Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(5)

A third bucket soaked my back. I started to shiver.

“I don’t know why the executioner hasn’t come for you yet,” said Bragger, “but it’s only a matter of time.”

He gave a swift kick to my shoulder, knocking me off-balance. I curled up in a ball as the cell door closed with a clang, their laughter moving farther away.

I am as cold as the prison walls. I feel nothing.





Ice cracked like the breaking of bones.

I woke with a jerk, heart racing. A dark shape, something strange and inhuman, had been hovering over me, touching my cheek in a blistering caress. I blinked away the dream, and the prison came into focus.

Frost swept the prison in a white wave, crusting over stone walls and insinuating itself into every crack and keyhole. It spilled across the floor and hardened into glittering sheets that stopped inches away, leaving me on an island of bare stone.

Booted feet scraped to a halt outside my cell. I stifled a groan. Not again. No more guards tonight. But guards didn’t smell of oiled leather and soap. My eyes flicked up to a tall, hooded figure hulking outside my cell, a torch held in his right hand. My spine tightened and fine hairs rose on my neck.

Another hooded shape joined the first. This figure was smaller and leaned on a walking stick that he tapped with each step. A short white beard flowed over the collar of his robe.

“So you think this is the one?” He spoke quietly, his refined accent jarringly out of place in this pit of lowborn murderers and thieves.

“Look,” said the taller figure, his voice deeper, more vigorous. “See how the ice refuses to touch her?” He sucked in a breath and blew it out with force. The water in the air turned to ice and fell over me in tiny pellets that steamed back into vapor as they met my skin.

I bit off a moan, my eyes wide with terror. So these were Frostbloods, who had a power in complete opposition to my own. I struggled to keep my breathing even, to hide my panic.

“You see?” His voice was low but exultant.

“Sit up, little one,” the shorter figure said, tapping the bars with his stick as if knocking at my door. “We wish to speak with you.”

I remained still, willing them to move on and leave me in peace. I hadn’t felt so frightened since the day the soldiers came to my village. The guards did not have the gift and they still managed to make my life a misery. At least they were afraid of my fire. What could a Frostblood do to me?

“Do as he says,” said the man who stood tall and broad and imposing on the other side of the bars. “Sit up or I’ll find a bucket of water, and then we’ll see how you shiver.”

Defiance heated my skin. I unwound my arms and sat up.

The old man stepped closer. “How old are you?”

I frowned, searching my mind for the answer. Days blurred into months, which could bleed into years in the king’s prison.

He seemed to understand my uncertainty. “It has been two weeks since the vernal equinox.”

A dull ache spread through my chest. I’d lost nearly half a year. “Seventeen, then.”

“You burned the king’s soldiers, some of them badly,” he said. “Though with the help of skilled healers, they survived.”

“A real pity,” I replied, my voice as cold as the ice-coated floor.

He chuckled and looked to his companion. “It’s curious that her hair is black. The truly gifted often have fiery hair.” He reached through the bars toward me. “Show us your wrist.”

I brought my hands to my chest. “Why?”

“We only wish to see.” His voice was soft, gentle. Without thinking, I lifted my arm, the tattered sleeve falling open to reveal my thin wrist. He took the torch from his companion and held it close to the bars, the light falling on the thick vein that pulsed like a fat red worm under my skin.

“See how it shines so red?” he marveled as I pulled my arm away. He pushed back his own sleeve to show me the vein in his wrist, cold blue instead of crimson. “We wish no harm,” he assured me. “We are here to make an offer. If you complete the task we require, you will have your freedom.”

My heart fluttered in my throat. The word freedom rang in my head like the pure, clear note of a temple bell. The very thought of it was a painful temptation, to feel fresh air in my lungs, the kiss of sunshine on my skin, the play of wind in my hair. I trembled, torn between longing and terror.

There are worse things than dying slowly in a cell.

The two figures loomed still and silent in the flickering light, frost crackling under their feet. Their breath fogged the air with a cold mist.

“What is the task?” I asked.

The old man looked around and shook his head. “It is something you will be only too eager to help us with.”

“Why would I help a Frostblood with anything? Except to die.”

His weathered hands rose and pulled the hood off to reveal a lined face with skin darker than my own, long and lean with noble bones. His eyes, so light blue they were almost white, burned into me. His lips held the hint of a smile. “Frost and fire were friends once.”

“Not in my lifetime.”

He looked to his companion and back to me, his expression intent. “Then, perhaps this will interest you. Our target is the throne itself.”

I pressed my hands to the cold stone floor to steady myself. It was what I longed for, the only thing I’d wanted since the day the soldiers had taken everything from me: to kill the king, who had ordered that raid. If it were not for the king, there would have been no soldiers, no captain, no prison.