TWENTY-SEVEN
Over the next several days, I beat him to breakfast every morning. I keep my mouth shut. I earn answers. Enough that I’m starting to run out of questions. At least ones that I can bring myself to ask him.
I ask him about his order. Miradores. Taliesin and Vessica. The Bellatorum.
He keeps his answers shorter than I’d like, but after every muscle-numbing training activity, he keeps his promise.
I don’t ask about scions or harbingers. Or even Ravenell. Those questions sit heavy on my tongue … and stay there. Like asking them might cost me this training. I won’t risk that. Bishop was right. This is the only thing right now that makes me feel alive.
Based on the number of new ways he concocts to torture me, I’m certain that he still expects me to give up.
I don’t.
But grief has turned my body into a stranger.
Every inch of me feels too tight. Too tense.
Like everything in me is tangled into a single knot that I don’t know how to loosen.
Training feels like the only way to pull it apart without screaming, but every day the knot is a little more snarled at the end.
He still hasn’t given me a sword. Nope. But today, he does let me stand on the astrolatory’s wall, one foot at a fucking time.
My boot slips slightly on a patch of moss, and my arms circle frantically to keep me from falling. “You do realize,” I say slowly through clenched teeth, “that if I go over the side of this, I’ll probably roll all the way to the Bellatorum.”
“It will be faster than walking.” He paces back and forth as if he’s as bored with this particular drill as I am.
“What exactly is this teaching me?” Trembles roll through my thigh, growing more pronounced until I’m forced to switch to my other leg.
Bishop’s eyes narrow. “Is that the question you’re earning right now?”
“Shove your questions up your …” I grumble under my breath.
“What’s that?” he calls, and I hear a smile in his voice.
“That’s not my question,” I say more loudly. “Just seeking to understand your wisdom.” I drop my voice and add, “Jackass.”
He actually laughs at this. But instead of answering, he crosses to the long pack he brought with us this morning.
My eyes flicker over, trying to see what he’s getting out, but I can’t really look without risking my balance, so when he reappears and holds something up, surprise swells in my chest before it crashes.
It’s a sword—a wooden one.
“Is that a toy?” I’m beyond caring if he counts that as a question.
“You wanted a sword,” he says, holding it higher.
“What is a wooden sword supposed to teach me?” But I carefully lower my foot and plant it over the other’s toe. I take it from him, just managing to hold my position on the wall.
As soon as it’s in my hands, I swing it over my head like the knights-in-training do on the proving grounds.
Big mistake.
I crash, knees biting into the stone wall.
Pieces of it crumble, the sword falling to the ground below, as I barely catch myself from going over the other side and tumbling down the mountainside.
My nails scrape against the rock as I dig my fingers between the stones.
Sliding the last few feet to the ground, I land on the stupid sword and slump into the wall, bits of moss and dust showering my head and shoulders.
Bishop steps in front of me. “That’s why it’s a wooden sword.”
It’s a pretty good reason.
The first time he hands me a sword, and I nearly fall on it. A lump forms in my throat, tears clogging behind it. This is impossible.
“Arden.” My name is soft on his lips, like maybe he cares.
But now, I don’t.
“If you want me to quit,” I seethe, voice rising until I’m shouting at him, “just fucking say it.”
He takes a single step toward me, stopping when I shoot him a murderous look. “I don’t want you to quit. I want you to know why you’re here.”
“You just want me to fall apart.”
“That’s the only way you’re going to put yourself back together.”
I’m still shaking as he hands me water and turns away, like he can give me back a piece of my dignity. I don’t know how to pick up the rest of it—the rest of me.
There’re too many parts of me that don’t fit anymore. And one piece that’s gone forever. I collapse around that hole in my chest. Sobs wrench through me, sadness dragging me into a pit that I can’t climb out of. Not with this wrecked body. Not while I’m this tired.
Not without Kieren.
Deep beneath the sorrow, in the very marrow of my bones, an ember ignites as if it’s been waiting for my grief to spark.
“He’s dead …” I gasp as the strange heat continues to rise, threading through me like I might catch fire.
Not now. Not like this. But I can’t stop it any more than I can hide from the truth. “He tried to save me, and he’s dead.”
