TEN
There are a hundred reasons why this is a terrible idea, starting with the fact that I hate posterns. But trusting that Bishop knows what’s on the other side—trusting Bishop at all—that’s my real problem. Still, if he wanted me dead, I’d already be a smear in some palace hallway.
“Ready?” he asks. It doesn’t sound like a question.
I am not remotely ready. I came to Wintour with my family, with my best friend.
My future was laid out neatly, the rest of my life prescribed into a series of events with little room for deviation.
It wasn’t exciting, but I was safe. Now?
I’m stepping into a portal with no idea where I’m going, with a man who might be ordered to kill me later.
I already miss safe.
But I nod and take a small step toward the pool of light circling the ground that leads to my uncertain future.
Or a trap. These days, a girl can’t be sure. Not with assassins prowling the palace.
“You go first,” I blurt out.
Bishop shoulders his pack higher and scowls. “And trust that you’re going to follow?”
“And where would I go? Worried I’ll track down those assassins and offer my head on a platter?
” I twist my fingers, darting glances at the shimmering portal.
A regular postern is bad enough. I can’t imagine what one that appeared one minute ago will feel like.
And then there’s the question of whether or not it’s even stable. “Just … go first.”
He draws a breath, then shakes a finger at me. “Don’t make me come back here after you,” he warns.
I cross two lines over my racing heart.
Bishop hesitates for only a moment—like he’s questioning his own sanity—and then he steps through the postern.
One second, he’s there, and the next, I’m standing alone in the carriage house.
It’s a testament to my hatred of posterns that I consider marching back to throw myself at the mercy of Queen Selestina.
Assassins be damned. But I don’t doubt Bishop will keep his word and return just to drag me away.
It’s better to do it on my own terms. I close my eyes, count to three, and step into the shimmering ring.
Mottled light burns my eyelids as a wave of cold blasts up from the ground. The sensation hits like shards of ice, stabbing through my skin to the bone. I clamp my mouth shut to stop my teeth from chattering and keep my breakfast from making an encore appearance.
I force myself to look at where I’m going as a thousand needles of light prickle my eyes.
I’m blinking through tears when I stumble forward, my foot catching on nothing, and suddenly I’m falling into the roaring silence of the void.
A scream lodges in my throat, unable to escape in this strange bottomless nothing.
I collide with something solid on the other side, careening to the ground as I realize it’s Bishop.
Something splashes my hands and shirt, and he curses underneath me as he shifts.
Strong arms haul me upright, Bishop’s grip almost bruising, but I’m too busy trying to reassemble my insides to care. The world spins once, then twice, before clicking into focus.
Bishop is covered in mud. It’s splattered across his coat, sword sheaths, hands, neck—even his hair.
He flicks some off his hands, glaring at the sodden puddle of dirt underneath us, and despite the nausea still churning in my belly, something far more dangerous bubbles in my throat.
I barely hold back a giggle. If he doesn’t want to kill me for sending him into that muck, he might if I laugh at him.
I stagger a step, but Bishop catches me again, keeping me from face-planting into a half-rotten log.
“Give yourself a second.” He grimaces at his ruined clothing but doesn’t release me again.
For once, I don’t argue. I sway, the ground still rocking beneath my feet.
“It’s not as smooth as your typical postern,” he admits. Concern flickers in his eyes and vanishes in an instant. “But it’s effective.”
“Effective for what?” My mouth is so dry that the words try to stick to my tongue. “Making me vomit?” I step free of him.
He hovers like he doubts I’ll stay upright before he finally drops his pack on the log. “A little discomfort is better than finding a knife in your back.”
I question his metrics, but I brush dirt off my knees and finally take a better look around. “Where are we?”
We’re standing in a clearing surrounded by oak trees, their branches already disrobing for the coming winter.
The damp scent of rain hangs in the air as the wind catches piles of ruby leaves and sends them scattering.
I listen for signs of life, but there’s nothing beyond the faint rustling sounds of autumn.
A few feet away, the portable postern—now just a dull black disc—sits abandoned on a patch of grass.
“Just outside the southern border of Florentia, near the Stygia Mountains,” Bishop says, gesturing with his chin.
I follow his gaze to a range in the near distance.
The mountains are a jagged line of darkness against the horizon, their white-capped peaks piercing through a heavy shroud of mist. The forest blocks a direct path to them, and there are no roads, no houses, no hint of life except for the slow, predatory circling of a large bird overhead.
