Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(47)

“There’s more than one rider, Brother Thistle.” Trepidation crept along my skin like tiny spiders. “Are you expecting visitors?”

He pushed his face closer to the glass, his eyes trained on the distant specks.

“What color do they wear, child?” he asked, an uncharacteristic tremor in his voice.

I shook my head, squinting. “It’s hard to make out.”

As the shapes drew closer, Brother Thistle’s hand went to his heart. “By Tempus, no.”

In the bright midday sun, the riders had become clear. Blue tunics with a white arrow in the center.

The mark of the Frost King.

My heart raced. Time seemed to stop and then rushed forward.

Brother Thistle cursed under his breath and pulled a key from the folds of his robe. Pressing it into my palm, he said, “Give this to Sister Pastel. She will take you to the catacomb tunnels that lead to the woods. Only the senior members of the order know where the tunnels come out.”

“I’m not going to hide,” I argued, my voice rising.

I was scared, more scared than I’d been since being in Blackcreek prison. But the need to protect my friends was greater than my fear.

He put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me backward, surprising me with his strength.

“This is no time for a show of stubborn temper,” he said, more forcefully than I’d ever heard him. “If they find you here, there is no telling what they will do to us all.”

His reasoning penetrated my defiance. Staying to fight could do more harm than good. I couldn’t risk the monks and Arcus just to show myself that I wasn’t that same scared girl in the village. But it felt wrong to cower in the dark while they faced the soldiers without me.

There was no indecision in Brother Thistle’s eyes or hands as they took my shoulders and shook me.

“Go!” he yelled.

With an agonized backward look, I went.





SIXTEEN



AS THE OTHER MONKS PREPARED TO present an open, innocent face to the soldiers, Sister Pastel hustled me down the steep stone steps that led into the bowels of the abbey. Bones were piled in ossuaries and on shelves, neatly stacked rib cages and spines covered in a thick layer of dust. I gagged at the invisible bits of bone and sinew in the air, the final exhalations of the dead.

No sooner had we descended than the clank of steel and thumping of boots came from above.

“Not a sound, child,” she whispered.

I needed no reminder. The crowded catacombs were so silent that any noise seemed like an explosion of sound. Not that the crowd minded. They were all dead.

“What will happen to the others?” I asked softly.

Sister Pastel shook her head. “Tempus willing, the soldiers will not find anything and go away.”

Anything, meaning me.

“This way,” she whispered, motioning me away from the entrance.

The walls were carved from the rocky earth. The ceiling was so low that even my head brushed it in spots.

Every few feet, a recess in the wall formed a kind of shelf that served as the final resting place for a pile of dusty bones. I kept my eyes trained on the torch. The sight of them was disquieting, as if the noise of my passage might wake them into chattering complaint.

As we walked, the ceiling grew lower and there were no more bones, just a dim tunnel twisting and turning away into nothingness.

“I can go no farther,” said Sister Pastel, panting from the exertion of bending her spare frame so low. “If the soldiers are looking for you, they’re sure to find the catacombs eventually. You must go to the end and find the way out. It’s hidden in a cave among a pile of stones that look like a natural rockslide at the bottom of a hill. When you’re out, head west. There’s a path that leads up the mountain, where you’ll find many caves in which to hide. We’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

When I had first come here, I had wanted a way to escape the abbey. Now I’d grown used to the safety and familiarity of it. I wanted to spend my mornings training with Brother Thistle, helping Sister Clove in the stables, and gathering herbs for Brother Peele. I wanted to sit in the library with Sister Pastel with the late-afternoon sun caressing the thin parchment, making it glow. I wanted Brother Gamut to bring me tea in the evening to warm my insides while we discussed the day’s events.

And Arcus…

What if the soldiers had him? What if I never saw him again?

But there was no time to fall apart. A bittersweet confusion of gratitude and sadness closed my throat. I pulled a startled Sister Pastel into a swift embrace.

“Thank you for everything you taught me,” I choked out.

“No need for that, child.” She patted my shoulder. “We will see each other again soon enough. And then perhaps I’ll let you try a bit of color on your paper.”

“That would be wonderful. Please, please be careful.”

“I will. Now go. The torch will be of no use to you as the ceiling is so low. There is only one narrow way forward and you will still have some light to guide you once you’re out.”

She was right that the torch would have been a hindrance. I was soon on my knees, crawling through the narrow black space.

It seemed like hours of silent, dusty stumbling. Rocks tortured my knees and shredded my leggings. The long trek had taken a toll on my ankle. I tried to forget my pain and concentrate on putting distance between myself and the soldiers, inch by inch.