Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(65)

My fear of him disappeared in a cloud of anger. A heat I wouldn’t have thought possible in that cold space rose up in me and bent the air with waves. Droplets of water slid down the edge of the table.

He skimmed a hand along the edge of the table, flicking bits of water to the floor, already frozen into tiny pellets. “Calm yourself. I didn’t bring you here to discuss your beauty.”

I stared at him, so calm and cold and… empty. “What possessed you to bring me here? I’d rather take my meals with your dogs.”

He seemed unperturbed by the insult. “It is tradition to celebrate my new champion.”

“Even a Fireblood?”

“A Fireblood has never won before. You defeated a great warrior. How did you do it?”

A rustle of fabric drew my attention to the other guests, who seemed to pick up on the question and lean closer. Marella’s father, in particular, seemed full of tension, his gray eyes intent under thick white brows.

My pulse pounded in my ears. “I barely remember. It was all a blur.”

A small smile played at the edges of his lips. “Then we will have to repeat the experience, and next time you will tell me how you won. I have great plans for you, Fireling.”

“I believe your intention was to kill me, one way or another.”

Marella laughed. “And to think we almost didn’t get the chance to watch you in the arena. It would have been a great loss, would it not, Raz?”

Her familiar use of a nickname for King Rasmus caught my attention. The king’s eyes remained on me. “I’m not going to kill you. You’re my champion now, and my guest.”

A steward came forward with a decanter and poured wine into the king’s goblet. A door opened and three men came in bearing platters piled high with ham, roast, fish, buttered potatoes, and vegetables in rich sauces.

As the rest of the table tucked into their food, I sat with my hands on my lap.

“You will eat,” the king said quietly.

I met his eyes. What would happen if I refused?

He inclined his head as if he read my thoughts. “I have already said I won’t kill you, Ruby.”

“Don’t call me that. The name my mother gave me has no place on your lips.”

He smiled and took a sip of wine. “I believe I know what belongs on my lips.”

For the first time, a hint of heat entered his gaze. I looked away, my skin crawling with discomfort. I took a sip from the goblet to cover my confusion.

He drummed his fingers on his goblet, making it ping. “I know your dearest wish is to kill me.”

My head snapped up.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s quite obvious you hate me. Fire and frost are natural enemies, and I know your history. What happened to your village. Your mother.” He sat back in his chair. “There aren’t many Firebloods left. When one escapes from prison, it doesn’t go unnoticed. Especially one found in an abbey that worships Fors, of all places. Who brought you there, I wonder? I’m afraid your monks have been less than forthcoming.”

“Where are they?” I demanded, pushing my chair back and standing. I imagined the monks in Blackcreek Prison, the rats running over their feet as they slept, their old bones aching from the hard stone floor.

The lilt of conversation around the table died abruptly.

The king motioned to my seat. “Sit, Fireling. Your monks are unharmed. They are in their abbey, carrying on with life as usual.”

I stared at him hard, blinking, wishing I could read the truth in those blank eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

The continued silence drew my attention to the other guests. All eyes rested on me. Making an effort to compose myself, I took my seat again and the conversation resumed.

“You think they’re here in my keep?” he said softly. “Being tortured for information, perhaps? Search for yourself.”

“You could be keeping them anywhere. Blackcreek Prison isn’t far from the abbey.”

The king sipped his wine, then calmly put his goblet on the table. “It’s good that you understand the danger to those you love, Fireling.”

I suddenly wished I had never learned to care, that I was free from feeling, as I had been in the prison where all I had was hate.

“Tell me what happened in the arena,” he said softly.

I stared hard at my lap, the white knuckles of my hands standing out against the dress. Any information I gave him could be used against me, could prevent me from destroying the throne.

At my silence, the king exhaled and sat back in his chair. “You see me as an enemy,” he said. “But when I look at you, I don’t see an enemy. I see potential.”

I shook my head. Yet another person who wanted to use me, and this time the very person I wanted to destroy.

He toyed with his goblet. “Something happened to you in my arena just before you struck the killing blow. Your eyes turned black.”

A memory came to me, the storyteller in the woods. She said the Minax seeped beneath your skin, turning your eyes and blood black, making you vicious and bloodthirsty, eager to do the Minax’s bidding in exchange for blissful darkness.

I took a sip from my goblet, cursing the unsteadiness of my hand.

“You know something happened to you. One day you’ll trust me enough to tell. But first a gesture of good faith. I do something for you, and you do something for me.”