Killing, if you commit to the act, is as inevitable as dying. Killing is easy, we do it every day; killing the old emotions we once harboured—snuffing outdated sentiments like deserters against a wall. Running them through, to make way for new needs and wants and weaknesses. Suicidal skin cells die to be refreshed by new ones. We kill our relationships, our hobbies, and our homes. Comfort is a painkiller. Every decision made massacres every other possible choice. Most things, corporeal or merely conceptual, are finite. Killable. Taking a life, then, is but one of many acts of killing we can perform, but it’s the only one that’ll label you a killer.

This is a story of a Princess and her Doll; lovers and killers.

This is a story of the covetous moth and Death’s long beak.

This is a story of orphans and their mother, the almighty.

Death and rebirth. On the other side of killing is conceiving. Giving birth, if you commit to the act, is as inevitable as being born. Conception is simple, we do it every day. Eggs of thought shape into ideas and drives and we nurture them until they, too, are ready to be killed.

This is a story of reincarnation; the magic of whales. Of inevitable change and futile chase. All change is violent, a bloody abortion of what once was, and yet… and yet…

The whalesong will bring you home.

Chapter One: Knight, Mule

“It’ll be even easier than I thought to follow their trail.” Anarres Báncourte sighed with relief as she crouched by the mud outside her family home, which she was leaving once again. Her real home was elsewhere; stolen. “We’re lucky it was raining, but even so, these are… they must have at least two dozen horses with them, and their carriages appear to be huge.”

“Well, they’re from far enough across the ocean that I’ve never seen their insignia before, but I’d wager they’ve got deep coffers. This uniform is brand new and much gaudier than the scuffed hand-me-down leathers I’m accustomed to.” Maggie Haine gave a relaxed smile, running her gloved hands across the black coat and stretching in her tight doublet. She looked ridiculous, thought Anarres, who wanted nothing more than to strip her rival-turned-bodyguard where she stood.

Maggie caught her former sister in arms staring at her with that sharp, narrow look that almost felt imposing, and her ingratiating simper became a goading smirk. Anarres’ eyes flicked to her other companion, Dahlie, who was staring out at the road ahead, before her gaze returned to Maggie. Anarres’ fingers were twitching; if she were to backhand Maggie right there and assert her dominance, like Auntie Tav would, who was going to stop her? Just the fantasy alone was enough to calm her down. She decided to spare her bodyguard the violence this time, but only because her wrist was yet strained from when she had slugged her in the dungeon.

“Looking’s free, Lady Báncourte, but touching’ll cost you some humility. If you’re feeling bad about hitting me, I’ll let you kiss it better, ‘kay?” Maggie drew nearer, snaking an arm around her charge’s waist and pulling her close, as she had back on the night Ana had her fate read. A lot had happened between then and now; The Page had become intimately familiar with the nipping sting of her new sword, long before finding that scabbard of guilt to tether it to her hip with. Here Maggie was, thinking herself the charmer, while Anarres leaned into the hold nursing a terrible desire to correct her blade’s cocky demeanour—to fix her, just as she had Dahlie.

Instead, Anarres dropped her head onto Miss Haine’s shoulder and gave her this. The sellsword would not know until later that she was being pitied. Her smirk did not falter, for she had tricked herself into thinking that her desires, and her promises, could be concealed by the thin linen walls of a tent, and the feverous spontaneity that takes you on the nights before a battle. She had made the mistake of thinking that Anarres was a reasonable woman.

Dahlie turned around to see her mother being held like a lover and felt something rotten stirring in her chest. Anarres’ devoted daughter cleared her throat before speaking. “Without horses, this is about all we can carry between the three of us. We should start walking now, or we’ll be camping with the fort still in view by the time it gets dark.” The Doll gestured to the three leather knapsacks sitting at her feet, each of them packed so tight they were barely held shut by their buckles. One for each of them, Anarres supposed, shifting a sly glance to her side which was caught in Maggie’s periphery.

“Since you’re so keen on playing the chivalrous knight, Maggie, you can go ahead and carry two, can’t you?” The former Doll’s lips brushed against Maggie’s earlobe, causing the poor human to pull away with a shudder. Leaning down to hook an arm around just one of the three bags, Maggie did her best to ignore the heat that had come to tint her cheeks. Inside the packs were all the resources they could carry for the journey ahead: two medium sized tents, two large leather costrels, a generous amount of hard bread and dried meat, strong alcohol, wound dressing, fire-starting tools, and spare boots which hung from each bag’s back.

