“I’ll take care of the turnips,” I said, pulling out a small cloth bag and placing it on a table. “I brought you some wild parsley I found by the stream yesterday.”
“Excellent. We’ll put it to good use. But take care you don’t use so much salt this time. It’s mined in Safra and nearly impossible to get these days, with trade closed off. You can’t just go throwing handfuls into every stew. And keep your sticky fingers out of my bread. You’re worse than a badger in a root cellar.”
We were still peeling, chopping, and trading quips when the door burst open.
“Where the blazes have you been?” demanded Arcus.
“I was pestering Brother Peele for another biscuit,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’ve found him to be rather stingy.”
I received a playful whack from a grinning Brother Peele and a glare from Arcus.
“You were supposed to meet me for sword training an hour ago.”
I gaped. “That’s tomorrow.”
“Today.”
“But—” I cast an apologetic look at Brother Peele.
Arcus was completely unmoved. “You have ten minutes. Don’t make me wait.”
My hands shook as I drew my red tunic over my head and slid on my boots, my stomach twisting with nerves.
I had never held a sword, not even one of the wooden practice swords used by the boys in my village. Mother had said that weapons and hot tempers make a dangerous pair.
My fire was a weapon, but part of me. It could hurt, but it could also cook food, create life-giving heat, and boil water. The purpose of a sword was to maim or kill. Considering my plan was to kill the king, it was strange how the thought weighed on me.
Thick gray clouds seemed to hover over the spot Arcus had designated for our lesson. Instead of the usual training ground, he had chosen an area between the budding fruit trees and the river, where a fishpond sat dull and still under a patchwork of lily pads.
He wore his training gear, the blue tunic and black mask that covered his cheeks and nose but not his eyes, the color of frozen pools reflecting the sky.
He held out a sword. My hands chilled as they wrapped around the cold steel hilt. It was surprisingly heavy. Even after two weeks of training my strength, the weapon dangled from my arm like a broken branch.
“Why do I have a real sword and you don’t?” I nodded to the wooden practice sword gripped in his hand. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you?”
“Your sword is blunted. And I wanted you to feel the weight of the real thing. Now, raise it like this.”
I bunched my muscles and lifted the weapon.
“Higher!” he ordered. My arm trembled, but I raised it so the tip was level with my nose.
“Now, stand like this.”
I mimicked his stance, feet apart, knees bent.
“You’re off-balance,” he accused. “I could take you down with one kick.”
He came over to me, snapping out instructions as he put a hand to my back, my shoulder, the back of my knee, until he was satisfied. Although his hands were cold, they weren’t bitingly so. It seemed the longer I stayed in the abbey, the more I grew used to the proximity of Frostbloods.
“Now, come at me.”
I moved toward him, my sword held out. With one swipe, he dashed the weapon from my hand. It met the grass with a thud, sending up a spray of morning dew. Arcus still held his sword in the ready position.
“Is this the part where I beg for mercy?” I asked.
I was using light words to hide the fact that I was out of my element. Arcus seemed to think I wasn’t serious about the lesson. His face darkened.
“You think the king’s soldiers will care if you beg?”
Heat flared up my neck and into my cheeks. I picked up the sword, gripped the hilt, and went at him in earnest. He parried my stroke and disarmed me. I tried again, and my sword went flying.
After a third time, I picked up the sword and threw it as far as I could. It landed with a splash in the fishpond.
“You retrieve your weapon. Right. Now.” The words were delivered from between clenched teeth as if he would rather have tossed me into the pond after it. Or perhaps just my severed head.
“You’re supposed to be teaching me!” I shouted. “I already know that I’m useless with a sword. What are you trying to prove?”
Arcus looked away. “Brother Thistle is too easy on you. He wants to go slowly. He doesn’t want to push. Meanwhile, war still rages in the Aris Plains. The land withers. Families starve. If this goes on, there will be no kingdom to save.”
“And that’s my fault?” I demanded. “For not being ready?”
He hesitated. “No, it’s mine. For not teaching you fast enough.”
“You think I’ll learn faster when I’m out of my head with fury?”
“I’m trying to show you that losing focus in battle could mean losing your life. And you lose focus all too easily, Fireblood.”
His words sank in slowly, like drops of rain. This lesson was a test of my temper. I had to show him I could keep it.