FIFTEEN #3
“And now you’re the last one to protect it.” I can’t imagine how lonely that feels. At least I had siblings to help shoulder the burden.
“Plenty of my extended family would be willing to take up the responsibility.”
I nod. This, I understand. Even our most distant relatives had taken to checking in on us after Dad died—hoping to find that we’d failed. It’s easier to inherit a legacy than hold one together. “And they all think they could do a better job.”
He grimaces. “My cousins are posted to river ports and wine valleys. Places that never see blood. They only think they want my job.”
All the privilege. None of the weight.
“Then why stay a bishop?” I can’t stop myself from asking. “If you remain heirless …”
“I have my reasons,” he says without explaining what they are.
I’ve overstepped. Again. I probably hold some type of record at this point. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s mine.” He pauses. “When I became a bishop, I swore my life to the people. I can’t just break that vow.”
“Doesn’t a patron do the same thing?”
He grunts, the sound a cross between laughter and resignation.
“What happens if Calix or Velesont sends someone … after me?” I force out the rest of the question.
“Then they’ll have to kill me first.” His voice is flat, factual, unforgiving.
I do my best to ignore the slight uptick in my heart rate.
“You don’t sound worried about that.” I wish I felt the same.
“I’m not.”
Maybe that’s the benefit of growing up around so much violence. Death stops scaring you. I unlock my arms and pick at the bandage. The slow, throbbing ache beneath it is a comfort—a reminder that I survived again.
We’re only a few steps away from the kitchen door when Bishop stops and faces me. “You still think I’m a villain in this story.”
I search his face for how to answer, but as usual, he’s completely unreadable. Maybe that’s what he wants me to think. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t the one to take me to the Bellatorum. Because now … “I think you’re something else entirely.”
His mouth opens like he might ask what that is. Like maybe he’s not sure himself. But he doesn’t speak.
Neither of us moves. His gaze drops to my mouth, and heat rises to my cheeks in stark contrast to the chill in the air.
That invisible string between us goes taut, but I can’t look away.
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine, and mingles with the warmth radiating from him.
A gust whips a strand of hair across my eyes, but before I can brush it away, Bishop raises his hand, reaching toward me.
Only to stop himself.
His fingers curl into a fist. He drops his arm again and breaks the silence. “I’m going to Wintour for a few days.”
“What? Why?” He can’t leave me here. He was only gone for a few hours this morning, and Taliesin had a sword to my throat by the afternoon.
“You’ll be safe,” he says as if reading my mind. Maybe he actually can. “The queen summoned me. It might be related to her brother’s assassination. I have to go.”
“Take me with you.” I blurt out the request. Catching the king’s killer will at least stop the rumors that I did it. “I can’t stand by and let my family bear the risk if—”
“Nothing will happen to them.”
“Like nothing happened to the king?” Instantly, I wish I could take it back.
His jaw clenches, but his voice is steady. “Don’t worry. I learn from my mistakes. But I need to focus. I won’t be able to do that if you’re tagging along. This is dangerous work, and you have a way to go with a sword before you’re ready to wield one.”
He might be talking about the sword, but his words land somewhere else. On the mark hiding under my shirt that I’m also not ready to wield—and probably never will be.
I flush deeper. “Is that why Taliesin tested me?”
Bishop doesn’t answer. “I’ll be back soon.”
What’s the point of arguing? I’m an inconvenience to him. Nothing more.
I turn toward the kitchen door, but he doesn’t follow.
I can’t just sit around and wait for someone to attack me again. I can’t wait for someone else to absolve me.
There are a dozen reasons why I might be safer here, but until this is over, my family isn’t. Bishop believes he’s protecting me, but protecting them is my job.
I turn to tell him that, but he’s already disappearing back into the fog.
How many sides are there to a man like him? The same number as there are stars in the sky?
I start after him, but something stops me. Maybe it’s the part of me that knows he’s right. Maybe it’s the side of him I saw today.
Inside, the house is warm and bright. There’s a tray of cookies cooling on the table. I snag one, silently cursing Bishop for leaving me while he disappears again.
But I can’t stop thinking about Breccan, about Shea, about the strange, fragile hope that survives even here. Maybe I’m wrong about everything in Vennaro.
But if today taught me anything, it’s that I can’t risk letting my guard down. Especially with a man willing to hold a sword to his friend’s throat. Not before I figure out why Bishop protected me. Again.