“Sure, if I get carte blanche on the bouse.” Maggie snorted, and Anarres could see—plain as the clear blue day, since the rainclouds had parted—that she was still not being taken seriously. Again, her fingers twitched. The white-haired noblewoman opened her mouth to say something, not yet knowing what form her foul speech might take as she prepared to surrender to fiery impulse. She was almost grateful when Dahlie’s voice of reason stopped her from speaking her mind—whatever that was.

“Absolutely not! That’s for bartering, or medical emergencies, only.” The Doll glared at what she could only perceive as a third wheel, an interloper who threatened to get in the way of her personal time with her Mother. Maggie picked up on this animosity, and the reason for it, with impressive perception. She, too, was sharp when she wanted to be. Like any good sword should be.

“Yeah, yeah. Oh well. I think I’m quitting alcohol anyway, after…” The usually cocky merc trailed off, staring down at her tight black leathers as she slung the bag over her shoulder. Anarres felt her growing need to push the woman down recede, temporarily, when she recalled the poisoning act that Maggie had committed. The woman was a killer long before today, but this was a massacre. It was considered dishonourable—ignoble—to take lives so underhandedly. Without a sword; without line of sight. Anarres couldn’t quite decide whether she was horrified by the extreme decision her companion had arrived at, or darkly impressed by the follow through. Still… unlike herself, who took great pride in the way she baited those damnable men into their shallow graves, Maggie was evidently guilt-stricken. Anarres could not help feeling smug. Worse, it turned her on, when she realised how vulnerable this wound made her new bodyguard. That recession of desire for a perceived supremacy—in lieu of her Godmother’s placation—ended within mere seconds. Anarres’ libido was a killer.

“Coward,” whispered the last of the Báncourtes, reluctantly crouching down to pick up her share of the weight they needed to haul. And with that, they were ready. Her boots collapsing into mud still wet from the rain, Anarres felt that pressure in her chest ease off as a result of finally speaking her mind—shrugging off the social bondage that had made her want to vomit.

If Maggie had heard her, the woman had decided to hide it.

“Stop swinging that thing around, you’re going to end up hurting yourself.” Anarres chided Maggie like a stern mother, bringing a nostalgic little smile to Dahlie’s lips. The Doll stood close to her Mother’s left, while Maggie was off to the right, brandishing her hunting sword like she had something to prove. They were, between the three of them, very light on weaponry; none of them had dared to broach the topic of what exactly Anarres sought to do with such little power once they reached the end of the trail they were following. She was hoping dearly—adopting her Auntie Tav’s orphaned gambling spirit—for a lightly guarded, open encampment, and not a fortress. Or worse, an empty shoreline.

Still, they were not unarmed; along with Maggie’s hunting sword hung an arbalest from her belt, which was her preferred weapon of choice for taking the lives of fellow humans on the battlefield. Maggie was a mercenary woman through and through, so she never saw her victims as enemies—only marks. Kills put food on her table, or impressed Tavia Von Durenburg. Now, they kept her neurotic charge safe. It was never personal. Additionally, Dahlie was still wearing her servant’s uniform—padded with extra layers for warmth—which hid a knife sewn into the sleeve as sharp as her senses, and Anarres’ arming sword swung against her hip, ready to be drawn so that she may slit the throats of her lovely Princess’s abductors in their sleep. For killers like them, it was enough.

“What did you call me earlier? Your chivalrous knight? Like the ring to that, it’s much better than being at one another’s throats all the damn time. I’ve not thought about hurting you once since we cut the boss out of the picture. Maybe it’s for the best after all…” There it was again, Maggie’s guilt. Her uncertainty. It was pissing Anarres off here just as much as it had back in the keep. She truly loathed it, and resented Maggie for daring to taint her own cocky spiel with such a wretched cancer of a feeling.

“If you’re my knight, then I command you to put your fucking sword away. And stop sulking over that monster, I’d wager she’s hurt me more than any ne’er-do-well that receives your quarrel on this long road ahead possibly ever could.” Anarres decided, at this juncture, not to confess that she herself had imagined hurting Maggie just about every single time the overconfident shit had opened her mouth since they set out.

Maggie cocked her head and spat, twirling her blade like the fancy handwork—which would help her none in hunt or battle—was supposed to impress Anarres. Such a child, thought Ana, running a hand through her hair to still her nerves—cull the rising temper. She was an experienced killer in this regard, though always tended to lose her head eventually. Tavia knew how to push her buttons on purpose; Maggie did it just as well by accident.

