Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(35)

“I said enough!” I yelled, sending a blast of hot air at the ice, melting it. “Next time that’ll be at you!”

“You may not find me so easy to burn,” Arcus replied, his eyes grimly assessing.

“I would like to try,” I said between clenched teeth, heat rolling off me in waves.

He nodded. “Burn me, then, my raging inferno.”

I started with a simple blast of hot air, something that might singe his robes. He barely lifted a finger, and the air came back at me, followed by a chill wind.

I pushed out a hand, concentrating on the heat around my heart. A flame shot out from my palm and was quickly swallowed by a ball of frost.

I thrust both arms at him and summoned a wall of fire, larger than I’d ever been able to create before. A sheet of ice came up to meet it. I sent another gust of heat toward the ice, melting it. He snapped a blast of cold back at me, making me stumble.

Brother Thistle had restrained himself, I realized, allowing me gains and successes whenever we sparred. Arcus was giving me no quarter.

I steadied myself, changed my position, and threw a series of arrows of heat from various angles. With dizzying speed, he dodged or repelled all of them. They fizzled and hissed as they hit the cool ground.

We circled each other.

“Your task is weeks away, and this is the best you can do?” he taunted.

I breathed deeply as his barb struck home. It was exactly what I feared, that I wasn’t ready. With the hurt came a surge of anger. My blood heated and this time I didn’t try to stop it.

Brother Thistle, who had been watching quietly, stepped forward. “Is this a good idea?”

“She won’t hurt me,” said Arcus. “She isn’t capable of hurting me or anyone else. Including the king.”

“Be careful,” I warned, my voice low.

He sent a spiral of frost at my neck. I batted it away.

In an echo of my earlier move with fire arrows, he sent wicked shards of ice winging toward me. I parried, kicked, and melted them before they could connect.

“Better,” he said. “Stop holding back.”

We traded blows that increased in pace and intensity. As he parried all my attacks, I grew frenzied. I sent out a blistering wind that could have burned many an enemy, but my aim was wide.

“Focus!” he shouted. “Let yourself go, Fireblood!”

But I couldn’t. A small part of me was still locked up tight, frightened of what I might do.

“She can’t do it,” Arcus said to Brother Thistle, who hovered, tense as a bowstring, on the edge of the training ground. “She’ll fall at the king’s feet and beg for mercy.”

“I won’t!” I shouted, blasting him with a wave of intense heat, which he deflected with a swirling cloud of frost.

“So scared of your own powers,” he said, his voice heavy with contempt, pouring cold out in waves. “Too afraid to hurt anyone. Poor, weak thing.”

Rage uncoiled itself inside my chest, a sleeping tiger that had been poked too many times. Since the attack on my village, I had pushed down so many feelings—hurt, fear, anger, grief. Now I was glowing with white heat. I whipped my hand forward and back, releasing a tail of the dragon. A thick column of fire with a wicked end shot toward his chest.

Arcus raised a hand to bring up a shield of frost. I thought I saw him stumble just slightly, but the flame hissed into a harmless cloud of steam.

He shook his head, and suddenly I saw that he was trembling with fury. He turned to Brother Thistle. “She’ll never be ready. Our plan has failed already.”

“We still have time,” the monk replied.

Arcus slashed the air with his hand and turned to leave. “Not enough.”

My fingernails bit into my palms. No matter how hard I tried, he was always better. He had all the power, and mine was nothing in comparison.

He was a Frostblood.

And like all Frostbloods in this land, he held dominion over me. In my fury, the gains I had made, the way I had come to see Arcus as an ally—all that disappeared. Pain lit my heart and spewed up hate, the way fire belches smoke.

I whipped my hand forward, aiming for his back. But instead it was his hood that erupted in flames.

Arcus cried out and fell to his knees.

For the space of a breath, I stood there, stunned, as Brother Thistle rushed forward. I couldn’t believe I had hit him. Even mindless with fury, I hadn’t been aiming higher than his loose tunic, which he would freeze in an instant. He had parried every other attack so effortlessly. He’d seemed invincible.

I stumbled toward him. The flames were out, the ruined hood smoking under his hands. He was on his knees, breathing hard, trembling.

“Stay back,” Arcus hissed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aiming—”

“No,” he said, his hands pulling off what was left of the steaming hood and tossing it to the ground. “You’re never aiming, are you? For all your lessons in control, you are still wild.”

Pain shivered in his voice. My heat was dying, and in its place was charred, blackened regret.

“That’s not fair,” I said, my voice pleading. “You deliberately goaded me. And I didn’t think I could hurt you. You have your cold, your ice, to protect you.”

He stood slowly and turned. His face was uncovered.