up? “This boy was picking my pocket,” the man announced, glaring down at Anders, his thick blond brows crowding together in disapproval.
“I wasn’t!” Anders protested automatically. “I don’t have anything in my hand!” Because I just dropped it back into your pocket. But he knew that wasn’t going to be enough. When he lifted his head, he could already see a member of the guard jumping down from the dais to push through the crowd toward him, and the people around them were drawing back, like they wanted to distance themselves from the crime.
“You’re a thief,” the man insisted, as Anders tried in vain to stop himself shaking, forcing himself not to look at Rayna—he couldn’t afford for her to be caught too. “And if you have nothing, it’s only because you’re a bad one. In a minute, my child, you’re going to wish you’d been good.”
CHAPTER THREE
ONE MOMENT ANDERS WAS STARING UP AT the mercher holding his wrist, trying not to whimper at the pain of his wrist bones practically grinding together, breath stuck in his throat as terror crept through him. And the next moment, Rayna was at his side.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, barging through a pair of women to reach Anders. “Get your hands off him, you bully! He was just trying to get past.”
“Past?” the man repeated, blinking. His grip on Anders didn’t slacken, but like most people confronted with Rayna, he already looked a little overwhelmed.
“Past,” she repeated, rolling her eyes, as if he needed the word spoken a little slower so he’d understand. “You don’t look like you’re twelve to me, so unless you’re here for the Trial, you need to get out of the way of those of us trying to get in the line. You’re standing right here in front of it, blocking the way, so what did you expect? It’s not this boy’s fault he’s too polite to shove through.”
“And who are you?” he asked, drawing himself up to his full height, pulling Anders a stumbling step closer. Anders winced. Rayna was as nimble with her words as she was with her feet, but Anders didn’t like the way this was heading.
Rayna didn’t miss a beat. “I’m the girl who was trying to get behind him in the line,” she replied, as though it was obvious. That was the first rule of defending each other—never admit you were twins. People believed you more easily if they didn’t think you had anything to do with the other one. “Now, can we get to the dais or not?”
The dais? Anders froze.
By now a member of the Wolf Guard had arrived—a tall woman with a flawless gray uniform, her cloak hanging open to reveal the crisp shirt and trousers below, black boots shining. The crest of Ulfar—a fierce wolf guarding the city of Holbard itself—snarled down at Anders from where it was fixed on her chest. “You’re here for the Trial?” she asked, gaze falling on Rayna.
“We both are,” Rayna said, at the same time as the man still holding Anders tried to protest they were here for nothing of the sort. But his grip slackened, and Anders yanked his wrist free, rubbing it with his other hand.
“Then you should be on the dais,” the woman said, turning to lead the way back toward it without another word. Before the man had a chance to protest, Rayna grabbed Anders’s hand and hauled him toward the dais in the woman’s wake.
People were turning toward them from every direction, and Anders kept his head down, face hot. Rayna had got them out of the frying pan and into the fire, as always, and he was left trying to catch up, wishing that for once he’d been quick enough on his feet to know the right thing to say, the right thing to do.
But instead, he was climbing the wooden stairs to the dais, only a few feet from the Fyrstulf herself, every face in the crowd turned toward him. He glanced out at them, knowing what they saw—a gangly boy in patched and battered clothes, blinking awkwardly at all the attention, with hair in need of a cut and face in need of a wash.
He knew as well that he was thinking about his appearance to avoid thinking of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him, all waiting for him to do or say something that would reveal he had no right to be on the dais at all. He and Rayna had no idea who their parents, let alone ancestors, were, but he was sure there was nothing special about them.
What happened if you touched the Staff of Hadda without a single drop of wolf blood in your veins? Perhaps they’d get out of this yet—just fail the Trial and manage to slip away before the angry mercher caught up with them. The crowd was still nervous after that huge gust of wind, which might make it easier to disappear.
Rayna was standing ahead of him—after all, she’d physically hauled him up the stairs—and she shot the Fyrstulf her most winning smile, stepping up front and center to present her family history. This should be interesting.
“My name is Estrid Larsen,” she announced, which was news to Anders along with everyone else, though he wasn’t surprised. If the first rule of staying safe together was never admitting you were connected, the second was never giving your real names. “And my family is strong in ice wolf blood. My grandmother was Ida Larsen, who was a member of the Wolf Guard, and—”
“What was that name?” Sigrid Turnsen, the Fyrstulf, was frowning.
“Ida Larsen,” Rayna—uh, Estrid—supplied helpfully.
“I don’t recall her,” Sigrid said, still frowning.
“Oh, she was from out of town,” Rayna assured her glibly.
“But to be a member of the Wolf Guard, she must have lived in Holbard,” Sigrid pointed out. The crowd was looking far too interested in this turn of events. Including the mercher, who had made his way to the front to wait for his turn with Anders.