“Well, whatever. I think I’d make a half decent knight, personally. If I was born under a luckier star perhaps I’d have—”

“Behind us.” Dahlie alerted the other two, whose senses were not quite as keen, to the sound of clopping hooves at their back. The three women turned almost in unison, laying eyes upon a single rider who had already begun to move over to the side of the well travelled road to pass them. Anarres’ tense shoulders relaxed as she watched the private trader cut across the path. Maggie, too, quickly lost interest in the rider once her cursory glance assessed them as non-threatening. Too civilian. The packhorse was loaded with sidebags, no doubt filled with goods to be bartered on the road.

So then, it begged the question: why was the merchant simply choosing to pass by their potential customers, without opening a dialogue for potential trade? Dahlie’s mind spun like clockwork. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion while her companions dropped their guard; they were not sharp knives like Dahlie was, but a dull blade destined for the grindstone and a Mother who was to be protected at all costs. They did not pick up on the nuances of the situation because their thoughts were elsewhere; Maggie’s were on Anarres, and Anarres’ on her Princess. It was only because she killed her insecurity—burnt away those jealous feelings regarding her Mother’s single-minded affection with a searing hot brand—that Dahlie, too, was not elsewhere.

“Maggie, get your—”

“Good afternoon and well met, ladies. It is not every day I meet a group of women travelling on their own.” The rider’s voice was surprisingly haughty, carrying none of that common taint Anarres’ learned, begrudgingly, to endure a long time ago. This was the voice of somebody of noble birth, like Miss Bancourte herself—or somebody who had gone to great lengths to imitate a high-born way of speech in any case.

As the hooded merchant—whose dark complexion alone was, sadly, enough to question the legitimacy of her vocation—slowed her trot to the left of the group, Maggie caught sight of the object being lifted and killed her complacency. She fumbled for her own crossbow, but found her hands moved clumsy with the weight of that sword to contend with. She was a breath too slow, her fingers halting in their crawl when the brigand’s bolt landed mere inches from her foot. Anarres scoffed humourlessly at Maggie’s failing, watching the woman freeze up at the close shot; it wasn’t common for most who wielded an arbalest to be particularly accurate. She could have punctured those shiny new leather boots, Ana thought sardonically.

“It seems to be your lucky day. My horse is tired, and as you can see I’ve had a lucrative morning.” The woman gestured to her sidebags with a pompous flair, drawing attention to a detail that now seemed too obvious to miss: they were all different, the bags; mismatched. She was a full time hold-up artist, and a true professional at that, for despite her smug posturing, her crossbow’s steady aim did not so much as twitch out of place. “You,” the thief gestured to Dahlie, diamond shaped steel point staring her down like a viper, “bring that bag over and show me the contents. If I like what I see, I’ll take it and be on my way. I’m an honourable lady, you rats would do well to treat me as such.”

Maggie saw red. She took stock of the faux-noblewoman and clenched her fists so hard Anarres could hear the leather creaking. The woman sitting on the horse was dressed rather fancifully, but this alone was not cause for suspicion; successful merchants had a tendency to pay their way past the sumptuary laws here, and with the capital having moved north since the sacking of The Golden Cove, the south had become a haven for those wishing to skirt the law. This made it a good home for violent mercenaries like The Split Tongues, along with apparent invaders from overseas. The woman was dressed, then, like an honourable lady—with a garish red chaperon hood held in place by ornate silver brooch, matching hose and a girded black cotte and puffy doublet. That last item piqued the group’s interest the most, because that slashed-sleeve style was not something they had seen before—save for on the doublet worn by Maggie herself, in that foreign garb. Still, for all her expensive shine, Maggie was dressed as a soldier, Dahlie was dressed in a simple maid uniform, and Anarres wore the same padded brown gambeson she had during her days as a mercenary—unbefitting of the royal Doll. If this stand-off were a duel of contesting fashions, their prim and proper outlaw would still have them beat.

“You’re a fuckin—”

“Maggie. Quiet.” Anarres silenced her hired sword with a piercing stare that told the raven haired ‘knight’ that if she did indeed see red, then Anarres saw hell itself.

Dahlie sensed her Mother’s need for this to be over quickly, without quarrel of any kind, and acquiesced with the thief’s request before Maggie could make herself any more of a liability. “Just the one bag, yes? We’ll be on the road awhile, and we’ve no horse as you can plainly see. These resources are the difference between life and death for us.” The Doll’s tone was polite, but dry; matter-of-fact. She made her point with care not to disturb the emotions of the scene, which was an impressive feat when appealing to somebody’s humanity.

“Just the one, then. But not you.” The stranger’s eyes fixed upon The Page’s. “You.”

