Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(89)

I tried, but patience is just not in my nature.

While I’d drowsed in my fevered state, Arcus had convinced most of the nobility that he was the rightful king. It didn’t take much convincing that a curse had been darkening the nation, as people had felt that truth in their hearts for a long time. But Arcus still had to deal with a nation that had long been spread too thin by war. He had ordered his armies to be withdrawn from neighboring countries and had sent ambassadors to begin the long process of mending ties with kings and queens. It would take time, Brother Gamut said, for people to forgive. The Minax’s dark appetites had been embodied in the form of the Frost King. It would be a long road for the new king to regain trust.

“But is he all right?” I asked anxiously. “How is he dealing with his brother’s death? Brother Gamut, you should have seen him. He looked… broken.”

“I know, child. I see his sadness. He is not himself.”

As we sat in silence, the door opened and Arcus came in, looking at Brother Gamut. He wore no hood, so his eyes were clearly visible. Today they were the color of a frozen lake dusted with snow. His expression was grim, shadowed, his cheeks hollow, as if he hadn’t slept well in weeks. He looked as if he’d aged years in the past few days.

“I will watch her for a while, Brother,” Arcus said heavily, closing the door behind him. “The coronation isn’t for a few hours yet.”

His eyes widened as they settled on me. “She’s awake!”

“You can talk directly to me now,” I pointed out.

“Ruby,” he breathed, moving his broad-shouldered frame so carefully toward me that I wondered if he expected me to fly away like a startled bird. It both touched and amused me to think that after everything I’d survived and everything I’d done, he could still think of me as fragile.

He slid his cold hand under my palm. I shivered, but it was the sensation of his touch, not the cold, that ran up my arm and brought goose bumps to my skin.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly. I tried to pull my hand away, sure it must be uncomfortably hot in his. He tightened his grip.

“Like an overcooked rabbit,” I answered.

His eyes crinkled with amusement, making him look closer to his own age again. “You’re the fire. Muffle your flames.”

“Ah, but that requires self-control. And we both know—”

“You have very little of that,” he completed with a crooked smile that did nothing to lower my temperature.

Despite his light words, there were signs of tension in the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Brother Thistle has been hovering over me like a mother hen. If he persists, I’m going to lock him in the keep.”

“He loves you.”

“And I love him, too.” His face grew serious and I wondered if he wanted to say something more, but then his eyes flicked to Brother Gamut, who sat grinning happily from his perch on the brocade chair, and he seemed to think better of it.

“I’m so sorry, Arcus,” I said, my fingers twisting together on the quilt. “I should never have gone into the throne room without you. If I had waited, maybe—”

He shook his head, his brows lowering. “Nothing was your fault.” He paused. “There was a small service yesterday. We buried him in his ceremonial robes with some of his favorite items from when he was a child.”

I nodded. And that was probably how Arcus preferred to remember him: as the boy he once was.

“We were all saved because of you.”

“Then why do I feel like I failed?” I asked, looking away. “The Minax is loose now, unhampered by the throne. Who knows what chaos it’s capable of now that I freed it?”

Brother Gamut, perhaps sensing that the air had grown thick, cleared his throat and stood. “I need to fetch some herbs to make your special tea. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” I said sincerely. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed it.”

The monk made a quick bow to Arcus and shuffled from the room. When the door had shut behind him, Arcus sat in the chair, his hand still holding mine.

“You did not fail,” he said. “You rid the castle of a curse.”

“But the throne brought the Frost King power.” I met his eyes. “You’ll be weaker now without it.”

His eyes narrowed as he considered what I had said. “The throne did give the king power, but it was not always used justly. It had been growing dark for a long time, at least since my father’s reign. My own father was… terribly cruel to my brother.”

“Rasmus told me.” I slid my fingers into his and squeezed.

He looked down at our hands. “So I intend to use not only my frost, but my ability to speak to people, to persuade them to think as I do.”

I grinned. “Because you’re so loquacious.”

One side of his mouth tilted up, puckering the scar. I suddenly longed to trace it with my finger.

“I used to be known for my persuasive arguments.”

We sat in peaceful silence for a minute.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you really were?” I asked.

His lips twisted. He met my eyes, his own intense. “It was a secret that, if exposed, could mean the death of the monks. I was using the abbey as a place to hide, a secluded and safe place to live while I built up my supporters. Rasmus might have taken his wrath out on the order. I couldn’t risk that. Even if I knew I could trust you—and, Ruby, I did really come to trust you—it was more a question of what you might reveal if you were captured.”