Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(9)

I ignored their looks, instead watching as bucket after gloriously steaming bucket was brought and poured into the tub.

“Remember to keep your ankle dry,” Brother Gamut warned as he and the other two left.

As I sank into the bath, warmth made my blood sing. My power, so long kept limp and weak with poor food, damp cold, and despair, surged outward from my heart. I dangled my injured leg over the edge of the tub and lathered up the soap, my spirit caught between conflicting emotions. The lightness and relief seemed too good to be true.

When I was done, I stepped out of the grime-blackened water and dried off, leaning on the tub for support. Brother Gamut had left a pile of modest clothes. I pulled on the linen underclothes, brown robe, and leather sandals, and was hit by the contrast of my clean self with the stench of the dress I had chucked off. Months in prison had turned my simple blue dress and underclothes into a handful of tattered rags. I picked them up and moved toward a lit brazier near the far wall, then changed my mind and headed for the door.

I had a better method of disposal in mind.

As I turned the knob, I hesitated. Was I allowed to leave? What would they do if I disobeyed their rules? The prison guards might have been afraid to touch me, but Arcus had already threatened me more than once. His frost would protect him from my heat, and he might turn out to be as brutal as the guards.

Although I trembled a little, I pushed the door open. I refused to let fear rule my actions. I was no longer a prisoner, and if they treated me like one, I would escape as soon as I was healed enough to do so.

After trailing down the corridor, avoiding the curious eyes of hooded figures, I leaned a hand against the cold stone wall and cursed the unsteadiness of my legs. I reminded myself that only the day before I’d had trouble standing. This was progress.

A minute later, I found a door that led outside. As I stepped over the threshold, my lungs expanded with a breath of fresh, pine-scented air. I closed my eyes, raising my face to the sky. So many months had passed. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed sunlight and crisp, clean air.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I left the abbey behind. The snow was mostly melted, with patches left here and there in the shade. A copse of budding fruit trees led to a thin river that gurgled over smooth stones and disappeared into tall grass.

I wanted to be out of sight and not too near dried sticks or bracken. Under a spindly tree, a few flat rocks lined the riverbank, probably to pile clothes on for washing when it was warm enough.

I laid the scraps on the rocks. The morning I had donned them had been the worst day of my life. Although I’d pushed away the memories when I was awake, they invaded my mind every night. I couldn’t wipe out the vision of what had happened, but I could destroy this reminder. I held my palms toward the pile and closed my eyes. Heat pooled in concentric rings around my heart. Let it build. Patience. Steady. Just as Grandmother taught me. Wait until it’s ready to spit forth, then harness and control it.

Controlling it had never been my strength.

I called up every hot urge and feeling that had sat under my skin for months and sensed a crackle just under my breastbone. Fear. Burning rage. I poured it all on like lamp oil, ready to ignite.

What I needed was to feel something, something that would make me burn. I pictured Mother’s hands curled into claws as she ran at the captain, his sword flashing in the firelight. My name on her lips.

She had needed me and I had found my fire too late.

If only I had known how to control my gift. If only I hadn’t used it when she’d told me not to.

It was all my fault. I was responsible for her death and the destruction of my village.

I crumpled to my knees, my palms slapping against the flat stone. The memory was like a flame to dry kindling. The heat grew too quickly, out of my control, spitting from my palms and onto the pile and then to my robe, greedily crawling upward until my clothes were completely alight. Although I knew it would take incredible heat to burn Fireblood skin, it felt as if the flames were eating me alive, searing my eyes, stealing the air from my throat, finding the vulnerable places where I might not be as impervious as I’d thought. It was as if I were back in my village again, the torches closing in from every direction with no escape.

My fists clenched. Push it away. Control it. Master the fire. But the fire was its own master and would not be ruled. The burning robes tangled around my feet as I clawed at myself, my mouth open in a silent scream.





FOUR



I WAS DROWNING.

Strong hands held me in the water, like the soldiers on that day. I bucked and clawed. Muffled curses rained down as I was hauled up and rolled onto soft earth, pinned down by hands on my shoulders and the weight of my own sodden robes.

“Let me go,” I gasped between coughs.

“Kindly remove your talons from my arms,” said a deep voice. His hands lifted, shaking off my curled fingers.

Arcus turned me onto my side and pounded my back as I coughed out water. As he leaned over me, his hood fell open enough to show a well-shaped nose with a strong bridge and a glimpse of scars on his cheeks. Dimly, I noticed that his skin was smooth where it wasn’t scarred. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than I.

When I could breathe again, I struggled against him.

“If you try anything,” he warned, “I’ll put you back in the river. A good dunking will cool that fury. Now, what exactly were you doing out here?”