“She is no more a criminal than any of the other hundreds of unfortunate Tempesians who have tried to defend themselves against attacks.”
“And what of the king’s wrath when our transgression is discovered?” Brother Lack demanded.
A weak voice laced with indignation came from behind him. “Have you forgotten the aim of our order? To heal the sick and offer refuge to the persecuted?”
We moved to gather around the lean form of Brother Thistle as he raised himself onto one elbow before succumbing to a fit of coughing.
Arcus crouched down and took his shoulder gently. “Easy, my friend. You breathed in a good deal of smoke.”
Brother Lack continued to stare at me as if I were a viper about to strike. “Perhaps she is persecuted for good reason. Perhaps the gods punish her for her sins. I remind you that I come from the South. I have had experiences with Firebloods. They are a dangerous, shifty, untrustworthy lot, with no adherence to any of the values we hold dear.”
“You forget yourself,” warned Brother Thistle, breathing heavily, his deceptively soft tone making the hair on my arms stand up. “Her only sin is being a Fireblood, and that is no sin at all.” He coughed a few times more and continued. “If compassion is so abhorrent to you, perhaps I should question your dedication to the tenets of our order.”
“My dedication? I have devoted my life to the order. I only suggest we maintain the purity of this holy place. The fact that you have brought a Fireblood—”
“And remember,” Brother Thistle cut in softly, “I decide who belongs here. The order bestowed that authority on me and no one else.”
There was a pregnant pause, full of the sounds of Brother Lack’s quickened breathing, a battle of wills waged in stern faces. Finally, his nostrils flared but he bent his head stiffly.
“Forgive me. I misspoke.”
“All is forgiven,” said Brother Thistle, a new series of coughs taking hold of him.
Brother Lack raised his head. “The fact remains, she started a fire that could have killed you.”
“It wasn’t me,” I said, agitated. “What reason would I have to do this?”
Arcus considered me silently and I realized I had plenty of reasons. To distract them so I could run away. To take revenge on Frostbloods. And he’d seen me lose control down by the river when I’d burned my clothes.
Some of the other monks muttered to one another, distrust and concern shadowing their faces. Fear and anger pulsed in hot waves from my chest to my fingertips.
“We can debate this for the rest of the night,” said Arcus, speaking loudly over their unrest. “Meanwhile your brother’s and sister’s injuries go without tending. You have my solemn vow that I will watch the girl closely. We will discuss this tomorrow.”
He spoke with the uncompromising tone of command. Most of the monks nodded and started to disperse. Brother Lack held his ground, standing with crossed arms and glaring as if I might rush forward and engulf the abbey in flames at any second.
“Follow us,” Arcus said to me, his tone blunt but not hostile. “Brother Lack, I will depend on you to see Miss Otrera into the abbey.”
He and another monk lifted Brother Thistle. It didn’t escape me how carefully Arcus handled him, as if he carried the sleeping form of his own father. There was clear respect, even affection, between the two, and the thought made my chest ache with a kind of jealousy. It had been a long time since anyone had treated me with tenderness.
They moved along the outside of the abbey toward the infirmary. I followed slowly, my ankle stiff from exertion and the cold night air.
Brother Lack moved to my side, leaning over to mutter in my ear. “You may have Brother Thistle fooled, but I see you for what you are: a vindictive Fireblood intent on destroying a place that worships the god of the north wind. I don’t know how you wormed your way in here, but I promise you this: I won’t rest until you are back in prison, where you belong. Even if I have to take you there myself.”
The bright intensity of his small black eyes showed that he was dangerously sincere. What would it take? One simple message alerting the soldiers to my presence. Or perhaps one night I’d find myself hauled from my bed and shoved into a carriage bound for the nearest garrison. I had made a mistake of letting relief convince me I was safe here. I would never be safe with followers of Fors; I had to remember that.
Arcus appeared in the doorway to the abbey. “Inside,” he commanded.
There was no more time to hesitate or wait for my body to heal. Any fate was better than finding myself back in prison.
I would leave tonight.
SIX
THE INFIRMARY WAS QUIET—A THICK, cloying silence that makes you fancy you can hear impossible things like a spider’s progress over the windowsill or the swish of a mouse’s tail dragging on the floor in the dark.