Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(24)

“Miss Otrera, we do not disagree with you,” said the monk, his eyes on my fisted hands. “To heal the kingdom, we must end King Rasmus’s reign.”

Relief surged through me, though I still simmered.

“Perhaps we can continue this discussion another day,” he said. “It is easy to forget that you have been through a great ordeal and are still healing.”

I tucked my shaking legs further beneath my robes. It would do no good to lose my temper with these men. If all I did was spit and claw like a feral cat, they would never trust me.

“Thank you for the herbs and food,” I said sincerely, trying to sound calm. “Brother Gamut has taken good care of me.”

“The first order of business is for you to heal,” said Brother Thistle. “Any other matters can be discussed when that has been accomplished.”

“Any other matters,” Arcus said, his commanding voice resonating in the small room, “will be handled when I say it is time to handle them. We sit by and wait while the throne—”

Brother Thistle held up a hand. Surprisingly, Arcus went silent.

“Trust me, my friend,” said the monk. “We have waited all this time, searching for the girl. Time is our enemy, but sometimes patience is necessary.”

Arcus stood abruptly and brushed past my chair on his way out of the room. A rush of frigid air stung my cheek as he passed.





NINE



OVER THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS, MY temper cooled as my health improved. I asked Brother Thistle for more information about my task, but he told me to focus on healing and more would be revealed when he felt I was ready. After three days, Brother Gamut declared me recovered enough to train. He brought clothes and left me to dress in a woolen cloak, faded white shirt, and red tunic over dark leggings. Leather boots were laced tightly to my feet, and my hair was tied back with a piece of string. I was instructed to meet Brother Thistle at a spot between the abbey and the woods, where a copse of trees would shield us from any curious eyes.

On the way to the westward door, I passed by three monks, a man and two women. The man wore his hair in a tonsure, but the two women just wore their hair cropped very short, barely long enough to brush their temples. They all moved to the side as I passed, doing nothing to hide their aversion. Clearly, my rescue during the fire hadn’t won over everyone. Perhaps they still thought the fire was my fault.

Preoccupied with my thoughts as I exited through the westward door, it took me a moment to notice that Arcus was waiting.

He wore a blue tunic and black leggings that fit snugly over the thick muscles of his thighs. His shoulders were made broader by shoulder guards that shone silver in the weak sun. He wore a sort of hood with no cloak and the same mask from when he found me in the snow. It extended partway over his face, covering his nose and cheeks.

When his eyes met mine, I froze as if I were wrapped in frost.

They were light blue, little chips of ice that glinted like frozen jewels. They were eerie, stunning, beautiful eyes. If ice can ever be beautiful.

I nodded in greeting and walked forward. He fell into step beside me, his strides shortened to match mine.

“Couldn’t resist an opportunity to watch Brother Thistle knock me down?” I asked.

“A great deal depends on you.” His tone was cordial but detached. “I need to be sure your training goes well.”

“Why? Your role in all this remains rather murky.”

His jaw tightened, but his tone remained light as he changed the subject. “I should have told you before; I thought it was brave of you to go after Sister Pastel.” He paused. “Thank you.”

I stopped in shock and turned to him.

“For rescuing her when I hesitated,” he finished, meeting my eyes.

“Not so brave for a Fireblood.” I fiddled with the edge of my tunic as we continued walking. “And I wouldn’t have been able to get her out without you.” I grimaced. “Anyway, if history is any lesson, I’m more in danger of setting myself on fire than anything else.”

“Well, don’t,” he said sharply. “I don’t fancy carrying you all the way to the river.”

“You could just throw frost over the flames,” I pointed out.

“And you would welcome the sensation of ice on your skin?”

I glanced at him. “Is that why you tossed me in the stream instead? You were being considerate?”

“I was being practical,” he answered, still looking forward. “Water douses flames. Your heat repels frost. It was easier to push you in.”

His reasoning was sound, but his remark about carrying me all the way to the river still rankled. “You speak as if I’m as heavy as an ox,” I said. “Last week I was a bundle of sticks.”

“You’re still too thin.”

“Perhaps if I gain some weight, you won’t call me a stick anymore.”

“You may hope to one day be a branch.”

I glanced at him sharply, unable to repress a little flutter of delight that he was bothering to joke with me.

“A log, even,” I suggested.

“Doubtful,” he said wryly. His eyes settled on my leg. “You’re limping less noticeably. Your ankle is healing.”

“Yes.” It still ached, but perhaps Brother Thistle would go easy on me, as it was our first lesson.