The porridge had a dash of molasses. The cheese was salty and soft. Bliss.
I was back in bed by the time Brother Gamut bustled in with a cup of his healing tea. He bent over, carefully unwinding the linen around my ankle, a task my mother had performed on many a wounded man or woman or child from our village. My chest grew tight, and a strange vulnerability stole over me, as if it were my mother’s touch in the monk’s gentle hands. I fought against it, desperate for the numbness that had protected me from grief for so many months.
When he was done, I again broached the subject of a bath—a hot one, as I had little energy to heat the water myself. A battered metal tub was carried in by two monks—a tall, thin woman and a stout man—both glancing at me suspiciously.
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.