EIGHTEEN #3
I hand him the writing supplies. He takes them with reverence.
“Holy Stars.” His eyes round as he hugs them to his chest. “There’s so much of it. I can write forever.”
I wish I had half his optimism. “Use it up. I can always bring more.”
He grins. “Thank you, Lady Icaros.”
I flinch. “Just Arden,” I remind him as Shea joins us.
“I told him to use your title.” She scrunches her nose at him. “I’m trying to teach him manners.”
Breccan holds out the ink bottle to her. “Can you open this?”
Her sleeve rides up as she reaches for it, revealing a slender silver line on her wrist. She hurriedly pulls it down and breaks the wax seal. So, the marks are some Marius trade secret.
And just another reminder that I don’t belong here.
“He’ll use every page,” she says as she gives the ink back to him. “But he’ll share, too. He always does.”
Breccan is already flipping open the notebook, eyes wild with possibility.
“Go on.” She shoos him off to use his prize. Shea lowers her voice so only I can hear. “Thank you. When I’m a knight, I’ll be able to afford supplies myself.”
“Don’t worry about it. I stole them from Bishop.” The color drains from her face, and I quickly add, “It was his suggestion.”
“I’m paying him back,” she whispers fiercely. “I already decided. After we’re in our own quarters, I’m paying Bishop back for every silver he’s spent taking care of my brother.”
The pride in her voice hits me like a punch. “You don’t have to—”
“I do.” She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “Most of these kids don’t have families to support them. My brother does. This is my job.”
I want to argue, but I can’t. Not when the truth stares back at me in the shape of a girl with a sword and a brother who clings to hope like it’s the last good thing left. If it were Andry and me, I’d feel the same way.
“I just wish the other kids …” She trails off, looking at the children seated near us. They’re older than her brother but not by much.
“Bishop will take care of them.” There are parts of him I don’t understand, but, after last night, I believe that much.
“Will you show me how to write your name again?” Breccan calls over. He’s already on the second page of his notebook.
“Of course.” Then I remember that his sister is here. “If that’s okay.”
Shea nods. “I was on my way to the proving grounds.” She glances at the hall. “If I can get past all these new conscripts.”
“They don’t have swords yet,” I remind her, and she smiles.
She gives Breccan’s shoulder a squeeze and mouths her thanks to me before slipping away.
I lose track of time, getting nearly as caught up in Breccan’s struggle to perfect his S as he does. When I finally glance toward the windows, the rain is heavier against the glass.
“I’d better go,” I say, scrambling to my feet. “Keep practicing. I’ll come back soon.”
Breccan beams like I’ve promised him the moon.
The Commons is free of new conscripts, and I hurry down the corridor, half jogging when I don’t see Bishop anywhere nearby. I reach the front doors just in time to catch Bishop opening them, a folded list clutched in his fist.
His shoulders are so rigid that I can feel the tension from here.
Something’s wrong.
“What is that?” I ask.
He glances up, startled to find me standing next to him. “What?”
“That.” I point at the paper. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The list of new conscripts,” he says without offering more explanation for his rattled appearance before he walks straight outside to the crowd gathered in the yard. There’s more of them now, standing in uneven rows, their cloaks darkened with rain and boots sinking into the wet gravel.
Bishop scans the crowd, his jaw tight like he’s waiting for someone to jump out and shatter his last nerve. His eyes finally land on someone in the crowd, and he curses under his breath.
I follow his gaze to the offending party and gasp, hand flying to my mouth.
He’s standing with the rest of them, wearing a new uniform.
This one fits so well I already know it was assigned to him.
His hair is cropped shorter than the last time I saw him, but his face is set with that stubborn, mule-headed look he gets when he’s determined.
The start of a beard brackets his mouth, making him seem even older.
Or maybe it’s the decisions he’s been forced to make aging him.
Water runs down his hair and into his collar, but he doesn’t wipe it away. He’s not talking to anyone. Everyone else looks like they’d rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t. He’s here for a reason.
Broderic did it. He actually forced Kieren into conscription.
Because I wasn’t there to stop my brother.
I must have walked right past him in the hall when we arrived, so wrapped up in my own bullshit that I didn’t even see him standing there.
I want to run to him, to scream at him for letting Broderic do this, or cry, or maybe both.
But my heart is in my throat, and I can’t move.
Bishop’s fist closes around the list, knuckles white as he fumes over his newest conscript. He doesn’t look at me as he barks a single name.
My best friend looks right at him. At me. And his face doesn’t change. There’s not even a flicker of recognition. But I see him, and he sees me, and I already know how this ends.
Someone’s getting hurt.