TWENTY-SIX #2
“You’re holding your breath,” he says when I finally make it to him.
“I’m still doing it,” I grunt, arms quivering so hard that my whole body starts to sway. “Isn’t that the point?”
You sadistic prick.
Bishop takes the stone from me. “No, it’s the problem.”
My arms sag instantly, dead weights attached to my body only by circumstance. “You think I’m weak, don’t you?”
That’s why he’s doing this. To show me that I can’t do this. To make me believe I need other people to protect me.
But he shakes his head. “No, I think you’re afraid.
When your magic finally manifests, it won’t be good or evil.
It will be yours. A blade isn’t wicked because of what some men do with it.
Neither is that mark on your chest or Ravenell magic.
The only thing that matters is what you decide to do with it. ”
His words snap the very thin thread tethering my sanity.
“Of course I’m fucking afraid! They tried to kill me.
” The men in the woods. The other patrons.
Even Taliesin put a sword to my throat. My legs start to tremble, knees threatening to buckle, but the shaking isn’t because of my overtaxed muscles.
It’s coming from somewhere deeper, a place beyond my bones and blood and pounding heart.
Somewhere that can’t be touched but that I still feel everywhere.
“They did,” he confirms with a nod that’s all business.
“I suppose that doesn’t mean anything to you.” I spit the words at him. “People kill you all the time.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Actually, he looks bored. “They try to kill me, and do you want to know how I survive?”
I press my palms to my knees, still struggling to catch my breath, and glare up at him. “Enlighten me.”
He points toward the sloping trail. “I keep going.”
Motherfucker.
The sun is low on the horizon when Bishop calls training and tells me to hit the healing baths at the Bellatorum. I stalk back to Miradores without waiting for him, not bothering to stop.
After today, the last thing I need is a bunch of people staring at me.
But when I reach the estate, soaked through with sweat and rain, I see Lenora moving in the kitchen, likely making dinner.
The whole house probably smells like bread.
My stomach growls as I imagine the scent of butter and yeast, but I ignore it.
I’m wound too tightly to face her—to face anyone.
She’ll ask questions. Innocuous ones like how it went and when am I going back.
I know she means well. They all do. Maybe not Bishop. One day in, and I’m certain that he’s no longer protecting me. He’s finally decided to kill me.
My entire body hurts. I should want to take a private bath or collapse in bed, but Bishop was right about one thing.
I feel alive.
Not that I’m about to tell him he was right about anything. After today, I can’t imagine how he’d use that against me.
But I don’t want to let go of the feeling, either, so I stalk to the garden.
I trudge into the center of it and look at my progress so far.
The dead, hanging vines are finally gone from every zone, and I’ve cleared most of the fallen leaves, too, although more keep showing up from all the damn wind.
There are still plenty of brambles and dead rosebushes to deal with.
And of course, there’s still the damn fountain, which I do not feel the strength to tackle in my present state of exhaustion. I settle for weeding the patch I didn’t finish yesterday.
I fold onto the ground, crisscrossing my legs, and sink my fingers into the soft earth to fist the roots of a large weed. I yank it free and toss it to the side. Then another. And another.
My thoughts drift to my conversation with Hadrian in the garden. It feels like a lifetime ago. Then I think about the book of Icaros magic that I’ve been secretly reading at night.
I’ve not felt even the slightest twinge of power since the Kindling. Nothing like how Broderic described coming into his. But maybe that’s because I’m too afraid to even try?
My hand hesitates on the next weed. Before I chicken out, I begin tracing the pattern for growth. What’s the worst that could happen? It actually works and I have to weed the entire fucking garden again? I’ll take it if it means I have another way to be useful.
Down. Left. Half circle looping up. Horizontal line.
I drop my hand into my lap and stare at the weed in front of me, willing it to grow.
Absolutely nothing happens.
Relief and dread arrive as a matched set, the way they always do these days. I grit my teeth and yank the weed free with enough force to border on vengeance.
Fuck the Stars.
Scooting to the right, I attack the next section of weeds.
I lose track of time, the sun melting into a pool of rosy orange when Bishop’s shadow falls over me.
I don’t bother to look at him. But mostly because it hurts my neck to lift my chin more than an inch. “Did you remember that I earned answers?”
That was part of our arrangement. I’d been so relieved that the torture was over, I’d completely forgotten.
But he snorts. “I answered your questions.”
My eyes snap up to him, sharp pain shooting from the base of my skull to … everywhere. But I hardly notice because he’s smiling grimly down at me.
“What? I never even asked anything!”
“You questioned me about running, if it was time for swords. You questioned everything I told you to do.” He ticks each of my sins off on his fingers.
“Are you serious?”
His mouth curves, but his eyes remain shadowed. “Is that one of your questions?”
He’s certainly serious now.
My mouth falls open. “Those weren’t my questions.”
His smile is far from amused. “They came out of your mouth. You asked them.”
Unbelievable.
Of course he’s going to hold every little thing against me. He seems to relish stroking his authority.
But I won’t make the same mistake tomorrow.
He lingers like he’s waiting for me to apologize or argue with him. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of either. I turn back to the weeds and rip at them like they’re his perfect face.
But he’s not done punishing me.
“You didn’t go to the baths.” There’s enough disappointment in his voice that I know exactly what his face is doing, but I glance at him anyway.
Actual daggers couldn’t be deadlier than his eyes right now.
“No, I didn’t.” I lift my chin to meet that disapproving glare. “I have a perfectly good working bath in my own room, thank you.”
“Dammit,” he growls, his eyes shuttering before he sighs. “Your muscles need the mineral water. If you would just—”
I hold up my hand. I am not doing this with him today. Or any day, for that matter.
“I’m really not up for justifying my bathing choices to you, Bishop,” I say, confident that will shut him up. “If you were hoping to see me naked, you missed your chance that night on your balcony.”
The stunned silence from Bishop almost makes enduring today worth it.
His eyes widen, his mouth moving as he fumbles for a second before he swallows whatever he was about to say. He stalks off, mumbling something that includes my name, “impossible,” and a few more choice expletives.
But I can’t stop myself from watching him leave, a new and unfamiliar ache stirring in my chest.