Page 73 of Harbinger

Steam hits us as we step inside. My shoulders relax involuntarily, my body anticipating the heat. Not that I’m about to get naked in front of a bunch of strangers.

“Velesont must love you.” Transporting all that water must cost a fortune.

Bishop shakes his head. “Hot springs run under the mountains. We pipe them through.”

“Not magic?” I ask, surprised.

“Just good old-fashioned engineering. Something we can always rely on. But the water is full of healing minerals from the mountains.” He tips his head toward the door. “You can use them now. You fought today.”

“I’d hardly call it a fight.” But that’s not what’s stopping me. I glance down. The last thing I need is people ogling the mark burned across my chest.

“They’ve seen worse,” he murmurs.

I doubt it.

“Maybe another time.” Like when all seven hells freeze over.

“I’ll get you something for that.” He gestures to my wounded arm.

Bishop lets himself into a small infirmary, not bothering to turn on the light as he rifles around in a cabinet. Meanwhile, I do my best to politely ignore the conscripts stripping off their training uniforms only a few feet away in the changing area.

It takes him a while, but finally he holds up a bandage and a small tin stamped with the license of Order Leontia. “This will heal it in a day or two.”

“I can do that.” I take both from him and nod toward the steam shrouding the baths’ entrance at the far end of the space. One of us should enjoy them. “Why don’t you …”

He adjusts his gloves, not bothering to even look. “It’s better not to fraternize.”

Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to see his own markings—the ones I glimpsed while we were traveling—but if I didn’t know better, I’d think Bishop was shy. Somehow, that seems impossible. But before I can test this theory, Taliesin strides by wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips and the skin the Stars gave him. There’s definitely not a shy bone in his body.

He winks as he passes us. “Care to join me?”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “You tried to kill me less than ten minutes ago.”

He only shrugs. “Light bloodshed is just foreplay.”

“Actually,” Bishop says, stopping him, “let’s talk now.”

“But—”

“Now,” Bishop cuts him off. He turns to me, hesitating for a moment. “Feel free to wait wherever you’re most comfortable.”

It feels rude to stand around in clothes, so I force a grim smile. “I’ll be outside.”

And I don’t care what either of them says, there’s no way I’ll ever use the baths. There’s a perfectly good tub in the privacy of my own room, thank you very much. I’ll probably never let anyone see me naked again.

The rain has stopped, but the grounds are even muddier. Swollen gray clouds linger in the sky, suggesting an encore shower is imminent. But the air is crisp, and the mist has thinned enough to show the stone walkways and the training grounds beyond. I slather my arm with the tincture, hissing slightly when it stings. I’m wrapping it when a small voice pipes up: “Does it hurt?”

My fingers slip on the bandage. Looking down, I find a small boy on his knees nearby, drawing in the mud with a stick.

“Only my pride.” I crouch next to him. “What are you working on?”

His freckled nose wrinkles with frustration as he drags the stick through the mud. “My letters.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school? They’ll give you parchment.” He reminds me of Andry, although he’s much younger.

He rakes another line through to form a crooked F. “I’m not old enough for classes.”

But clearly still determined.