He was much younger than I’d expected, with no lines marking his glowing complexion. He couldn’t be much older than I.
“We have a Fireblood for you,” said the captain, his low voice echoing around the massive room.
Some invisible force seemed to take hold of me, as if the throne itself beckoned and repulsed me at the same time. A rough shove from behind sent me to my knees, my palms meeting the cold stone floor with a dull slap.
Dimly, I registered several people near the king turning to look at me, a tall man in fine robes to the right of the throne, a young woman in a plum velvet gown to his left, a cluster of what must have been courtiers in conversation.
The king stared down at us with perfect indifference. It was as if I were part of the floor, one of the birds with a berry in its mouth or one of the foxes being chased by a wolf. If it weren’t for the movement of his eyes, I could have mistaken him for a statue.
One of his fair brows rose. “She’s nothing but a skinny girl.” No one could miss the crackle of scorn in his voice. “Your orders were to bring me the strong ones.”
The captain cleared his throat. “This is the Fireblood who escaped Blackcreek Prison. She burned a dozen of my men without trying. I don’t believe she is weak, Your Majesty.” Though it seemed to hurt him to admit it.
“Where did you find her?” the king asked.
“In Forwind Abbey on Mount Una. We don’t know why worshippers of Fors would hide a Fireblood, but one of the monks was loyal to Your Majesty and sent word to our garrison. We’re questioning the leader.”
Choking ribbons of fear closed my throat. The thought of Brother Thistle being tortured for information about me was unbearable. I struggled to my feet.
The king’s eyes narrowed on me. Goose bumps broke out on my flesh and my breath made puffs of mist. Even a look from the king was enough to half freeze me. I shuddered at the strength of his power.
“So, you care about the monks,” he said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “They must have been good to you, which suggests they were willing hosts.”
I stumbled over my words a little as I tried to offer an explanation he might accept. “I claimed to be a refugee. They didn’t know I was a Fireblood.”
The captain gave a disbelieving snort. “The monk called Lack told us everything. They knew, and the old monk healed you anyway.”
The old monk. Brother Gamut. No.
It was one thing to hurt me, but that gentle monk had spent his life among herbs and plants, his only goal to learn better ways to heal, just like my mother. Heat covered my skin.
I heard Brother Thistle’s voice in my head. Good. Now let that anger build.…
I focused on my heart but was shocked to find only tepid warmth. It was as if my fire was being pulled from my body, sucked away by an invisible siphon that left me cold and weak. My eyes widened and my throat closed.
If I couldn’t access my heat, I was lost. The king. The throne—the destruction of both depended on my gift.
“Is there a problem, Fireling?” the king asked, his eyes narrowing to dark points, his lips twitching. “You look… a little cold.”
As he said the words, my limbs went stiff. My feet wouldn’t move. I realized they were mired in frost up to my ankles. My heart still beat hard in my chest; my breath came in panting bursts. But when I opened my mouth, whether to plead or threaten, my jaw was too stiff for speech. Sheer blind panic flooded my veins. I was completely and utterly at the king’s mercy.
“You’re accustomed to frost having little effect on you, aren’t you?” He smiled, looking satisfied, like a well-fed cat. “Well, I’m no peasant. My power comes from the throne of Fors. It absorbs your heat.”
The cold reached my stomach and was creeping toward my chest. My breathing slowed and my vision dimmed. So this was how the king killed Firebloods. As if through a fog, I saw his smile, felt his raw pleasure in the act of making me hurt.
I tried to force words from my frozen throat. Stars burst in front of my eyes.
The young woman in the plum gown stepped forward. She gave me an intense look from thickly lashed violet eyes before turning to the king.
“Pardon, Your Majesty,” she said in a soft, melodious voice, “but would it not be a fine idea to let her fight? We haven’t seen a Fireblood in the arena for several weeks. Perhaps it would raise the spirits of your soldiers to see your champions defeat a Fireblood, to remind them of our great victories. It could be an auspicious way to start the summer season of games.”
Annoyance flickered in the king’s eyes, but the woman’s expression was patient, inquisitive, and hopeful. Her wheat-gold hair, lit from the window behind, was braided and twined on her head in an elegant style that suited her delicate features. I had the sense that if anyone else had been so brazen, they would have been frozen on the spot. But the king seemed to consider her words.