Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(13)
Glaring at me, he dumped it over his own head, then moved back in front of the burning doors, clapping his hands and sending out frost. It seemed for a minute that the raging flames would devour the church and the whole abbey with it. But, gradually, the frost stayed for longer and longer on the heated stone. He threw clouds of it whistling down the corridor, and the flames receded, gasping out fat puffs of smoke.
In a few minutes, it was done. The fire was out. A chorus of coughing echoed in the silence. One of the monks fetched a torch from somewhere in the abbey and came to stand near Brother Thistle, along with several others who looked down at him with concern. I stood on the outside of the group, wishing there was more I could do.
A man turned to face me, his bushy brows drawn together and his round face twisted in a scowl. I recognized him as the other monk who had brought my bath the first day, along with Sister Pastel. “You went right through the fire. You’re a Fireblood!”
My whole body filled with the need to run, get away, all my memories swirling up and closing my throat.
“She is a refugee, Brother Lack,” said Arcus, moving from Brother Thistle to where I struggled to stand my ground. “We have offered her a home because hers was destroyed. Her blood is irrelevant.”
I looked sharply at Arcus. He was defending me?
Brother Lack whirled on him. “She is a danger to the abbey and everyone in it.” Each word was delivered with the force of a nail being driven into wood. “She is a Fireblood and furthermore a criminal. She had an ankle chain when you first brought her. I saw it myself!”
“She is no more a criminal than any of the other hundreds of unfortunate Tempesians who have tried to defend themselves against attacks.”
“And what of the king’s wrath when our transgression is discovered?” Brother Lack demanded.
A weak voice laced with indignation came from behind him. “Have you forgotten the aim of our order? To heal the sick and offer refuge to the persecuted?”
We moved to gather around the lean form of Brother Thistle as he raised himself onto one elbow before succumbing to a fit of coughing.
Arcus crouched down and took his shoulder gently. “Easy, my friend. You breathed in a good deal of smoke.”
Brother Lack continued to stare at me as if I were a viper about to strike. “Perhaps she is persecuted for good reason. Perhaps the gods punish her for her sins. I remind you that I come from the South. I have had experiences with Firebloods. They are a dangerous, shifty, untrustworthy lot, with no adherence to any of the values we hold dear.”
“You forget yourself,” warned Brother Thistle, breathing heavily, his deceptively soft tone making the hair on my arms stand up. “Her only sin is being a Fireblood, and that is no sin at all.” He coughed a few times more and continued. “If compassion is so abhorrent to you, perhaps I should question your dedication to the tenets of our order.”
“My dedication? I have devoted my life to the order. I only suggest we maintain the purity of this holy place. The fact that you have brought a Fireblood—”
“And remember,” Brother Thistle cut in softly, “I decide who belongs here. The order bestowed that authority on me and no one else.”
There was a pregnant pause, full of the sounds of Brother Lack’s quickened breathing, a battle of wills waged in stern faces. Finally, his nostrils flared but he bent his head stiffly.
“Forgive me. I misspoke.”
“All is forgiven,” said Brother Thistle, a new series of coughs taking hold of him.
Brother Lack raised his head. “The fact remains, she started a fire that could have killed you.”
“It wasn’t me,” I said, agitated. “What reason would I have to do this?”
Arcus considered me silently and I realized I had plenty of reasons. To distract them so I could run away. To take revenge on Frostbloods. And he’d seen me lose control down by the river when I’d burned my clothes.
Some of the other monks muttered to one another, distrust and concern shadowing their faces. Fear and anger pulsed in hot waves from my chest to my fingertips.
“We can debate this for the rest of the night,” said Arcus, speaking loudly over their unrest. “Meanwhile your brother’s and sister’s injuries go without tending. You have my solemn vow that I will watch the girl closely. We will discuss this tomorrow.”
He spoke with the uncompromising tone of command. Most of the monks nodded and started to disperse. Brother Lack held his ground, standing with crossed arms and glaring as if I might rush forward and engulf the abbey in flames at any second.
“Follow us,” Arcus said to me, his tone blunt but not hostile. “Brother Lack, I will depend on you to see Miss Otrera into the abbey.”
He and another monk lifted Brother Thistle. It didn’t escape me how carefully Arcus handled him, as if he carried the sleeping form of his own father. There was clear respect, even affection, between the two, and the thought made my chest ache with a kind of jealousy. It had been a long time since anyone had treated me with tenderness.
They moved along the outside of the abbey toward the infirmary. I followed slowly, my ankle stiff from exertion and the cold night air.
Brother Lack moved to my side, leaning over to mutter in my ear. “You may have Brother Thistle fooled, but I see you for what you are: a vindictive Fireblood intent on destroying a place that worships the god of the north wind. I don’t know how you wormed your way in here, but I promise you this: I won’t rest until you are back in prison, where you belong. Even if I have to take you there myself.”