Page 69 of Harbinger

“Sooooo,” I say as soon as we’re far enough from the door, “is she the one who poisoned you?”

“I’d rather not say.” He glances behind him like he might find her standing there.

I make a show of pretending to turn around. “On second thought, maybe I do want to play.”

“I beg you … no.”

I laugh but follow him out.

We make our way back through the main corridor and, for a moment, I forget that I’m supposed to be watching for the trap to spring. For a moment, I almost feel like I’ve spent the afternoon with a friend—until I remember he wants me dead.

But then we step outside, pass a bathhouse, and enter a training arena, and the illusion shatters.

It’s little more than a pit surrounded by splintered plinths, wooden benches, and the remains of a few toppled statues. The stone floor has been battered by centuries of rain and salt air, worn down in spots to patches of muddy gravel and sand. The thick clouds overhead cast a gloomy shadow on a nearly empty rack of swords. Most of the weapons are already in use.

A dozen conscripts are lined up in two rows at the far end, watching as two of them battle. The pair’s swords clash, slicing through the air, metal clanging and ringing as they advance and retreat.

Taliesin points to a nearby bench a safe distance from the sparring. “Want to watch?”

Something tells me this is why Bishop sent me with him.

The fighters move so fast it’s hard to track. Each movement is graceful, precise but brutal. Blood sprays as one of them lands a blow to the other’s shoulder. The wounded woman barely flinches, just grits her teeth and keeps swinging. Her red hair is short, curling on the ends as it frames high cheekbones, her freckled skin boasting a sheen of sweat and dirt. This feels like more than practice. It feels like survival.

I wince, my fingers instinctively going to my own shoulder. “What happened to the wooden swords?”

“These are the proving grounds. The soldiers here are training to be knights. That’s Shea,” he says, pointing at the one with the bleeding shoulder. “She’ll be one by the end of the year.”

The highest position a conscript could rise to, since other ranks are reserved for those with Marius blood. I study her, the way she moves, the way she keeps fighting despite the pain. I wonder if I could do the same.

A thought suddenly occurs to me. Given only those of Marius blood have a Kindling and inherit magic … “Are you related to Bishop?” I ask.

Taliesin looks serious for once. “Not by blood.”

“But I thought knights were the ones who studied magic?” If he’s not related, how can he have magic?

“We do. After we prove ourselves.” He gestures to the pit. “If they make it out of the proving grounds, Bishop will knight them, granting them some of his family’s power, and they can begin their studies.”

My eyes widen. “I thought only Order Calix could imbue magic.”

Taliesin laughs. “That’s what they want you to believe. But it’s possible to gift magic if someone’s willing to give it up.”

Someone giving up power? That’s even harder to fathom than imbuing magic.

I glance around the room, at all the soldiers fighting for a piece of Bishop’s birthright.

“They get access to magic if they’re the best fighters?” That doesn’t feel like much of a bar.

“We get access to magic,” he says pointedly, “if we prove that we’re loyal. The sparring matches are only part of it.”

Loyalty. That’s what this is really about. Not only here but in Wintour, too.

Shea manages to parry while bleeding without losing her balance. Because she has to. She wasn’t born to power. None of them were. This is all they have—a chance to fight, survive, carve a place in the world with a sword. I was handed a ceremonial knife, and I flinched. I doubt I would last a day here.

Taliesin watches, studying the fighters like he’s up next.

Blood soaks Shea’s uniform, but she doesn’t slow down. It’s only when her opponent’s weapon clatters to the ground that she presses a palm against the wound to slow the bleeding. Then she bends and retrieves the fallen sword. Her opponent bows his head, and she tosses it to him, her lips quirking up. The pair stagger back toward their cohort, teasing and mocking each other. They fall silent as a new match begins. Taliesin tracks their movement the entire time.

“You miss this,” I say softly.