The space is dim, and my eyes are slow to adjust. Eventually I see a lamp on the desk and manage to light it, sending shadows flickering across the dark.
Niall’s quarters are much smaller than mine, with barely enough space for a single bed and a chest of drawers, both immaculately tidy and completely ascetic. They stand in stark contrast to the desk wedged in at the back, cluttered to the point where it’s nearly impossible to know that it’s a desk to begin with.
I halt in my tracks when I recognize the paraphernalia littering the surface. My breath stops short and my blood runs cold.
Papers … quills … books … ink.
I set my jaw, taking a hesitant step forward, remembering what Ravod told me when I arrived.
This isn’t unusual. Some Bards are taught to read and write.
With another small step, I’m standing in front of the desk. Spread across the surface of the table is everything I’ve ever been taught to fear and revile. Suddenly I’m glad I skipped breakfast. I’m not sure my stomach would have been able to handle the sight otherwise.
My hand is trembling as I reach for the pile of paper. I don’t recognize any of the symbols on them, but there are a few diagrams that I can perhaps make sense of.
The drawings in the first pile provide little insight. Many of them look like cross-sections of various organs and body parts, which does not do much to settle my stomach. Many of the words on these pages are crossed out and corrected, but I can’t understand anything more by the illustrations.
There’s a second stack, more neatly piled and sorted, tucked into the cover of one of the books. I pull at the loose papers, terrified of touching the book itself. I sigh in relief when the pages come free and nothing happens.
I’m shaking so much that I have to sit on the bed to steady myself while I look the papers over.
These are very different, but I recognize what they are immediately: Maps. Delicate symbols cover each page, the detail painstaking, and every landmark carefully labeled. Niall had the look of a traveler about him, but apparently he’s also a passionate cartographer. These are sketches of the places he’s traveled: rock formations, wooded groves, mountain ranges—each rendered with flawless precision, almost lovingly.
I find myself staring at a picture of a valley ringed by mountains with a dirt road running through it. It reminds me so much of home. If there were only a little house on the path …
My hands abruptly grip the paper.
There is a house. My house. The space it takes up in the rest of the drawing is small, but the details are unmistakable. There’s a circle and some words with an arrow pointing right at my home.
The next piece of paper is another map, this one of Aster. I would know it anywhere. I can follow the road through the gates past the constable’s tower, through the center of town and Fiona’s shop and up the hill to Mads’s family’s mill. To the north is the pass that leads to my home, marked with a cross in red, like a splash of blood.
Blood pounds in my ears, echoed by the sound of heavy, approaching footsteps. I spring to my feet, folding the papers of my home and pushing them into my pocket and quickly shoving the others back into the book where I found them. I move to the curtain.
I need to get out of here. Now.
My hip bumps a small end table as I hasten to leave, toppling an empty brandy bottle. It smashes deafeningly on the stone floor.
“What was that?” a voice booms out from down the hall. I crouch to hide it, trying first to pick up the pieces, before resorting to pushing the broken glass under the bed, wincing as a sharp edge slices my finger.
I rush back to the curtain, my heartbeat reverberating in my ears.
“Good morning, my lord!” Imogen’s voice stops me in my tracks. The sound of footsteps outside ceases. “Back so soon?”
“I forgot something.” I gulp as I recognize Niall’s voice.
I look around, desperate for a place to hide. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead when I see no options. The desk is too small. The bed is too low. The corner is too exposed.
If only I could perform a Telling. I flex my fingers, trying to force them into feeling the strange sensation that always happened accidentally.
Nothing. The footsteps are coming closer.
“Actually, my lord,” Imogen’s voice interrupts, “I saw a mouse in the corridor. Would you help me get rid of it? I promise it won’t take long.”
The silence that passes threatens to crush me into the floor.
“Very well.” Niall sighs. “Let’s make this quick.”
Imogen’s and Niall’s footsteps disappear around the opposite corner and I exhale slowly.
I slip out of the barracks quickly and quietly. I definitely need to embroider something nice for Imogen.
* * *
By the time I approach the training grounds, the sun has finally arisen, and I already feel like I’ve completed a day’s worth of activity from my foray into the men’s barracks. I try to dispel my exhaustion with a deep breath of cold morning air. My stomach rumbles irritably, reminding me that I’ve skipped breakfast.
I slip my fingers into my pocket, touching the papers I stole from Niall’s room. I’m one step closer, at least.
I stop at the usual place at the edge of the training grounds where I’ve met Kennan every day this week. I forget if five days have passed or six. They’ve all started to bleed together, and I don’t know if I’m making progress or floundering completely. Kennan is unreadable, and I feel no closer to understanding my own power—if I truly have any.
“You’re still here?” A deep, melodic voice startles me. I turn to see Ravod standing nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, and an indecipherable smile playing at one side of his mouth. I wonder if he realizes that his words have the opposite of their intended effect. The more he taunts or warns me, the more determined I am. I want to see the look in his eyes when I prove him wrong.
“Prepare to lose your bet, Ravod,” I say, pleased that I sound more confident than I feel. I’m actually pleased that he’s here at all. And curious where he’s been all week. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Ravod’s eyes wander my face, either in amusement or skepticism. “We’ll see.” His brow creases. “What happened?”
I follow Ravod’s gaze to the long cut running along the side of my finger. My breath hitches as I recall the wound I got from sneaking into Niall’s room.
“An accident.” I clutch my hand, as if pulling it out of sight will somehow cause him to forget he saw it.
“You should probably put something on it,” Ravod says. “You don’t want it getting infected.” Before I can reply, he produces a small vial from a pouch on his belt. “May I?”
I let him take my hand, perhaps a little too eagerly. His fingers are warm through the fabric of his gloves.
“You just carry disinfectant around with you?” I ask him.
“My mother was a physician in—” He cuts himself off abruptly, turning my hand over and applying a few drops of cold liquid to my wound. His dark eyes are steady and focused, more magnetic than usual in their intensity. The medicine stings and my hand flinches in his. He gently squeezes my palm to keep me from disturbing the wound. “I used to help out a little in her clinic. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Hold still so it can sink in.”