The windows were the only possible exit. I gently set Sister Pastel back down and picked up a wooden chair, smashing it against one of the windows, which shuddered but didn’t break. I tried to smash the glass with my shoulder but bounced off, my arm screaming with pain. I fell back a few paces and was about to try again when a low voice called, “Stand away!”
I covered Sister Pastel with my robes as best I could and shielded my head with my arms. There was a deafening crash as the beautiful colored glass exploded inward, spraying vivid shards onto the floor. A rush of fresh air cleared my head as Arcus scrambled over the frame and into the room.
I ripped the tapestry from the wall and threw it over the jagged glass. Together, we lifted Sister Pastel over the windowsill and climbed out. As Arcus laid her on a hillock a short distance away, I put my hands on my knees and took great gulps of air, then spun around, heading back to the library.
Although my mother had taught me basic letters, it was my grandmother who had taught me to read and love books, bringing several volumes whenever she visited. And my mother’s compendium of herbs had been invaluable. The thought of all those precious books in the library dissolving into ash was unbearable.
“What are you doing?” Arcus shouted.
“Saving the books!”
I heard pounding footsteps before he grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face him, a dim outline in the faint glow. “Leave them! The fire won’t spread that far.”
He ran along the abbey wall, and I followed. On the north side, the monks kept their vigil with buckets of river water. Arcus told them where he’d left Sister Pastel, then ran to Brother Thistle’s side.
“How is he?” Arcus asked Brother Gamut.
“Still alive,” the monk answered, looking fretfully toward the roaring fire.
Arcus nodded and rushed back to the abbey’s large wooden door, the place where he had looked so lost and frozen only minutes before. The flames belched out brilliant embers that burned to black in the orange light. His brow furrowed as he spread his arms wide and clapped his hands together. Frost crusted over the stone and melted. Another clap and more melting frost.
Arcus fell to his knees in the dirt, his palms slapping the heated ground as his back rose and fell with labored breaths.
“Just need a minute,” he said. “Harder than I expected.”
“You’re overheated, most likely,” I said. “When I’m wet or excessively cold, my gift is weakened. The same must be true for you when your skin is hot. You’ve been near the fire for too long.”
He made a noncommittal sound. I figured it was as close to agreement as I would get. I waved to a monk who was running forward with a pail of water.
“Wait,” I called, grabbing the bucket as he slid to a halt. “Bring more water, please. Here, to me.”
And I turned and dumped the bucket’s contents over Arcus. He gasped and shook the water from his hands. “What are you doing?” he said, outraged.
“Cooling you off. Ah, another bucket. Good.” I sloshed the pail of river water over his head.
“While I appreciate your help, you don’t have to drown me.”
“Fine, then you do it.” I handed him a third bucket from one of the sisters.
Glaring at me, he dumped it over his own head, then moved back in front of the burning doors, clapping his hands and sending out frost. It seemed for a minute that the raging flames would devour the church and the whole abbey with it. But, gradually, the frost stayed for longer and longer on the heated stone. He threw clouds of it whistling down the corridor, and the flames receded, gasping out fat puffs of smoke.
In a few minutes, it was done. The fire was out. A chorus of coughing echoed in the silence. One of the monks fetched a torch from somewhere in the abbey and came to stand near Brother Thistle, along with several others who looked down at him with concern. I stood on the outside of the group, wishing there was more I could do.
A man turned to face me, his bushy brows drawn together and his round face twisted in a scowl. I recognized him as the other monk who had brought my bath the first day, along with Sister Pastel. “You went right through the fire. You’re a Fireblood!”
My whole body filled with the need to run, get away, all my memories swirling up and closing my throat.
“She is a refugee, Brother Lack,” said Arcus, moving from Brother Thistle to where I struggled to stand my ground. “We have offered her a home because hers was destroyed. Her blood is irrelevant.”
I looked sharply at Arcus. He was defending me?
Brother Lack whirled on him. “She is a danger to the abbey and everyone in it.” Each word was delivered with the force of a nail being driven into wood. “She is a Fireblood and furthermore a criminal. She had an ankle chain when you first brought her. I saw it myself!”
“She is no more a criminal than any of the other hundreds of unfortunate Tempesians who have tried to defend themselves against attacks.”
“And what of the king’s wrath when our transgression is discovered?” Brother Lack demanded.
A weak voice laced with indignation came from behind him. “Have you forgotten the aim of our order? To heal the sick and offer refuge to the persecuted?”
We moved to gather around the lean form of Brother Thistle as he raised himself onto one elbow before succumbing to a fit of coughing.
Arcus crouched down and took his shoulder gently. “Easy, my friend. You breathed in a good deal of smoke.”