Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(12)

I left Brother Thistle and ran to Arcus’s side. “What is it?”

He shook his head.

“Use your frost to fight the fire as you go,” I said, perplexed. “Is there something wrong? Is your frost… not strong enough?”

“Of course it is!” he barked. “This is nothing.”

He put his hands in front of him. The air crackled with frost, but it melted instantly against the raging heat. My eyes widened as I saw how his arms trembled.

“You’re afraid of fire?” I asked, thunderstruck.

He rounded on me with a furious glare, but his breath came in short bursts, his chest rising and falling like he had just run for miles.

I waited to feel triumph at his weakness, but my thoughts were clouded with worry. “Where’s the library?”

“Just past the church,” he answered. “Third door.”

I nodded. “I need a pathway out. Try your best to clear the hallway. And have Brother Gamut ready to help when I bring Sister…”

“Pastel,” he supplied. “But you can’t go in. The roof could collapse.”

“Then I’ll have to get out before it does.” I turned and bolted through the doorway and into the church, ignoring Arcus’s shouts behind me. A wall of fire blocked the opening to the corridor. I closed my eyes and threw myself through the flames, tumbling onto the stone floor to quench my robes.

I opened the third door and found a room lined all around with books. Brushes and pots of ink sat in neat rows on tables in the smoke-filled room. Between two arched windows, there was a tapestry of Tempus, father of the four winds, whipping up a storm to punish disobedient sailors.

“Sister Pastel?” I called, my voice shrill.

A tall, robed figure was sprawled on the floor beneath the tapestry. I recognized her as the sister who had eyed me suspiciously as she’d helped bring in my bath the day after I’d come to the abbey. I slid my hands under her arms, grunting with effort as I lifted her. The temperature of her skin was cooler than mine, but nothing like the frigid sting of Arcus’s skin. She clearly had no gift of frost to protect her from the flames that filled the corridor.

The windows were the only possible exit. I gently set Sister Pastel back down and picked up a wooden chair, smashing it against one of the windows, which shuddered but didn’t break. I tried to smash the glass with my shoulder but bounced off, my arm screaming with pain. I fell back a few paces and was about to try again when a low voice called, “Stand away!”

I covered Sister Pastel with my robes as best I could and shielded my head with my arms. There was a deafening crash as the beautiful colored glass exploded inward, spraying vivid shards onto the floor. A rush of fresh air cleared my head as Arcus scrambled over the frame and into the room.

I ripped the tapestry from the wall and threw it over the jagged glass. Together, we lifted Sister Pastel over the windowsill and climbed out. As Arcus laid her on a hillock a short distance away, I put my hands on my knees and took great gulps of air, then spun around, heading back to the library.

Although my mother had taught me basic letters, it was my grandmother who had taught me to read and love books, bringing several volumes whenever she visited. And my mother’s compendium of herbs had been invaluable. The thought of all those precious books in the library dissolving into ash was unbearable.

“What are you doing?” Arcus shouted.

“Saving the books!”

I heard pounding footsteps before he grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face him, a dim outline in the faint glow. “Leave them! The fire won’t spread that far.”

He ran along the abbey wall, and I followed. On the north side, the monks kept their vigil with buckets of river water. Arcus told them where he’d left Sister Pastel, then ran to Brother Thistle’s side.

“How is he?” Arcus asked Brother Gamut.

“Still alive,” the monk answered, looking fretfully toward the roaring fire.

Arcus nodded and rushed back to the abbey’s large wooden door, the place where he had looked so lost and frozen only minutes before. The flames belched out brilliant embers that burned to black in the orange light. His brow furrowed as he spread his arms wide and clapped his hands together. Frost crusted over the stone and melted. Another clap and more melting frost.

Arcus fell to his knees in the dirt, his palms slapping the heated ground as his back rose and fell with labored breaths.

“Just need a minute,” he said. “Harder than I expected.”

“You’re overheated, most likely,” I said. “When I’m wet or excessively cold, my gift is weakened. The same must be true for you when your skin is hot. You’ve been near the fire for too long.”

He made a noncommittal sound. I figured it was as close to agreement as I would get. I waved to a monk who was running forward with a pail of water.

“Wait,” I called, grabbing the bucket as he slid to a halt. “Bring more water, please. Here, to me.”

And I turned and dumped the bucket’s contents over Arcus. He gasped and shook the water from his hands. “What are you doing?” he said, outraged.

“Cooling you off. Ah, another bucket. Good.” I sloshed the pail of river water over his head.

“While I appreciate your help, you don’t have to drown me.”

“Fine, then you do it.” I handed him a third bucket from one of the sisters.