Page 76 of Harbinger

“Are you ready to get out of here?” he asks me.

I nod, but not before glancing back to Shea. “You take care of him,” I say to her, and she nods solemnly.

The rain begins again as we start back toward Miradores, but Bishop doesn’t bother to ask if I want to take a postern. I wonder if he’s thinking about the little boy or if he’s already moved on to brooding about something else.

My thoughts stay on what Shea said about giving those kids an education.

“Why do you do it?” I finally ask. “Why help them?”

He shrugs, staring into the distance ahead of us. “Someone helped me once. I figure I owe the universe.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press.

The rain turns to a steady mist by the time we reach the bridge, fog shrouding the manor from sight. “I’m surprised they didn’t build the Bellatorum here,” I say, trying to make conversation. “Shouldn’t it be defending your estate?”

“That’s not how it works.” Bishop shakes his head. “Miradores is the shield between Antares and the rest of the world.”

I might have laughed at the idea that the nearly empty estate is the kingdom’s first line of defense, but the heaviness in his voice calls to the weight I carry in my own heart.

“Miradores or you?” I ask softly.

“There’s no difference. The estate is wood and stone, but my family’s blood built it. There is no Miradores without Order Marius.”

Spoken like a man who’s worn duty like armor his whole life.

“And now you’re the last one to protect it.” I can’t imagine how lonely that feels. At least I had siblings to help shoulder the burden.

“Plenty of my extended family would be willing to take up the responsibility.”

I nod. This, I understand. Even our most distant relatives had taken to checking in on us after Dad died—hoping to find that we’d failed. It’s easier to inherit a legacy than hold one together. “And they all think they could do a better job.”

He grimaces. “My cousins are posted to river ports and wine valleys. Places that never see blood. They only think they want my job.”

All the privilege. None of the weight.

“Then why stay a bishop?” I can’t stop myself from asking. “If you remain heirless …”

“I have my reasons,” he says without explaining what they are.

I’ve overstepped. Again. I probably hold some type of record at this point. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s mine.” He pauses. “When I became a bishop, I swore my life to the people. I can’t just break that vow.”

“Doesn’t a patron do the same thing?”

He grunts, the sound a cross between laughter and resignation.

“What happens if Calix or Velesont sends someone … after me?” I force out the rest of the question.

“Then they’ll have to kill me first.” His voice is flat, factual, unforgiving.

I do my best to ignore the slight uptick in my heart rate.

“You don’t sound worried about that.” I wish I felt the same.

“I’m not.”

Maybe that’s the benefit of growing up around so much violence. Death stops scaring you. I unlock my arms and pick at the bandage. The slow, throbbing ache beneath it is a comfort—a reminder that I survived again.