Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(11)
“Those who can’t control themselves will find themselves under the control of others. It’s a lesson you’d do well to learn.”
“If you try to control me, it’s you who will be taught a lesson.”
My foot hit a clod of earth and I stumbled, the ground coming up to meet me. Arcus grabbed the back of my robe and hauled me upright, his derisive snort bringing more heat to my cheeks.
“If you wish to threaten me, best wait until you’re steadier on your pins.” Before I could protest, he swung me into his arms with ease. “I’m growing accustomed to carrying this bundle of crackling firewood.”
Crackling firewood, indeed. No doubt that meant I was skinny and unpleasantly warm. Well, he was intolerably cold. I shuddered against the chill from his chest, resisting the urge to push my way free. That would only reinforce his opinion of my wildness.
He took me to the infirmary. I told him to put me on the floor, as I didn’t want to soak my pallet with my dripping clothes. He set me down quickly, my hip again meeting the floor with a thump.
I glared. “Perhaps Brother Gamut could teach you how to be gentle while Brother Thistle teaches me control.”
“Listen carefully.” He towered over me, his steely tone making me wonder if I had pushed him too far. “There are rules to your stay here. You may move about freely in the abbey with the exception of the dormers, where the monks sleep.”
I snorted. “Not somewhere I’m likely to frequent, is it?”
“In fact,” he continued, “it would be better if you stayed away from the monks altogether, with the exception of Brother Thistle and Brother Gamut. The rest would just as soon turn you in to the soldiers rather than risk bringing them to the abbey. Or risk being burned in their beds.”
“Only if they give me good reason,” I replied with sweet poison.
“Pay attention because I’ll only say this once. The river is your boundary to the north, the stables to the east, the road to the south, and the edge of the woods to the west. If you pass these boundaries, you’ll receive a sound thrashing from me, and you will lose all freedoms and privileges.”
“You lay one finger on me and I’ll—”
“Burn me so badly my mistress will run in terror. I’m afraid that threat holds little weight with me, Lady Firebrand. Get yourself dried off before you take ill. You’re weak enough as it is.”
He walked out and closed the door with a quiet thud, leaving me steaming in my wet robes.
FIVE
I SPENT THE NEXT THREE DAYS IN the infirmary, seeing no one but Brother Gamut and drinking cup after cup of his tea. When resting bored me to distraction, I started a routine of limping around the room at intervals, with breaks in between. It was surprising how quickly I gained strength with the help of Brother Gamut’s herbs. For the first time in months, I started to feel safe.
Until I woke on the third night with the taste of ashes on my tongue.
My fingers dug into the quilt as I tried to shake off images of buildings wreathed in flames. It was just a dream. But the acrid smell wouldn’t leave my nose. I sat up, rigid with fear.
Fire.
I threw on my robe, slammed the door open, and ran as fast as my ankle allowed down the corridor and out through the cloister. Following the haze of smoke, I rounded the northwest corner of the abbey. Brothers and sisters ran from the river to the church, tossing buckets of water at the flames spitting from the north door, their wide-eyed faces and clenched hands appearing white in the firelight. One of the sisters cried out as heat washed over her, the water from her bucket hitting the door with a hiss. Then she wheeled around and ran back toward the river.
“Where is Brother Thistle?” I shouted as I drew close. His frost was worth a thousand pails of river water.
One of the monks pointed at a figure stretched out on the ground. I ran over and fell to my knees. Brother Thistle’s chest rose and fell too quickly.
Brother Gamut shuffled over to us, a bent silhouette against the orange glow. “He fell asleep at his desk in the chapter house. Brother Peele found him and carried him out.”
“We must wake him,” I said. “He can put out the fire.”
“We have tried. He won’t wake.”
My heat would hardly help in this situation. I knelt by the monk and gently shook his shoulder. If only I had some strong-smelling herbs to put under his nose to rouse him.
Pounding hoofbeats shook the earth. I turned to see a massive white stallion draw to a halt and Arcus swing from the saddle.
“What did you do?” he demanded as he rushed forward and fell to his knees on the other side of Brother Thistle. Shadows hid his expression, but the accusation was clearly directed at me.
“I did nothing,” I said coldly, “except try to wake him.”
Brother Gamut cut in to explain what had happened to Brother Thistle. As he spoke, a shout came from one of the sisters who had been accounting for everyone. “Sister Pastel isn’t here!”
Brother Gamut’s hands knotted as he looked at Arcus. “She must be in the library.”
Arcus pushed up and ran for the north door. He blasted the iron door handle with frost and yanked the wooden door open. Smoke billowed out and hungry tongues of flame licked at the edges of the frame. Arcus’s whole body was tensed, but he didn’t move. Something about his posture reminded me of a small animal facing a predator, its safety dependent on perfect stillness.