Fireblood (Frostblood Saga #2)(5)
My fingers moved to stroke the heart-shaped mark.
As soon as I touched it, I was plunged into another vision, dark and deep.
I stand in a cavernous room with black stone pillars straining up into looming darkness. I move over the floor, not walking but gliding like a ragged exhalation, as if I’m made of air. By tiny degrees, the outline of a heavy black shape sharpens into an unkempt, asymmetrical rectangle chiseled out of night.
It’s a throne—wide enough to fit ten men, yet only one small figure sits on it, feet dangling high above the floor. Greenish light reflects off the figure’s onyx crown, which is gnarled and pointed, like twisted antlers interlocking and curving up almost a foot in height. The figure’s head is bent a little, as if the crown is too heavy for the delicate stem of its neck. Closed lids open to reveal yellow eyes pinning me where I hover several feet away. I sweep downward in a misty approximation of a bow, then straighten.
“Come closer,” the figure says, the voice soft and female.
I long to obey, to slide underneath her skin to feel her power.
“You have the stone?” she asks.
I hand it to her. As she takes the stone, fire glows around it, lighting the room. A triumphant smile breaks over her face, and the sight spills something like happiness into my soul.
“You’ve done well,” she says. “You will be rewarded.”
She beckons. Joy lights my mind.
As I seep into her fingers, I gaze at her face, where strands of inky hair cling to her cheeks and chin.
Suddenly, I was back in the throne room, struggling to draw my next breath. Pain bit into my palms. I opened my fists. My fingernails had scored angry red crescents into my skin.
I scrubbed my hands against my face, trying to rub away the horror of recognition.
When I’d moved toward the queen with the twisted black crown, the face she’d worn was my own.
TWO
I LONGED TO RUN FROM THE THRONE room, to get as far away as fast as I could, but I was conscious of the guards in the hallway. Instead, I pinched my earlobe and gave myself a stern lecture. Get ahold of yourself, Ruby. You can’t go tearing around the castle like a wild boar.
I needed Brother Thistle. With his knowledge of history and myth, he might have some theory of the vision’s meaning. As Arcus’s closest confidant ever since their time together at Forwind Abbey, he often dined with the king and court. I straightened my spine and made my way to the dining hall on unsteady legs, taking a moment to smooth my features into a placid mask before entering.
A carnival of torches glowed from black metal sheaths, tilting away from the ice-covered walls. Candles winked like lightning bugs atop icicles that dripped from a massive chandelier. The scent of roasted meat clashed with the ladies’ flowery perfumes.
Arcus sat at the head of the table, at ease in a midnight-blue doublet, his mahogany hair adorned with the plain silver band that he wore as a crown during formal occasions. I scanned the table for Brother Thistle and felt a swoop of disappointment when I realized he wasn’t among tonight’s guests. No doubt he’d found some excuse to remain perched over books in the castle library like a broody hen roosting among her eggs. I half turned to the door, but Arcus noticed me and stood.
I was trapped. I couldn’t leave now without appearing rude.
The rest of the men stood as well, some of them readily, like Lord Manus and Lord Pell, new additions to court. However, they didn’t hold the lands and resources that others did, like Lord Blanding and Lord Regier, bastions of King Rasmus’s old guard. Arcus needed them on his side to maintain the kingdom’s strength and unity.
These older noblemen rose more slowly and reluctantly at my arrival.
Arcus motioned to a chair of carved ice covered in a white fox pelt at his right. A chill slid up my back as I moved forward and sat in the familiar chair. The seat at the king’s right was a place of honor, but it was also where King Rasmus had forced me to dine with him—a tradition for champions who had won in his arena. I’d had the dubious honor of being the first Fireblood to win against his Frostblood champions, something that had drawn his attention in ways I’d rather forget. The memory of the former king hung in the air like smoke in a windowless room.
The noblemen rustled back into their seats, the rotund Lord Blanding with a satisfied groan. Lady Blanding patted her elaborately piled gray hair and sniffed loudly before turning to Lady Regier. “I always fancy I smell singed meat when the Fireblood girl is near,” she said in a booming whisper.
The lovely Marella, who sat on the other side of the table, caught my eye and tilted her head to indicate Lady Blanding. “I always fancy I smell mothballs when the old crow dines with us.”
Lord Manus snorted, then covered the sound with a cough.
“Marella,” I whispered, sending her a stern look. The last thing I wanted was for her to draw attention to me.
The aquamarine feather on her headband curved delicately over her braided wheat-gold hair as she leaned toward me. “Don’t worry. She can’t hear a thing unless you’re shouting in her ear. I could tell her to jump off the eastern cliffs and she’d just compliment my gown.”
Her less-than-innocent grin drew an answering smile from Lady Blanding, who said, “You look absolutely divine tonight, Lady Marella. Your seamstress has outdone herself. And how jaunty that feather is.”