Cleopatra shrugged. “A woman ought to be able to chart her own course in life.”
“Which is exactly what I was doing”—Sorcha turned to glower at me—“before I had to open my coffers to spill such an exorbitant amount of money on you, little sister.” She sighed. “I was almost there. Now it will take me years, if ever, to gather that sum again. I can no longer fight in the games. Not with a dim eye and a weak arm.”
“What happened?” I silently cursed myself for asking the question. I didn’t want to care, but she was still my sister.
She paused, her expression unreadable, and for a moment I thought she wouldn’t answer. But eventually she said, “I attempted the Morrigan’s Flight during a pageant.”
I sucked in a breath, imagining the moment vividly.
“I fell, of course,” she continued. “It’s an impossible feat. The chariot wheel clipped my shoulder and ran over my helmet, leaving me with this.” She waved a hand at the scar on the left side of her face.
I fought an absurd urge to tell Sorcha about my own successful—mostly successful—attempt at the same maneuver, as if I were still a little girl trying to impress her older sister.
“It ended my days in the arena. And there’s not one girl in the ranks who could draw the kind of purses I did in my day.” Her frustration was palpable, like the close, crackling feeling on your skin before a storm. “I even had the papers drawn up so that if I died, the ludus would pass unencumbered to Thalestris so that she could continue my legacy and keep the gladiatrices safe. And free.”
“Papers?” I frowned.
“A contract. Signed and witnessed and legally binding.”
I’d heard of such things, but it seemed a very silly way to do things. Vellum could burn, papyrus could tear. What in the world was wrong with a good solid blood oath?
“Romans and their contracts.” I shook my head, angry and confused that Sorcha had stooped to such nonsense. “Bits of parchment and scribbling—”
“Yes.” Sorcha was adamant. “And every bit as binding to them as a blood oath is to you and me. Don’t you see? Freedom, Fallon. That’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. It’s why we fought the Romans on our own soil. It’s why Arviragus laid waste to his own lands. And if I have to fight now with silver coins and ink and paper instead of a sword to win freedom for me and mine, I will still do it with a warrior’s heart.”
“Why didn’t you come to me when I first got here?” I asked quietly. “Was it because you didn’t think I was worthy?”
“No. I stayed away because . . .” She turned her face from me, and the light from the glowing brazier washed her profile in fire. “Because I feared you wouldn’t think I was.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Sorcha had never been anything but worthy in my mind, up until that night.
“I know you think that what we do here is somehow less honorable than the kind of fighting our clans do back home,” she continued. “But it’s not, Fallon. The world is a great deal wider than the fields and forests around Durovernum. You think the royal war band was more honorable than the men and women who fight and die on the sands of the arena? Back there we fought over stolen cattle and slighted pride. Here, I’m fighting for family. For a sisterhood. For you.”
Suddenly her eyes narrowed, and she shot to her feet. Before I could react, she reached out and snatched the black feather that I’d forgotten was still tied in my hair.
“Where did this come from?” she asked, holding it up between us.
“A bird, I should think.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I found it on my pillow one night when I returned to my cell from the baths,” I said. “The same night I saw a dead crow at the feet of the Minerva statue.”
I watched, astonished, as all the blood drained from my sister’s face. She tore the ebony quill from my braid and snapped it in two, throwing it into the flames of her brazier. A thread of black smoke rose from it, and a faint acrid stink wafted through the tent.
“Fallon, all these years, you’ve thought me dead. It would be for the best if you continued to think of me that way. You cannot—you must not—tell anyone who you are.”
For a moment, it seemed to me as if my sister was abandoning me all over again. But then I saw the look in her eyes and saw that wasn’t what this was about. An uneasy shiver ran up my spine at the look in her eyes. It reminded me of when one of the chariot horses would spook at something only their animal senses could perceive. I remembered the conversation I’d had with Cai—about ravens and omens—and I wondered if the feather curling to ash in the brazier hadn’t been some kind of portent. A warning, maybe, or a threat.
“Promise me, Fallon,” she demanded.
Either living in this treacherous place had unhinged her, I thought, or there was something she wasn’t telling me. Either way, it seemed as if my brave sister had been reduced to jumping at shadows.