Fireblood (Frostblood Saga #2)(10)

“Then we need to find a way to trap it and bring it here to destroy the frost Minax! Maybe there’s a way to control it.” I made the task sound simple when I was really just spinning ideas out of vague hopes. I cast a glance at the piles of books on the table and stacked nearby on the floor. “Have you found anything helpful at all?”

He made a vague gesture of denial. “Nothing, aside from what I have told you. However, there is a book that other volumes refer to as the authority on the thrones and their curses. I was certain it was here in the king’s library. Have you seen The Creation of the Thrones by Pernillius the Wise?”

I couldn’t help chuckling. “Pernillius? I think I’d remember such a ridiculous name. Ask Marella. She shares your passion for putrefied history. Or is it petrified? Perhaps both. It’s all so very, very old.”

My teasing grin earned one of his signature scathing glances. “I have asked her, of course. She has not seen it. It must have been lost. Or perhaps Rasmus had it burned.”

My hopes for a quick answer died a quick death.

“If only Sage would appear and give us instruction,” I mused. The last time I’d seen her was the moment I’d destroyed the frost throne. She’d been frustratingly silent since. In darker moments, I worried the visions of the Minax were a sign that my connection with Sage had been severed.

“That would be very helpful,” Brother Thistle agreed. “Until then, we continue our research.”

“What should I read tonight, then?” I asked, shaking off the dismal thoughts. “Since I’ve been so cruelly denied the wisdom of Pernillius.”

He tapped a book with a red cover. “This one.”

I took the book to a table and opened it, scanning for some mention of the thrones until the words swam before my eyes. Hours later, I had found nothing of use, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about Brother Thistle’s revelation: Only a Minax could destroy another Minax.

And the other Minax was in the land of Firebloods.





THREE



FOR FIREBLOODS, AUTUMN MEANT a period of weakening and loss, when an attentive summer sun turns fickle, playing a coquettish game of hide-and-seek until winter falls over the land with all the subtlety of a blacksmith’s hammer.

Thus, when the equinox dawned cloudless and bright, I had no urge to celebrate the day, least of all by attending a ball full of highborn strangers who would sneer and whisper about me behind their hands. If Arcus hadn’t expressly asked me to go, I would have found some excuse to stay in my room reading.

“You’re brooding again, my lady,” said Doreena, laying a chemise, petticoats, corset, and silk stockings onto a chair. “You’ll give yourself frown marks.”

“Tempus forfend. What will the court say if I’m wrinkled as well as dangerous?”

She smirked. “They will say you make a very severe queen.”

“Doreena.” I gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Please stop saying things like that.”

“But it will happen. Someday.”

“When volcanoes erupt with snow.”

She lifted her sharp little chin. “Everyone in the servants’ hall talks about how much the king moons over you.”

“Hmm. And what exactly do they say?” Despite myself, I felt a flicker of hope that they might be supportive.

She paused. “Opinions vary.”

The flicker of hope died. “That’s your delicate way of saying that no one is happy about it.”

“Some are!”

I gave her a knowing look. “You?”

“Well… yes.”

I had to laugh at her apologetic expression. “Don’t worry, Doreena. You’re worth ten supporters. With you on my side, I can conquer kingdoms.”

Her lips curved shyly. “Or at least one king.”





By the time I stood in the doorway of the ballroom, most of my bravado had fled. I’d faced trained killers in King Rasmus’s arena, with an entire crowd howling for my blood. But somehow the thought of all these eyes on me, the hum of murmured hatred buzzing in my ears, was threatening in its own right. I might not end up bloody on the floor, but I wouldn’t escape unscathed.

Marella had outdone herself decorating the ballroom. The icy pillars had been carved with elaborate designs, and the chandeliers wept with hundreds of icicles that managed to look elegant and dangerous at the same time. Thick velvet curtains in rich jewel tones framed soaring windows. Rectangular wooden tables groaned under silver platters laden with savory appetizers and frosted cakes.

“Lady Ruby Otrera,” a man announced in ringing tones. All eyes turned to me, some curious, others openly hostile. I searched for a familiar face, feeling a pulse of relief when I spotted Marella moving toward me. She wore an emerald ball gown that complemented her porcelain skin. Gold lacing crisscrossed the bodice, and gold sunbursts edged her wrists and hem.

“Ruby,” she said warmly, “don’t you look lovely! Turn around so I can see the back.”

I did a quick twirl. For once, the seamstress had shown restraint. There were no ruffles on the deep red dress, just a simple square-necked bodice that hugged my waist before flaring into a full skirt covered with a layer of red tulle. Doreena had asked the gardener for a crimson lily, which she’d pinned into my ebony hair.