Bishop crouches, angling his head to find my eyes. “The truth is that a good fighter needs a reason to fight.” He meets my gaze and doesn’t look away, not even when my breath stutters. The flame inside me shrinks from him like it’s afraid of being seen. “You have a reason now.”
“That’s what I was proving to you?” I choke out through my tears.
“No.” A crease appears between his eyes, something of a storm lingering in them. His hand lifts like he might reach for me, but he curls it into a fist instead. “That’s what you’ve been proving to yourself.”
“Because I’ll never prove it to you.”
He shakes his head. “I knew you were a fighter when you let the oscen go.”
He smiles at me. The first real smile he’s ever offered me. The sight douses the smoldering cinders in my blood until I can breathe again.
Something loosens in my chest and tumbles free, leaving a space for the one question that’s buried like a knife in my chest.
“Are you the heart collector killing everyone?” The words rush out. The question that’s been between us since the night I ran away. The night Kieren died.
He hesitates, like the answer might break me. “No.”
He was right.
And I fall apart.
Because I ran away for nothing. I didn’t fight hard enough in that clearing.
I offered myself up as a sacrifice instead of grabbing a sword.
I made a choice, just like I did in the Royal Astrolatory, and it was the wrong one.
Again. I don’t know how to trust myself anymore. Not after everything that happened.
And Bishop has known that the whole time. He’s just been waiting for me to admit it to myself.
I look to him with blurry eyes, but somehow, he’s still in focus, still right in front of me like he always is. “How do I do this?”
I’m not talking about training. How do I put myself back together? I’m not even sure I’ve earned the right to ask that question. Maybe I never will.
But he gives me the answer anyway. “One day at a time.” He offers me his hand. I hesitate a moment before letting him help me up.
When I’m on my feet, he brushes a strand of hair from my face, the touch so gentle after days trapped in a cage of pain and guilt that I lean a little closer to him. “Starting tomorrow.”
The days grow shorter as the end of the year approaches.
During the long evening hours, I split my time.
Some of it I spend in the library, poring over old books with Hadrian, trying to learn more about Icaros magic in preparation for spring.
Hadrian assures me my gifts will eventually manifest. And when they do …
if I only know Icaros magic, maybe this will all stop. Maybe I can go home.
So, I study. I also help Lenora with the mountain of baking she’s taken on in preparation for the coming Twelvetide party.
But during the day, I’m always here, training, with Bishop.
That is, when he’s at Miradores, which has been less and less recently.
And every time he leaves, I fight the urge to beg him to stay, not to leave the security of Vennaro, not when there have been so many recent heart collector attacks.
“There’s really no other way to kill a scion?” I grind my jaw, throwing all my strength behind my block. Our blades lock with a shriek of metal that makes my teeth clench, but I surge into him, shoulders burning as I try to muscle his sword aside.
Bishop regains his footing far too fucking easily. He raises his sword again, beckoning for me to attack with his free hand.
“Was that a question?” he asks, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“I defended, didn’t I?” I toss an actual smirk at him.
“Looking for other ways to take me out?” His foot shifts back, and my heart leaps in anticipation of his next attack.
He could go high, come at me from over his shoulder. Or simply thrust. Or throw some other fuckery at me.
Make a choice.
Stars know that it will be the wrong one. After weeks, I’m no better at anticipating his next strike. But I grip the hilt tightly with both hands and swing the sword into first position.
He lifts a brow at my decision. “Interesting.”
Shit.
But he’s already coming at me, sword arcing over his head and slicing down in a diagonal aimed at the opposite side of my body.
Adrenaline seizes me, and I drop my blade lower to counter, but as usual, he’s too fucking fast. The tip of my sword narrowly misses the block as his blade stops a fraction of an inch from my leather cuirass.
I stare down at it, heart still pounding.
He steps away, bringing his sword to his side. “You left yourself open.”
But I can’t stop staring at how close his sword came. If this were a real fight, I would be dead.
Again.
I’ve yet to save myself even once.
He gestures for us to reset, and I shake it off. This is why we’re doing this.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I press, bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet, waiting for him to give me some clue at what he’s going to attempt next before I try to defend. “What if you explode?”
“Explode?” he repeats, blinking. “Is that your plan? To blow me up?”
He actually sounds disturbed.