We might not be together, but jealousy’s not exactly a rational emotion.
“No, Violet.” He lifts both swords overhead, then slips them into the sheaths on the pack behind him with practiced expertise and a hint of a smirk. “Just you and me.”
He’s gone before I can even think of a reply.
With trembling hands, I unfold the paper—and smile.
Xaden Riorson wrote me a letter.
Garrick has always been my best friend. His father was my father’s aide, which in a way makes him my Dain, except trustworthy. After Liam, Bodhi was and still is the closest thing I have to a brother, perpetually tagging along a step behind.
—RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE OF LIEUTENANT XADEN RIORSON TO CADET VIOLET SORRENGAIL
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A smile curving my lips, I brace my hands on the top of my head and walk off the stitch in my side as Imogen and I finish our post-run cooldown a few mornings later, entering the courtyard a full half hour before breakfast is set to be served.
He wrote me a letter, and I’ve read it so many times I already have it memorized. There’s nothing remotely dangerous in it, no secrets of the revolution or clues on how to help, but it’s not like he can risk those by putting them in writing. No, this is even better. It’s just about him. It’s little details, like the fact that he used to sit on the roof of Riorson House during the rebellion in hopes his father would come home and tell him it was all over.
“You’ve been grinning like a drunkard for the last three mornings,” Imogen complains, ducking to check under the dais as we pass by. “How is anyone that happy at sunrise?”
Can’t blame her. I’ve been on edge since assessment day, too. So are Bodhi and Eya.
“No nightmares the last few days, and no one’s up at this hour trying to kill me.” My hands fall to my side. I made it a little farther between walking breaks this time.
“Yeah, because that’s the reason.” She rolls her neck. “Why don’t you take him back already?”
“He doesn’t trust me.” I shrug. “And I can’t really trust him. It’s complicated.” But damn do I miss catching glimpses of him every day. Saturday can’t get here soon enough. “Besides, even if two people have unmatched chemistry, that doesn’t mean they should be in a relationship beyond anything physical—”
“Oh, no.” She shakes her head, then tucks a strand of pink hair behind her ear. “I was finishing a conversation. Not starting one. I’m down for running and weight training with you, but you have friends to talk about your sex life with. Remember? The ones I’m watching you actively avoid at every opportunity?”
Not going there.
“And we aren’t friends?” I question.
“We’re…” Her face scrunches. “Coconspirators with a vested interest in keeping each other alive.”
That only makes me smile bigger. “Oh, don’t go getting soft on me now.”
Her gaze narrows as she looks past me, toward the outer wall. “What in Dunne’s name would a scribe be doing in the quadrant at this hour?”
I startle at the sight of Jesinia waiting in one of the shaded alcoves, tucked away like she’s trying to hide. “Relax. She’s a friend.”
Imogen dishes out a heaping dose of side-eye. “You’re pretty much hiding from the second-years but befriending scribes?”
“I’m distancing myself so I don’t have to lie to them, and I’ve been friends with Jes— You know what? I don’t owe you an explanation. I’m going to see what my friend needs.” I increase my pace, but Imogen matches it. “Hi,” I sign to Jesinia as we near the alcove. This particular one has a tunnel that leads straight into the dormitory. “Everything all right?”
“I came to find you—” Her brow puckers under her hood as her gaze shifts to Imogen, who’s sizing her up like she would an opponent.
“I’m fine,” I tell Imogen, signing at the same time. “Jesinia isn’t going to try to kill me.”
Imogen tilts her head, her gaze dropping to the cream satchel Jesinia carries.
“I’m not going to try to kill her,” Jesinia signs, her brown eyes widening. “I wouldn’t even know how.”
“Violet knew how to kill just fine on a scribe’s education,” Imogen replies, her hands moving quickly.
Jesinia blinks.
I lift my brows at Imogen.
“Fine,” she replies, signing as she backs away. “But if she comes at you with a sharpened quill, don’t blame me.”
“Sorry about her,” I sign once Imogen turns her back to us.
“People are trying to kill you?” Jesinia’s brow knits.
“It’s Thursday.” I move into the alcove so my back isn’t to the courtyard. “I’m always happy to see you, but what can I help you with?” Scribe cadets almost never enter the Riders Quadrant unless they’re assisting Captain Fitzgibbons.
“Two things,” she signs as we both sit on the bench, then reaches into her satchel, pulls out a tome, and hands it to me. It’s a copy of The Gift of the First Six and looks to be hundreds of years old. “You said you wanted an early accounting of the first riders when you returned the other books,” she signs. “This is one of the earliest I could find that’s allowed to be removed from the Archives. Preparing for another debate?”
I set it on my lap and choose my words carefully. My gut tells me I can trust her, but after Dain, I’m not sure I can depend on my intuition, and knowing isn’t safe for her, anyway. “Studying. And thank you, but you didn’t have to bring it. I would have come to you.”
“I didn’t want you to have to wait for me to be on Archives duty, and you told me you run every morning…” She takes several deep breaths, which usually means she’s composing her thoughts. “And I hate to admit it, but I need help,” she signs before pulling a ragged tome out of the bag and handing it to me.
I take it to free up her hands, noting the worn edges and loose spine.
“I’m trying to translate this for an assignment, and I’m struggling with a couple of sentences. It’s in Old Lucerish, and from what I remember, it’s one of the dead languages you can read.” Her cheeks flush pink as she glances back over her shoulder at the mage-lit tunnel, as if another scribe might see us. “I’ll be in trouble if anyone knows I’m asking for help. Adepts shouldn’t ask.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” I sign, my face falling as I remember using the language to pass secret messages with Dain when we were kids.
“Thank you. I know almost every other language.” Her motions are sharp, and her mouth tenses.
“You know far more of them than I do.” We share a smile, and I flip open the tome to the bookmark, taking in the swirling strokes of ink that make up the logosyllabic language.
Jesinia points to a sentence. “I’m stuck there.”
I quickly read from the beginning of the paragraph to be sure I have it right, then sign the sentence she’s looking for, spelling out the last word—the name of an ancient king who lived a thousand years before Navarre existed.