Anarres’ hate died, killed by her own bloodied hands, and was reborn into self-loathing. “Am I the least threatening?” She smirked sharply; her derision had a razor-edge. One foot forwards, then the next. She was already slipping the knapsack from her shoulder, needing this to be over as soon as possible, for every second they wasted on pointless bullshit like this was creating distance between themselves and the Princess. It was evident by the tracks that the horses were running fast despite pulling carts; they’d either need switching out soon, or they were not going all too far.

“The most desperate to see the back of me. Your pretty serving girl here is poised too cautiously, like she’s ready to retaliate if I give her an opening. Your eyes have not darted to that sword on your hip even once, however, so I can trust in your resignation.” The woman spoke like a member of nobility, but Anarres—who actually wore the title—could catch where that performance flagged; faulty enunciations and the faint hint of a foreign accent no doubt originating from labourers, like those Anarres had seen in the cove. This explained their stranger’s complexion, anyway, and perhaps her line of work too—for in this continent, one with skin such as hers would be paid a pittance compared to her whiter fellows, were she a man, and as a woman… it was either a life of childbearing, whoring, or this. Ana hated to accept some degree of respect for this woman she would kill in a heartbeat if it were not too great a risk to try. While the Princess coveted Anarres for her snowy white skin, like that of a porcelain doll’s, Anarres could not have cared less about the colour of a person’s face, for she was privileged enough—sheltered enough—not to care. Her nobility died when she became a member of The Split Tongues, a gang of reprobates hailing from all walks of life, equal in their worthlessness, but her thoughts remained unchanged. She was not ignorant, but indifferent. All Anarres ever truly respected was high status, grace, and of course, beauty—in whatever form those seemed to take. The scarred wretch was forced to concede that this woman robbing them blind had her beat on all three cylinders.

“I’m not a coward.” Anarres’ face flushed as she made her steady, plodding approach to the hold-up artist’s side, opening her bag slowly to prove its contents a worthy spoil. She hated what a child she must have sounded in that slip of insecure speech, taking her back to that headspace she fell into around her abusive Godmother. The thief was nothing like Tavia in build or beauty, but she carried that same smug condescension that almost felt nostalgic after less than a day apart.

“Of course you’re not, pretty.” The woman reached out with her free hand and stroked Anarres’ sunken porcelain cheek with the backs of her knuckles, arbalest squarely fixed on the other’s forehead, ready to loosen a bolt should Anarres so much as twitch. The woman stood as still as a doll; this was nothing. She could endure this. “You’re simply pragmatic. A very clever girl.”

Anarres did not recoil. She clenched her tongue between her teeth like she meant to bite through the muscle and cull her speech for good. That wouldn’t do. Her body sought a new method of calm, and the neurons and glia in her head acquiesced. She no longer had to blame herself for anything. This was Maggie’s transgression; the guilt belonged to her and her alone. As Anarres endured the robber’s teasing, as she obediently closed up the knapsack and secured it onto the side of the woman’s horse, she was elsewhere. Anarres was in the future, mere minutes from now, making her fury known. She was stripping Maggie—in the open—out of that obnoxious uniform and beating her naked body into the dirt. Marring the woman’s bared flesh with a flower garden of bruises she’d make sure to have Dahlie water later, with soft kisses of aftercare Anarres herself would not care to give directly. She was screaming at the unforgivable disappointment who dared to consider her family, of a sort, until her throat burned with righteous indignation, and then she was striking the pitiful mongrel some more to punish her for that soreness. Anarres was laughing, inconsolably, as she used the flat of her arming sword to leave welts across the whimpering cub’s back, rear and thighs, knowing not how to practice restraint. Discipline was a ghost, killed by the hatred roiling in her aching skull, and Anarres’ immoderate, cruel blows were enough to bend her blade to the point of uselessness. Two for the price of one. She threw one broken sword aside and spat upon the shuddering, prone form of another, using the sole of her boot to rub it into the wounds like a budget salve; saliva promotes clotting, it’s why we lick our wounds. Wishing to take one last look upon her lowly little knight before leaving her there in the mud, Anarres turned the thing onto its back with her boot, and Maggie stared up at her with the same lost eyes that all her daughters did. She was grasping at something to give the violence reason, letting adoration lick across the wounds impressed upon her psyche. Quietly, ever so faintly, Maggie thanked her tormentor—and apologised for her mistake. She accepted her punishment like the low bitch she was, convulsing involuntarily against the well-travelled road, caked in dirt and stiffening against the country air. Pathetic.

