Page 50 of Harbinger

I grit my teeth. “And how are we getting to this untouchable location if the coach already left?”

He lifts his hand and drops what he’s holding. It’s a disc of obsidian engraved with lines that catch the faintest light and split it into hundreds of starbursts. The device hits the ground with a thud and sputters before a shock wave of light streams around it to form a glowing blue pool.

“What is that?” I ask slowly.

“A postern,” he says.

I step away from it, suddenly afraid I’ll accidentally fall through it and land Stars-know-where. It’s not like any postern that I’ve ever seen, but that’s not the problem.

“Velesont controls the posterns,” I say. If I can’t take a ship from a port, a postern has to be even easier for them to track.

“Not this one.” He extends a gloved hand. “This one is special.”

That sounds like code for risky.

“Is it safe?” I ask.

But he laughs at me. “The trick is knowing what’s on the other side.”

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.