My fingernails bit into my palms. So he had a wife and daughter. I wondered how he would feel to watch one of them die before his eyes. I struggled to keep my face from showing my hatred.
The captain’s expression turned mocking as he regarded Marella. “Lately, she insists I leave most of my money with her. She’s too smart. I miss the days when all I had to do to gain her approval was bring her a doll from one of my campaigns.”
“How old is she now?” asked a woman sitting across from Lord Blanding.
“Twelve. But she may as well be fifty for all the nagging she gives me. She’ll make someone a strong wife someday. Not that anyone is good enough for her.”
The table seemed to relax as the conversation moved to the children of various noblemen and women. Marella looked on with a half-mocking smile, inserting a light comment here and there. I felt the king’s gaze on me and turned, startled once again to realize he couldn’t have been much older than myself. How had such a young king grown so devoid of feeling? Arcus had told me that Rasmus hadn’t always been cruel.
“You are surprisingly lovely, Fireling,” he said, voiced pitched low. “Despite your cuts and bruises.”
His hand lifted as if to trace a bruise on my collarbone. I shifted backward quickly.
Cuts and bruises are nothing, I wanted to say. He had ordered his soldiers to raid my village, my mother had been murdered, and now I was forced to sit at the same table with her killer. After throwing me to a beast and then to a sadistic fighter who tried to break off my fingers, he was paying me compliments.
My fear of him disappeared in a cloud of anger. A heat I wouldn’t have thought possible in that cold space rose up in me and bent the air with waves. Droplets of water slid down the edge of the table.
He skimmed a hand along the edge of the table, flicking bits of water to the floor, already frozen into tiny pellets. “Calm yourself. I didn’t bring you here to discuss your beauty.”
I stared at him, so calm and cold and… empty. “What possessed you to bring me here? I’d rather take my meals with your dogs.”
He seemed unperturbed by the insult. “It is tradition to celebrate my new champion.”
“Even a Fireblood?”
“A Fireblood has never won before. You defeated a great warrior. How did you do it?”
A rustle of fabric drew my attention to the other guests, who seemed to pick up on the question and lean closer. Marella’s father, in particular, seemed full of tension, his gray eyes intent under thick white brows.
My pulse pounded in my ears. “I barely remember. It was all a blur.”
A small smile played at the edges of his lips. “Then we will have to repeat the experience, and next time you will tell me how you won. I have great plans for you, Fireling.”
“I believe your intention was to kill me, one way or another.”
Marella laughed. “And to think we almost didn’t get the chance to watch you in the arena. It would have been a great loss, would it not, Raz?”
Her familiar use of a nickname for King Rasmus caught my attention. The king’s eyes remained on me. “I’m not going to kill you. You’re my champion now, and my guest.”
A steward came forward with a decanter and poured wine into the king’s goblet. A door opened and three men came in bearing platters piled high with ham, roast, fish, buttered potatoes, and vegetables in rich sauces.
As the rest of the table tucked into their food, I sat with my hands on my lap.
“You will eat,” the king said quietly.
I met his eyes. What would happen if I refused?
He inclined his head as if he read my thoughts. “I have already said I won’t kill you, Ruby.”
“Don’t call me that. The name my mother gave me has no place on your lips.”
He smiled and took a sip of wine. “I believe I know what belongs on my lips.”
For the first time, a hint of heat entered his gaze. I looked away, my skin crawling with discomfort. I took a sip from the goblet to cover my confusion.
He drummed his fingers on his goblet, making it ping. “I know your dearest wish is to kill me.”
My head snapped up.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s quite obvious you hate me. Fire and frost are natural enemies, and I know your history. What happened to your village. Your mother.” He sat back in his chair. “There aren’t many Firebloods left. When one escapes from prison, it doesn’t go unnoticed. Especially one found in an abbey that worships Fors, of all places. Who brought you there, I wonder? I’m afraid your monks have been less than forthcoming.”
“Where are they?” I demanded, pushing my chair back and standing. I imagined the monks in Blackcreek Prison, the rats running over their feet as they slept, their old bones aching from the hard stone floor.
The lilt of conversation around the table died abruptly.
The king motioned to my seat. “Sit, Fireling. Your monks are unharmed. They are in their abbey, carrying on with life as usual.”