A wave of disorientation had my hands grasping the arms of my chair. In my village, I had felt alone, misunderstood. But at least I cherished the thought that, one day, another Fireblood would help me understand what raged inside my heart and how to live with it, how to harness and use it without fear of hurting everyone around me. Now it appeared I was alone.
“So they were all killed in raids,” I said, needing to be able to imagine their deaths, to show my respect by doing that small thing.
“Some in raids, yes,” he said. “Others died in prison. But the strongest are often taken to the king’s arena.”
I sat up straighter, surprised. “I’ve heard a champion who wins in the arena can receive his freedom, sometimes even gain a place in the king’s court. But I thought it was only Frostbloods.”
“That was once true. The entire practice ended under the previous king, Rasmus’s older brother, who didn’t care for needless bloodshed. King Rasmus has resurrected it. He takes the most powerful Fireblood prisoners and matches them against his Frostblood champions.”
“Can a Fireblood win their freedom?” I asked.
He hesitated. “We have never heard of a Fireblood coming out alive.”
So even the most powerful of my kind had been cut down for the king’s entertainment. “How did it come to this?” I whispered. “Grandmother always told me that frost and fire used to live in peace.”
Brother Thistle spoke. “When Firebloods came across the sea searching for new and fertile lands, even our myths and traditions set us up as rivals. Peace was established, but eventually Firebloods pushed the boundaries of their territories, fighting with landowners, demanding more farmland.”
“That’s not fair,” I retorted. “That was all settled. It was King Akur who pushed to change the boundaries that had existed for hundreds of years. Firebloods had made the land what it was, and he tried to take it back.”
Brother Thistle inclined his head. “The Firebloods were far outnumbered, so they resorted to assassinations of high-level Frostbloods. When that didn’t force King Akur’s troops back, they killed some of the most valued members of his court.”
“And his wife,” said Arcus, his voice grating compared with Brother Thistle’s softer tones.
“Regardless, King Rasmus is only taking up where his murderous father left off,” I said.
“He is far worse than his father ever was,” said Arcus. “King Akur was at least generous with alms for the poor and improvements for cities. Rasmus uses the treasury to make more weapons, train more soldiers. He tortures anyone suspected of treason, kills the barons who oppose him, and crushes any hint of rebellion by sending all the able-bodied men and women off to the borders, where they can do nothing.”
“And everyone left behind starves,” I added. “Thank Tempus the abbeys and their monks appear to be safe, though. And… whatever you are.” I waved a hand toward Arcus.
He was no monk; that was for certain. There was just nothing monkish about him at all. He carried himself like a warrior and spoke like a nobleman. His cloak and boots were fine, yet he hid himself in an abbey.
“King Rasmus still honors the god of the north wind,” Brother Thistle replied. “He wouldn’t risk angering Fors by harming his devotees.”
I shifted in my seat so I faced Arcus. “And how do you suppose I’ll manage to kill the most powerful king in our history?”
“He is not the most powerful king in our history,” Arcus retorted. “Ruthlessness is not power. Tyranny is not strength.”
I was startled to hear him echoing my own convictions. In fact, much of what he’d said I agreed with. “So even you, a Frostblood…” I said. “You hate the king, too.”
“We are against the way King Rasmus carries out his rule,” said Brother Thistle, glancing at Arcus. “We are against his lack of compassion.”
“Lack of compassion?” Sudden anger brought me to my feet. “Is that your pallid description of a king who would send his soldiers to raze an entire village because of rumors of a single Fireblood?” My chest heaved. “The home I loved, my mother, everything is gone—all because I was born with a gift I cannot help, cannot control, and can never, ever be rid of!”
A flame burst from my palm and danced across the floor, sliding up a table leg. Arcus leaped to his feet, slicing the air with his hand. Frost doused the fire before it could spread to the parchment laid out on the table. A smudge blackened the polished wood.
“Calm yourself,” he said, breathing hard.
I curled my hands together. I hated the loss of control that came with strong emotions. Slowly, I returned to my seat and wrapped my arms around myself, glaring at the floor. “I say we show the king a similar lack of compassion. String him up and set the frost wolves on him. It would be a kinder death than he has granted to many.”
“Miss Otrera, we do not disagree with you,” said the monk, his eyes on my fisted hands. “To heal the kingdom, we must end King Rasmus’s reign.”
Relief surged through me, though I still simmered.