Brother Thistle believed prophecies about a Child of Light who would stop the release of the Minax from where they were trapped underground. He was convinced I was that illustrious but unlikely person.
There was also a Child of Darkness, one who would try to release the Minax rather than prevent it. If Brother Thistle had theories about who that was, he hadn’t shared them with me.
“Another issue,” I couldn’t resist adding, “is the small fact that I’m not the Child of Light.”
He waved the protest away, as he’d heard it so many times. “The fire throne is made of lava rock. The temperature required to melt such a thing would be… inconceivable. Only a Fireblood master could hope to try, and you are far from a master.”
“Thank you,” I said, dry as Safran desert to cover the fact that the comment stung. I’d been learning to control my gift for months, but I knew I was far from a master. And I had no one to teach me any more than what Brother Thistle already had by adapting his Frostblood techniques to my fire. I longed to find out what I could achieve if given the proper training.
“But aside from that,” he continued, “it took an opposing force to destroy the frost throne. Perhaps it would take a Frostblood to destroy the fire throne.”
The solution to that seemed obvious. “Then we bring you and Arcus to Sudesia.”
“How do you think the queen would receive us after King Rasmus massacred all the Firebloods in Tempesia? As far as she is concerned, they were still her people, and we are the enemy. Furthermore, what would we do if the fire throne were destroyed?” Brother Thistle asked. “The fire Minax would be released and Sudesia would be at its mercy, just as Tempesia is at the frost Minax’s mercy.”
“Then we need to find a way to trap it and bring it here to destroy the frost Minax! Maybe there’s a way to control it.” I made the task sound simple when I was really just spinning ideas out of vague hopes. I cast a glance at the piles of books on the table and stacked nearby on the floor. “Have you found anything helpful at all?”
He made a vague gesture of denial. “Nothing, aside from what I have told you. However, there is a book that other volumes refer to as the authority on the thrones and their curses. I was certain it was here in the king’s library. Have you seen The Creation of the Thrones by Pernillius the Wise?”
I couldn’t help chuckling. “Pernillius? I think I’d remember such a ridiculous name. Ask Marella. She shares your passion for putrefied history. Or is it petrified? Perhaps both. It’s all so very, very old.”
My teasing grin earned one of his signature scathing glances. “I have asked her, of course. She has not seen it. It must have been lost. Or perhaps Rasmus had it burned.”
My hopes for a quick answer died a quick death.
“If only Sage would appear and give us instruction,” I mused. The last time I’d seen her was the moment I’d destroyed the frost throne. She’d been frustratingly silent since. In darker moments, I worried the visions of the Minax were a sign that my connection with Sage had been severed.
“That would be very helpful,” Brother Thistle agreed. “Until then, we continue our research.”
“What should I read tonight, then?” I asked, shaking off the dismal thoughts. “Since I’ve been so cruelly denied the wisdom of Pernillius.”
He tapped a book with a red cover. “This one.”
I took the book to a table and opened it, scanning for some mention of the thrones until the words swam before my eyes. Hours later, I had found nothing of use, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about Brother Thistle’s revelation: Only a Minax could destroy another Minax.
And the other Minax was in the land of Firebloods.
THREE
FOR FIREBLOODS, AUTUMN MEANT a period of weakening and loss, when an attentive summer sun turns fickle, playing a coquettish game of hide-and-seek until winter falls over the land with all the subtlety of a blacksmith’s hammer.
Thus, when the equinox dawned cloudless and bright, I had no urge to celebrate the day, least of all by attending a ball full of highborn strangers who would sneer and whisper about me behind their hands. If Arcus hadn’t expressly asked me to go, I would have found some excuse to stay in my room reading.
“You’re brooding again, my lady,” said Doreena, laying a chemise, petticoats, corset, and silk stockings onto a chair. “You’ll give yourself frown marks.”
“Tempus forfend. What will the court say if I’m wrinkled as well as dangerous?”
She smirked. “They will say you make a very severe queen.”
“Doreena.” I gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Please stop saying things like that.”
“But it will happen. Someday.”
“When volcanoes erupt with snow.”
She lifted her sharp little chin. “Everyone in the servants’ hall talks about how much the king moons over you.”
“Hmm. And what exactly do they say?” Despite myself, I felt a flicker of hope that they might be supportive.
She paused. “Opinions vary.”
The flicker of hope died. “That’s your delicate way of saying that no one is happy about it.”
“Some are!”
I gave her a knowing look. “You?”
“Well… yes.”
I had to laugh at her apologetic expression. “Don’t worry, Doreena. You’re worth ten supporters. With you on my side, I can conquer kingdoms.”
Her lips curved shyly. “Or at least one king.”
By the time I stood in the doorway of the ballroom, most of my bravado had fled. I’d faced trained killers in King Rasmus’s arena, with an entire crowd howling for my blood. But somehow the thought of all these eyes on me, the hum of murmured hatred buzzing in my ears, was threatening in its own right. I might not end up bloody on the floor, but I wouldn’t escape unscathed.
Marella had outdone herself decorating the ballroom. The icy pillars had been carved with elaborate designs, and the chandeliers wept with hundreds of icicles that managed to look elegant and dangerous at the same time. Thick velvet curtains in rich jewel tones framed soaring windows. Rectangular wooden tables groaned under silver platters laden with savory appetizers and frosted cakes.
“Lady Ruby Otrera,” a man announced in ringing tones. All eyes turned to me, some curious, others openly hostile. I searched for a familiar face, feeling a pulse of relief when I spotted Marella moving toward me. She wore an emerald ball gown that complemented her porcelain skin. Gold lacing crisscrossed the bodice, and gold sunbursts edged her wrists and hem.
“Ruby,” she said warmly, “don’t you look lovely! Turn around so I can see the back.”
I did a quick twirl. For once, the seamstress had shown restraint. There were no ruffles on the deep red dress, just a simple square-necked bodice that hugged my waist before flaring into a full skirt covered with a layer of red tulle. Doreena had asked the gardener for a crimson lily, which she’d pinned into my ebony hair.
“So do you,” I replied. “That color suits you.”
“All colors suit me,” Marella replied, her grin irreverent.
A jowly middle-aged nobleman approached, raising a goblet of wine in greeting before bowing deeply to Marella. “My dear Lady Marella, why don’t you introduce me?”
She inclined her head. “Lord Prospero, this is Lady Ruby.”
My brows drew together. I was no lady. I wished they wouldn’t try so hard to pass me off as one.
Rather than bowing, Lord Prospero merely inclined his head. “So, you are the Fireblood of such renown. How kind of the king to show you such… hospitality.” His eyes swept me up and down. “Charming.”