“TheImeans one, and theVmeans five,” he explained, crossing the floor to hand me the food. “When it’s written asIV, it means one less than five.”
As I began to eat the meal of meat, carrots, and bread, he leaned against the desk, crossing his legs. “Do you know what anXstands for?” he asked.
I paused mid-chew, hesitating. Then I slowly shook my head.
As a villager, no one expected me to know how to read. Still, I couldn’t help the embarrassment of not knowing a simple number.
“TheXmeans ten. So, if you see anIbefore anX, that would be nine. If you saw a one after anX—”
“That’s eleven,” I filled in.
He nodded once, then went quiet, like he knew anything more would be patronizing.
Swallowing a tough piece of meat, I asked, “How did you learn to read?” He was raised as a mercenary in a nomadic clan, yet he spoke and read like he’d been primed for nobility his entire life.
“My father.”
The same man who’d killed his mother and beaten him had taught him to read? I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.
“Why would he do that?”
“The one thing he cared for most was power, and even he understood that education, as non-violent as it was, would get him more. When we looted, he would look for documents regarding merchant routes, personal vendettas, information that could be used as blackmail—things like that. He taught us to read so we could help him with those endeavors.”
He’d saidus,notme.“He taught the entire clan to read?”
A shadow crossed his face. “Just a select few.”
Noting the way his jaw tensed, I returned to my meal. Despite all he’d told me, there was much to his upbringing I didn’t know. What Ididknow was that he didn’t like speaking about it—that it was probably painful.
Neither of us spoke again as I finished my food, his focus set on a far wall as his mind seemed to wander.
“Thank you for bringing me dinner,” I said, leaning over to set the tray on the bedside table. The movement jarred my bruised hip, and I winced.
Harthon jerked into action, going to a chest at the base of the bed. He rummaged around, producing a small vial of milky liquid.
“Let me see them,” he said. When I raised a brow, he clarified, “The bruises.”
Letting him see me wince had been a mistake on my part. I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t handle his training.
“They aren’t bad,” I protested.
Returning to the bedside, he said, “I’ve been training for much longer than you. I know when a session leaves bruises, and I was rough with you today.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Which is why I won’t be easing off. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you suffer if there’s a way to help.” He lifted the vial. “This helps the bruising to heal quicker. It’s from Josenne.”
Josenne—the creepy, old, witch-like woman he’d forced me to visit a few weeks ago. She was the one who told me I wasn’t worthy of the knowledge themagvishad given me. That in order to unlock the path into the Domus from my mind, I needed to truly, desperatelywantit. She’d done all that while toying with her bones.
Do not pretend to know things you have no knowledge of.Her departing message had been just as off-putting as the rest of our conversation.
“Are you sure it isn’t poison?”
“If it is, it’s terribly ineffective. I’ve used it for years, and I’m still alive.”
“You’re probably more poison-resistant than me.”
Amusement lifted his lips. “Probably.” He moved in, resting one knee on the bed and sending my pulse into a flurry. “But trust me that this will help. Now show me the bruises.”