I shiver despite the thick wool of my borrowed coat. “So, we traveled to the middle of nowhere? We couldn’t have chosen somewhere with a roof?” I ask, trying to wipe the lingering mud off my hands. “Or a bath?”
“Nowhere equals no one,” he says, like it’s no problem that everything from his clothes to his hair is covered in mud, too.
He just walks over to the postern and kneels, running his gloved finger over it until the portal retracts back into a disc the size of a coin, then picks it up and pockets it.
“It’s not powerful enough to take us very far without replenishing its magic, and it’s safer to avoid any cities. ”
He’s right, but I cross my arms, fingers digging into my ribs for warmth. “You just happen to know the setting to use on your secret escape hatch that leads to places like this?”
He looks up, face utterly unreadable. “It’s my job.”
“I thought your job was to protect the kingdom.” The words are out before I can stop them. My heart gallops in my chest, but I force myself to keep my chin up, to meet his wolfish stare head-on. “Not sneak around it.”
He stands, wiping his hands on the small patch of his pants that didn’t get ruined. “Stealth is considered an asset by Order Marius. It got you out safely, didn’t it?”
“You have to have better things to do than be stuck escorting me to …” I trail away, hoping he’ll take the bait and tell me where we’re going.
“Maybe I do.” He almost smiles. “Or maybe I just enjoy your company.”
I can’t help snorting. “That’s the worst lie I’ve heard in days, and I’ve been surrounded by patrons.”
I expect him to snap back. Maybe give me one of his signature growls. He’s a patron, after all. But he shrugs. “You don’t know me well enough to judge my lies, Lady Icaros.”
Truth and a warning wrapped in one. I should probably heed both, but it’s the use of my family name that sticks. I clear my throat. “Arden,” I correct him. “Please call me Arden.”
“Arden,” he repeats with a nod.
Our eyes lock, and warmth floods through me, pooling somewhere low and unwelcome.
I don’t need Bishop Marius to understand me.
I certainly don’t want him to be kind to me.
Not when I can’t risk letting my guard down.
I turn away from him, the sudden heat dissipating just as quickly in the cool air, and scan our surroundings, cataloging the features of the clearing enclosed by woods: a tangle of brambles at the base of a nearby tree, a shallow dip in the earth where rainwater collects, a half-collapsed cairn that looks old enough to be a relic of the Last War.
There’s no shelter apart from the trees.
“How long do we have to stay here?” Not that I’m eager to take the postern again.
“It only holds enough magic for one trip.” Bishop’s tone is flat. “It needs to draw power from the stars for another, but it should be ready again by dawn.” He crouches beside his pack, extracting a canteen and a tightly rolled blanket from its main compartment.
A night alone in the woods with Bishop sounds about as appealing as smashing my face into one of the cairn’s loose rocks.
“We’ll camp here tonight.” Bishop tosses the blanket at me.
I catch it on reflex. The wool is stiff and scratchy, but it will keep me warm.
He pulls out a knife—one of a dozen, I’m sure—and bits of rope and wire. “I’ll set up some snares and try to catch us dinner.”
My stomach rumbles at the reminder that I haven’t eaten since nearly dawn. Out here, the flaky, butter-soaked pastries feel like a lifetime ago. “Can I help?”
“Gather some branches, logs if you can find them. We’ll need them for the fire.”
I set to work. Not because I’m enthusiastic about our plan, but because I understand this. Working. Doing. Moving. I might prefer four walls at the end of the day, but I’m not afraid of doing what it takes to survive.
Bishop and I fall into silence as we carry out our tasks.
He doesn’t comment when I drag a large fallen branch into the clearing, dig around in the pack for a small axe, and begin hacking it into firewood.
He disappears deeper into the woods, always returning just when I’m beginning to worry that he won’t.
By the time the sun drifts halfway to the horizon, I’m coated in sweat and grime, but I’ve gathered enough wood to last us through the night.
“Anything else?” I ask, plucking at the bits of dried leaves caught in my hair.
“There’s a lake about a hundred yards past that tree.” He jerks his thumb toward an oak on the far edge of the clearing, a foot-worn trail leading through the undergrowth past it. “Wash off and try not to drown.”
“You’re not that lucky.”
He grunts. Or maybe it’s a laugh.
“And stick close to the path to avoid the wolves,” he adds, then goes back to work.