I closed my eyes against the regret. “What happened to him?”
“It is not my place to tell you. Arcus can tell you himself if he wishes.”
“Please, what can I do?”
He regarded me steadily. “Do what we ask of you. Learn to control your gift. Complete your task.”
“I will. I’ll learn everything you can teach me.”
I might not gain Arcus’s forgiveness, but I could earn back Brother Thistle’s respect. I would bend all my focus to my training with Brother Thistle. I would control my temper, build my strength, and take every lesson to heart.
Because if the raids were moving closer, my time was running out.
It took three days for Arcus to return, a length of time that had seemed interminable. As soon as I heard he was back, I left the kitchen, where I’d been helping Brother Peele prepare for dinner, and went to see him. I tried to ignore the eager thump of my heart as I hurried along the dirt path between the kitchen and guesthouses, telling myself I was only anxious to apologize.
Arcus lived in a modest guesthouse separate from the main building. I had long wondered what he was doing in the abbey. At first, I’d thought him a mercenary, hired to help me kill the king. But hired by whom? I knew from Brother Thistle’s nervous obsession with his ledgers that the abbey had no money. And the monk treated him more like a son than hired help.
I knocked on the door and received a curt “Enter” in reply.
Arcus sat at a small wooden table with two chairs, a book open in front of him. Candlelight warmed his soft gray tunic, half covered by a new black cloak with a hood that hid his face.
His room was bigger than mine and embellished with personal touches. A tapestry of sun-dappled woods covered one wall from floor to ceiling. A few musical instruments leaned against it. Books were piled in a corner. The table where Arcus sat was pushed to one wall. The other wall held his bed, which had a wooden frame and was covered in a blue quilt. A lamp burned on a little table next to it.
I broke the silence. “Your room is finer than mine. Clearly, some criminals are preferred over others.”
He tilted his head. “I should let you know that I like apologies even less than I like gratitude.”
I swallowed to ease the constriction in my throat. “I was furious with you, but I was aiming for your tunic. You had parried all my attacks so easily; it never occurred to me that I could hurt you.”
When he made no reply, I said, “I’m sorry. Even if you don’t want to hear it. I was miserable about it.”
He nodded.
“And I hate that you went away. I couldn’t even explain.” I stepped closer. “I wish I could see your eyes.”
He smiled bitterly. “But then you would have to see the rest of my face.” The low, mocking words held a hint of pain. “And I would rather not see that expression of horror on yours again. Ever.”
He said it as if it mattered what I thought of him. I moved forward and pulled out the chair opposite him at the little table.
“It wasn’t horror the way you think. It wasn’t—”
“I know shock and disgust when I see it.” The words were sharp-edged and unyielding.
“Shock, yes.” I shook my head. “Disgust, no. I didn’t know that had happened to you and I felt—”
“Pity,” he supplied.
“Regret. Horror at myself. That I could do that to someone. Everything you said was right. I am dangerous. To myself. To others. My grandmother used to tell me my gift would save people someday. But I couldn’t save anyone. Not myself. Not my mother.”
“You can still save people.”
“By killing the king,” I supplied, blinking hard. “And what do you think of my chances?”
We sat in silence for a moment. I stared at my hands, which lay limp on my knees.
“Listen, Ruby.” My eyes flicked up to find him leaning forward. “I do know you’re much stronger than you were when you came here. Brother Thistle thinks you’re more than just another Fireblood with a foul temper.”
I smiled weakly at his attempt at teasing.
The oil lamp was burning low, casting the room in shadows.
“Why are you here?” I asked, staring at his lips, which had turned somber, and wishing again that I could see his eyes.
“Brother Thistle,” he answered. “He took me in when I had nowhere else to go.”
“What happened to your home?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I left.”
I waited for more, but there was none.
“Did you fight in one of the wars?”
“I’ve trained but never fought.” There was something in the way he said it that indicated regret or shame, bitterness maybe.
“Were you caught in a fire?”
His lips compressed. “By which you mean, ‘How did your face come to be so horribly disfigured?’”
“You won’t talk about it, so I have to pry.”