Brother Lack continued to stare at me as if I were a viper about to strike. “Perhaps she is persecuted for good reason. Perhaps the gods punish her for her sins. I remind you that I come from the South. I have had experiences with Firebloods. They are a dangerous, shifty, untrustworthy lot, with no adherence to any of the values we hold dear.”
“You forget yourself,” warned Brother Thistle, breathing heavily, his deceptively soft tone making the hair on my arms stand up. “Her only sin is being a Fireblood, and that is no sin at all.” He coughed a few times more and continued. “If compassion is so abhorrent to you, perhaps I should question your dedication to the tenets of our order.”
“My dedication? I have devoted my life to the order. I only suggest we maintain the purity of this holy place. The fact that you have brought a Fireblood—”
“And remember,” Brother Thistle cut in softly, “I decide who belongs here. The order bestowed that authority on me and no one else.”
There was a pregnant pause, full of the sounds of Brother Lack’s quickened breathing, a battle of wills waged in stern faces. Finally, his nostrils flared but he bent his head stiffly.
“Forgive me. I misspoke.”
“All is forgiven,” said Brother Thistle, a new series of coughs taking hold of him.
Brother Lack raised his head. “The fact remains, she started a fire that could have killed you.”
“It wasn’t me,” I said, agitated. “What reason would I have to do this?”
Arcus considered me silently and I realized I had plenty of reasons. To distract them so I could run away. To take revenge on Frostbloods. And he’d seen me lose control down by the river when I’d burned my clothes.
Some of the other monks muttered to one another, distrust and concern shadowing their faces. Fear and anger pulsed in hot waves from my chest to my fingertips.
“We can debate this for the rest of the night,” said Arcus, speaking loudly over their unrest. “Meanwhile your brother’s and sister’s injuries go without tending. You have my solemn vow that I will watch the girl closely. We will discuss this tomorrow.”
He spoke with the uncompromising tone of command. Most of the monks nodded and started to disperse. Brother Lack held his ground, standing with crossed arms and glaring as if I might rush forward and engulf the abbey in flames at any second.
“Follow us,” Arcus said to me, his tone blunt but not hostile. “Brother Lack, I will depend on you to see Miss Otrera into the abbey.”
He and another monk lifted Brother Thistle. It didn’t escape me how carefully Arcus handled him, as if he carried the sleeping form of his own father. There was clear respect, even affection, between the two, and the thought made my chest ache with a kind of jealousy. It had been a long time since anyone had treated me with tenderness.
They moved along the outside of the abbey toward the infirmary. I followed slowly, my ankle stiff from exertion and the cold night air.
Brother Lack moved to my side, leaning over to mutter in my ear. “You may have Brother Thistle fooled, but I see you for what you are: a vindictive Fireblood intent on destroying a place that worships the god of the north wind. I don’t know how you wormed your way in here, but I promise you this: I won’t rest until you are back in prison, where you belong. Even if I have to take you there myself.”
The bright intensity of his small black eyes showed that he was dangerously sincere. What would it take? One simple message alerting the soldiers to my presence. Or perhaps one night I’d find myself hauled from my bed and shoved into a carriage bound for the nearest garrison. I had made a mistake of letting relief convince me I was safe here. I would never be safe with followers of Fors; I had to remember that.
Arcus appeared in the doorway to the abbey. “Inside,” he commanded.
There was no more time to hesitate or wait for my body to heal. Any fate was better than finding myself back in prison.
I would leave tonight.
SIX
THE INFIRMARY WAS QUIET—A THICK, cloying silence that makes you fancy you can hear impossible things like a spider’s progress over the windowsill or the swish of a mouse’s tail dragging on the floor in the dark.
I lay on my usual cot pretending to be asleep while Brother Thistle and Sister Pastel slumbered in adjacent cots. Arcus had chosen the mattress closest to the door, a shadow guarding the abbey from my dangerous presence.
At first I’d feared that Arcus planned to keep awake all night to watch me, but after giving me a stony look and ordering me to sleep, he settled down on his bed. He gave no indication whether he was grateful for my help saving Sister Pastel, or whether he believed I had started the fire in the first place. Perhaps at that moment he didn’t care. He’d moved slowly and seemed very tired, as if the effort of putting out the fire had taken every scrap of strength from his body.
When everyone’s breathing was slow and even, with only a rattling cough occasionally breaking the silence, I picked up a pair of leather boots that sat discarded by Brother Thistle’s feet, which were not that much bigger than my own. I took a thick cloak that hung on a peg on the wall and crept barefoot to the door.
As I turned the knob, it creaked slightly. I froze and glanced sharply at Arcus’s solid bulk. He slept on his side, his hood still firmly covering half of his face. Was that a slight hitch in his breathing? I waited, silent and breathless. Finally, when he didn’t move, I turned the knob and opened the door.
I felt my way in the silken dark to the arched eastern door of the abbey before putting on the boots, then crunched over the frozen ground to the kitchen, where I found a leather satchel and filled it with apples, hard cheese, a bit of dried meat, a few nuts and seeds, a sharp wood-handled knife, and a waterskin.