Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(29)
I improved in uneven spurts, finally learning to burn the detested shrub I had missed during my first lesson, and then any target that Brother Thistle pointed out, though my aim was, in his words, “rather unpredictable at times.” He had me exert finer levels of control by starting the fire in the warming room every evening, drying wet robes hung out on wash day, even lighting a candle from a distance, which took hours and hours of practice. I was able to complete my tasks with increasing reliability. Still, the larger uses of flame often eluded me, much to my frustration.
After my lessons, I usually headed for the stables to help Sister Clove, who was in charge of the livestock. She had roughly hewn features and large hands that were gentle with the animals. I helped her muck the stalls, groom horses, and carry heavy sacks of seed or grain for the chickens and pigs and goats.
When I finished in the stables, I would head for the kitchen—housed in a separate building because of the risk of fire—and offer help to the cook, Brother Peele. He usually had me wash pots and carry buckets of water from the well. Occasionally, he asked me to gather herbs to season his pottage, which I had just done.
Strolling through the cloister on my way to the kitchen, I breathed the scents of crushed weeds and kitchen smoke. I gave the icy statue of Fors a saucy wink and clutched my robe tighter. After a few days of mild weather, a north wind had whipped up with a vengeance, forcing its way through my clothes and pulling at my joints.
As I passed through the reverent hush of the church, I noticed that some of the pews had been removed, no doubt burned in the fire, and the scent of ashes still hung in the air. My steps grew light, the soaring arched ceiling and large stained glass rendering of Tempus filling me with awe. On impulse, I walked down the central aisle and settled on one of the kneelers under the window. I gazed up at Tempus and he stared back, neither of us sure of the other. Maybe it would have been easier if it was Sud or Cirrus. But Tempus was almost as forbidding as Fors and more powerful, being the father of the four winds.
I pressed my hands together and prayed to Cirrus, watcher of the dead, to keep my mother safe in the afterworld in the sky. When I thought of my mother, my chest grew painfully tight. With chapped knuckles, I tried to rub away the pain at the back of my eyes before continuing to the kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to Brother Peele as I hung my cloak on a peg on the kitchen wall. “I was…” It seemed silly to tell him I had been praying. He prayed five times a day at set times, along with all the other monks. Fortunately, Brother Peele was too busy chopping potatoes to notice my half-finished sentence. The first time I had come to the kitchen to offer help, he had barely spoken, watching me as if I were a fox angling to steal his chickens. But he gradually became accustomed to me, and I’d found him to be quite loquacious.
“Rabbit’s in the pot already,” he said, motioning with his knife. He had an accent, having come from the northern hill tribes, and I liked the way he rolled his Rs.
“I’ll take care of the turnips,” I said, pulling out a small cloth bag and placing it on a table. “I brought you some wild parsley I found by the stream yesterday.”
“Excellent. We’ll put it to good use. But take care you don’t use so much salt this time. It’s mined in Safra and nearly impossible to get these days, with trade closed off. You can’t just go throwing handfuls into every stew. And keep your sticky fingers out of my bread. You’re worse than a badger in a root cellar.”
We were still peeling, chopping, and trading quips when the door burst open.
“Where the blazes have you been?” demanded Arcus.
“I was pestering Brother Peele for another biscuit,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’ve found him to be rather stingy.”
I received a playful whack from a grinning Brother Peele and a glare from Arcus.
“You were supposed to meet me for sword training an hour ago.”
I gaped. “That’s tomorrow.”
“Today.”
“But—” I cast an apologetic look at Brother Peele.
Arcus was completely unmoved. “You have ten minutes. Don’t make me wait.”
My hands shook as I drew my red tunic over my head and slid on my boots, my stomach twisting with nerves.
I had never held a sword, not even one of the wooden practice swords used by the boys in my village. Mother had said that weapons and hot tempers make a dangerous pair.
My fire was a weapon, but part of me. It could hurt, but it could also cook food, create life-giving heat, and boil water. The purpose of a sword was to maim or kill. Considering my plan was to kill the king, it was strange how the thought weighed on me.
Thick gray clouds seemed to hover over the spot Arcus had designated for our lesson. Instead of the usual training ground, he had chosen an area between the budding fruit trees and the river, where a fishpond sat dull and still under a patchwork of lily pads.
He wore his training gear, the blue tunic and black mask that covered his cheeks and nose but not his eyes, the color of frozen pools reflecting the sky.
He held out a sword. My hands chilled as they wrapped around the cold steel hilt. It was surprisingly heavy. Even after two weeks of training my strength, the weapon dangled from my arm like a broken branch.
“Why do I have a real sword and you don’t?” I nodded to the wooden practice sword gripped in his hand. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you?”