“Mother.” Dahlie’s hand fell upon the dreamer’s shoulder, and Anarres’ lashes fluttered like butterfly wings. “You have to let go.”

The clock unwound. Anarres discovered her stubborn fingers rooted in the leather knapsack she had tied to the stranger’s horse. They were burrowing, petulantly, into the material, and she was most assuredly seconds away from wearing out the crook’s patience. Urgently, Anarres released the bag and stepped back into her daughter’s arms, watching solemnly as the woman across from her eyed her with amusement… and pity.

“Anon, ladies! May we meet again.” Her tone was that of a well-sated bandit, while her horse looked like it could scarcely cover another mile. The closer you got to the old capital, the more rest-stops, such as inns with their own stables, you were liable to come across—along with signs guiding you to their doors. Anarres reassessed that line of thought glumly, finally allowing herself to acknowledge that the direction they were headed thus far was indeed towards that storied southern coast.

“Indeed.” Anarres spoke through gritted teeth, staring not at the other’s face, but the bag she had stolen. Its absence would be a constant reminder of her companion’s negligence, which she had permitted to grow—like a weed—by not putting the girl in her place, the blade in its sheathe, when she had the fucking chance.

Maggie was notably silent, hunting sword no longer cluttering her grip. She watched the thief begin her slow trot and, as the animal began to gain momentum, realised that there was a target on the brigand’s bare back. A target that was shrinking. Her hand instinctively shot down to her arbalest and finally, finally, she took up arms—only for Anarres to smack the weapon from her hands in a fit of rage.

The knight aspirant’s eyes widened in shock as she stared down at her crossbow in the mud, then at her ever-shrinking target, and finally at her seething charge. “I-I could’ve—”

“At that distance you were more likely to hit the fucking packhorse, Maggie. I’ve fought with you enough times to know you always aim too low.” There was a joke among their fellow mercenaries—all of whom now lay dead by Maggie’s hand—that their favourite sniper intentionally aimed for her enemy’s balls.

“Tch. And? Might’ve slowed the bitch down, then we could get our sundries back. And more!” Maggie’s nostrils flared and she felt fire kicking up in her chest, the woman swiping her arbalest from the ground and turning to face Anarres. She had meant to intrude upon the woman’s space, as she did in any other altercation that would occur between comrades, typically in the aftermath of a battle when tensions were still high. She had meant to intimidate, but when she turned to look upon the target of her indignation, Maggie’s frustration was put on ice. Anarres was giving her that look.

“If I were you, girl, I’d do everything within my power not to make a second mistake so soon after your last.” The white-haired nutcase that Maggie could not help but yearn for, in the same way moths are drawn to white-hot flame, no longer spoke like the Ana she knew. Still, it was a voice she recognised; one she did not anticipate being met with under the midday sun; one she did not imagine reprimanding her in any meaningful way, until now. “Hm…” The figure in the shape of Anarres Báncourte, who was easily identified by an awestruck Dahlie, considered the messy and impractical castigation she had conjured up in her reverie, and reforged it—like a Dolldaughter—into something more workable. “If you’ve no sympathy for the poor animal, perhaps you can walk a mile—or ten—in its shoes.”

“Oh, come on… I’m sorry about showing off. It was just… really poor timing, okay? Besides, if we’re set upon by a band of more than one you know I can’t do much…” Maggie swallowed, regretting the words before she had even finished uttering them. But we weren’t, spoke her superior’s regal, imperious gaze. Words were not necessary; Maggie knew that she did not deserve the luxury of having her guilt lifted by something so convenient and fleeting. She wasn’t to be reprimanded with an oration she could tune out in her ignorance, patent as it clearly was; she was to be disciplined properly—reminded that, from the day she was old enough to lift a smallsword, she was absolutely nothing without the ball-busting leadership that made her a weapon worth being proud of. Yes, she was nothing but a weapon, and she had failed in her purpose. There was, perhaps, another denomination Maggie wished to be given, but that word only ever spilled from Anarres’ tongue when she was addressing their other companion. Maggie did not feel safe wanting that word without the security of linen walls to hide her shame behind.

“Dahlie.” The woman, who appeared impossibly elder, addressed her Dolldaughter sternly, her eyes not leaving Maggie’s for a second. It was as though her gaze had arrested the meek sellsword’s, for Maggie realised that she could not peel her widening stare away from the event horizon of Anarres’ crushing glower.

“Yes, Mother?” The Doll’s heart was racing, but she did not let her mounting excitement show on the outside; her perfection was a well sharpened knife.

“Drop your bag. Let the pack mule carry it.”