He swallowed and stood abruptly. “You’ve come as far as you can with a sword. Focus on your lessons with Brother Thistle from now on.”
I watched, confused and hurt, as he strode toward the stables. I had worked hard on our sword lessons and had thought I was improving. It appeared he disagreed.
While I packed up the food to take back to Brother Peele, I saw Arcus on his horse, Alabaster, speeding toward the woods at a ferocious gallop.
One warm spring day almost two months since I’d come to the abbey, I dressed in my leggings and tunic and headed to the rocky training ground to meet Brother Thistle. Thin, curled blades of grass poked out of the dirt, and bud-laden branches rustled in a southwest wind. The air smelled of clean earth and yeast that wafted over the yard from the brewery.
“This maneuver is called the tail of the dragon,” said Brother Thistle.
He demonstrated by putting his left foot forward as he leaned on his walking stick, then snapping his free hand forward and back as if he held an invisible whip. Frost swirled in a tight funnel that narrowed at the end and cracked against the ground, leaving it white.
“I saw the Fireblood masters use it to great effect in the Battle of Aris Plains,” he said.
I put my foot forward and flicked my wrist. A spark leaped from my hand and landed on the ground with a fizzle. I cursed and tried again. This time, a thin blade of fire jumped out and squirmed on the earth before dying.
“You created fire arrows with ease just yesterday,” he said with a hint of disappointment.
“I know. It’s just… some days are better than others.” I didn’t know why my powers were so inconsistent. One day, my focus was sharp, my mind clear, and my gift obeyed my every command. Other days, I felt scattered, and it didn’t seem to matter how hard I worked. There seemed to be something weighing me down, as if a wet rag were wrapped around my heart.
“I sense you have so much power, Ruby,” he said, his voice full of hope and frustration. “What is stopping you?”
An image of my mother came to me. I thought of her often, remembering her calm and practical way of looking at the world, the way she was slow to anger and quick to forgive. I could picture her deft hands, which had been so clever at mixing new batches of tincture or salve. Sometimes an image of her face would flash into my mind, and I would find the spark in me dying.
“I suppose… it’s the way I was raised. My mother hated violence of any kind. She would detest me plotting to kill someone with my gift.”
“Is that why you struggle? Because your mother would not approve?”
“It’s not only that.”
I had always had this feeling that something was churning underneath my skin. Deep inside was a pot of boiling water, a forge fanned by endless bellows, a volcano waiting to erupt. And I had spent my whole life fighting these sensations. Now Brother Thistle wanted me to let them free.
“I was taught to hide my gift,” I explained. “Never to use it. When I lost my temper, it was harder to control. My mother called it a gift but…” I shrugged, looking at the ground. “I know she thought of it as a threat as well. And it was. Once I was so mad I almost burned down our hut.” I looked up at the monk a little sheepishly. “Firebloods like me are not meant to live in buildings made of wood and thatch.”
A low chuckle came from behind us. I swung around. Arcus had approached at some point, quiet as a shadow.
“So if your temper brings out your fire,” Arcus said, striding forward, “perhaps we can make you angry.”
“Oh?” I asked, my pulse jumping with uncertainty, as it did every time I saw him since that day we’d last talked under the fruit trees. “And how will you do that?”
“Well, I recall you don’t like being dumped in rivers or ponds. We could start there.”
I crossed my arms. “It also weakens my power.”
He looked thoughtful. “Then perhaps a milder version of the same.” He lifted his hand high and waved it in a circle. The water in the air turned into tiny frozen droplets that fell on me, just as they had when he’d come to my cell. They melted as they hit my face, steaming slightly.
I gritted my teeth.
Next he sent a breath of frost into my face, freezing my eyelashes. My heart sped up, my breath quickening. I rubbed the melting crystals from my lashes and glared.
“Enough,” I growled, the heat rising too quickly.
He flicked out a hand at my feet, and I was suddenly standing on the smoothest of ice. My soft-soled boots had no grip. I slipped and went down on one knee.
“I said enough!” I yelled, sending a blast of hot air at the ice, melting it. “Next time that’ll be at you!”
“You may not find me so easy to burn,” Arcus replied, his eyes grimly assessing.
“I would like to try,” I said between clenched teeth, heat rolling off me in waves.
He nodded. “Burn me, then, my raging inferno.”