“You’re allowed to have secrets. That’s the point. I’d prefer they not risk everything I’ve worked toward for the last few years—or your life. And yes, I’m still not happy about the scribe, but we’re not fighting tonight. I just need to know the important things. I won’t withhold information that could change how you make decisions, and I ask the same of you.” His thumb continues the same soothing, lazy pattern.
I don’t want us to have secrets, but he’s already made it clear that’s not changing. So maybe it’s time to try another tactic. “How long will you hold on to the weapons for?”
A corner of his mouth tugs upward. “I won’t meet up with a drift for another couple of weeks.”
Holy shit, it worked. “You answered.”
“I did.” He smiles, and an ache wakes in my chest. “How did it go with Varrish?”
“Tairn nearly ripped out Solas’s throat, which worked for getting Andarna out of maneuvers but may end up causing me bigger problems in the future.” A small smile spreads across my face. Look at us: having a conversation without fighting.
“We’ll keep an eye on the situation. I’m slightly worried I’ll kill Varrish if he pushes you to burnout again.” There’s no teasing in his voice, and I know he’ll do it.
“What’s with the weaving book you left me after graduation?” I change the subject with a small, confused shake of my head. “And the strips of fabric? Do you think I’m suddenly going to start crafting?”
“Just thought you might like to keep your hands busy.” He shrugs with one shoulder, but the devious glint in his eyes says it’s something more than that.
“So I keep them off other cadets?”
“I just thought you might like to explore an aspect of Tyrrish culture. I can weave every knot in that book.” He flashes a smile. “It’ll be fun to see if you can keep up with me.”
“In fabric knots?” Has he fallen off Sgaeyl recently?
“Culture, Violence.” His hand slides to the base of my neck, and his gaze turns serious. “Do you have nightmares about Resson? Is that why you can’t sleep?”
I nod. “I dream of a million different ways we could have lost. Sometimes I dream it’s Imogen who dies, or Garrick…or you.” Those are the ones that make it impossible to sleep afterward, the ones where their Sage takes him from me.
“Come here.” He wraps his arm around my waist and tugs, rolling me toward him.
My back settles against his chest as he tucks me in close. Gods, he hasn’t held me like this since the night we destroyed my room. Warmth infuses every inch of my exposed skin, pushing the cold from my bones. The ache in my chest expands.
“Tell me something real.” It comes out as a plea, just like it did last year.
He sighs and curls around me. “I know who you really are, Violet. Even when you keep things from me, I know you,” he promises.
And I know enough about him to be a real liability with the interrogation portion of RSC coming up.
“I’m still not strong enough to shield you out.” Right now, with his arm draped across my waist, I’m not sure I want to.
“I’m not a good measure of your skill,” he says against the bare skin of my shoulder, and a shiver of awareness ripples through me. “The day you can successfully block me all the way out is the day I’m dead. We’re both dead. I can’t block you out entirely, either, which is how you found me in the sublevel even when my shields were up. You might not be able to barge through, but you’re aware I’m there. Just like you can muffle Tairn’s and Andarna’s emotions but you can’t lock them out forever.”
My breath hitches. “So I might be strong enough to block Dain?”
“Yes, if you keep the shields intact at all times.”
“What’s alloy made of?” I ask, heady with the knowledge that I can keep Dain out.
“An amalgamation of Talladium, a few other ores, and dragon egg shells.”
I blink with surprise, both at his answer and the fact that he told me. “Dragon egg shells?” Well that’s…weird.
“They’re metal and still carry magic long after the dragons hatch.” His lips skim the back of my neck as he inhales, then sighs. “Now go to sleep before I forget all my honorable intentions.”
“I could remind you of some very fun, very dishonorable ones.” I lean back into him, and he throws his leg over mine, locking me down tight.
“You want to give me those three little words?”
I stiffen.
“I thought not. Sleep, Violet.” His arm tightens around me. “You love me,” he whispers.
“Stop reminding me. I thought we agreed not to fight tonight.” I snuggle in deeper, his warmth lulling me into that sweet middle space between wakefulness and oblivion.
“Maybe you’re not the one I’m reminding.”
The Migration of The First Year is one of the crowning achievements of Navarre’s unification. What a celebration of the human spirit, to leave a life of war and enter one of peace, blending people, languages, and culture from every region of the continent and forming a cohesive, united society, whose only goal is mutual security.
—NAVARRE, AN UNEDITED HISTORY BY COLONEL LEWIS MARKHAM
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve decided rolling dismounts might be the death of me yet.
Thursday morning begins with my arm in a sling that’s secured around my ribs with a strap, immobilizing my shoulder, thanks to yesterday’s maneuvers. Turns out Tairn was right, and though I’m capable of making it to his shoulder, my body doesn’t take the impact of the actual landing very well. We both agreed this time—accommodations will need to be made before graduation.
“How is it feeling today?” Rhiannon asks as we walk into the history class we share with Third Wing on the second floor.
“Like Tairn set me down and I just kept going,” I answer. “It’s not my first sprain. Healers say it should be about four weeks in the sling. I’m giving it two. Maybe.” I’ll be the first on the challenge board after Threshing if I give it much longer than that.
“You could ask Nolon—” Ridoc starts, then stops when he sees the look on my face. “What? Don’t tell me Varrish won’t let you get mended.”
“Not that I’m aware of, no,” I counter as we find our seats. “I put my name on Nolon’s list, but I was told he likely wouldn’t have an opening before it healed naturally.”
Rhi shoots me a look that says told-you-so but I just give my head a quick shake. This is not the place to explore her conspiracy theories—even if they’re starting to feel more and more like there might be some truth to them. I’ve never known a mender with a waiting list a month long.
Thursdays are my second favorite day of the week. No maneuvers, no RSC, no physics. I unload the heavy textbook and the notes I took on today’s assigned reading, which is more like review for me. There hasn’t been a single thing in this class I hadn’t already studied with my father or Markham—or that I don’t have trouble believing is true now.
Then I take out a few strips of the bright blue fabric Xaden left me and put them in my lap. I’ve got two of the knots in the book down already, and I’m determined to have two more by the time he gets here on Saturday. It’s a ridiculous thing to challenge me on, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to lose. Even a sling won’t stop me.
“Wonder who’s actually here to teach,” Sawyer says, stepping over the back of his chair from the row behind us and sitting next to Ridoc on my left. “Pretty sure I just saw most of the leadership making a run for the flight field.”
My heart stops. “What?” Only a major attack would empty Basgiath of leadership. I turn in my seat to look out the window behind us, but the view of the courtyard isn’t helping.
“They were running.” Sawyer makes a running motion with his first two fingers. “That’s all I know.”