Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(22)

“Funny how you still haven’t told me why you need me. It would be wiser to run.”

“I’d drag you back.”

“So your plans don’t involve my willing participation? I can just be forced into it?”

He was silent. A telling flare of his nostrils was an admission.

I crossed my arms. “You need me willing. And that means I need information.”

“And if you’re captured, you’ll tell the soldiers everything. I can’t take that chance.”

The silence lengthened and pulled thin until I could no longer bear it. I shook my head and turned away. “Next time I leave, I won’t come back.”

“I took you from the prison!” he said, his voice raised. “I saved your life.”

I spun back, my skin heating. “So what—I’m your slave now?”

Another voice came from behind me, a cultured voice raised in shock. “What is the meaning of this shouting?”

I half turned to see Brother Thistle in the doorway, his brows drawn into a scowl. He might have looked like any old man, such as I’d see tending chickens in my village or gathering herbs on the mountain, if it weren’t for the frost-misted air he exhaled and a thin layer of ice crystals that coated the stone floors of the hallway behind him.

“It’s not like you to lose your temper,” he chastised Arcus.

“She would try the patience of a god,” Arcus muttered, throwing himself back into the chair.

Brother Thistle motioned to another chair, which sat in front of the table with the book on it. “Please sit, Miss Otrera.”

I sat. He pulled a wooden stool close and looked at me long and hard. “Why did you leave?”

“Why do you think? I have no urge to go back to prison.”

“You won’t go back.”

“Brother Lack said he will not rest until the soldiers know where I am.”

Arcus sat forward in his chair, gripping the arms as he glared at Brother Thistle. “I warned you. I told you he couldn’t be trusted. You insist on seeing the best in people.”

“We can discuss that later. Right now we need to ask Miss Otrera why she didn’t come to us for help and instead rode off into the woods.”

“I was scared,” I said honestly. “You haven’t told me why you brought me here, what part I’m supposed to play in this plan to overthrow the king. And you seemed to believe I started that fire.”

“Did you?” asked Arcus.

“I don’t believe you started the fire,” Brother Thistle said quickly. “And I understand your fear. But you must promise never to leave again. It is very dangerous in the surrounding villages.”

“The soldiers are searching for me, I know. I passed a ruined village and came upon an encampment of refugees.”

“You didn’t allow them to see you.” When I remained silent, Arcus added, more urgently, “Did you?”

“Well, not intentionally.”

Arcus swore and my voice rose. “I had to help a sick little girl! And I don’t believe they knew I was a Fireblood.” I had no urge to tell him how she had touched my hand and remarked on the heat of my skin. “They’re moving on to the coast. I don’t think they’ll search for me, even if there is a reward of five thousand coin on my head.”

More swearing from Arcus. Brother Thistle raised his hand. “We knew there was a reward, though I didn’t realize it was so significant.” He closed his eyes and massaged his brow. “My concern is if these refugees tell the soldiers of your presence. There is a lesser reward for information of your whereabouts.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

Arcus threw up his hands. “Would it have made any difference?”

“Probably not.”

“Promise you won’t leave again,” said Brother Thistle softly. “And then we can discuss what you want to know.”

I shrugged. “Tell me everything you’re planning and then I’ll decide.”

Ice crackled over the floor from Arcus’s chair.

“Is that his version of a tantrum?” I asked Brother Thistle.

“The patience of a god,” Arcus muttered.

“Enough,” said Brother Thistle. “If you can’t promise, I can tell you nothing. The lives of too many people depend on us.”

“And you would accept my promise?”

He looked intently into my eyes for so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer. “Yes,” he said with gentle conviction.

I let out a long breath. “I came back, didn’t I? I decided I wanted to help. I promise not to run away again.”

“Then it is time to discuss our purpose in bringing you here.” He leaned forward, his hand on his walking stick. “We heard rumor of a prisoner of the king who was a powerful practitioner of the art of heat.”

The art of heat. Grandmother had told me that was how it had once been known. Respected. Revered. Frost and fire working together to achieve their goals and make better lives. That was a long time ago.

“Before going to the prison,” he continued, “we troubled ourselves to find out more about you. For instance, none of the people in your village had the gift, including your mother.”