Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(9)

 

"The executioner didn't seem bothered with me. No doubt he's preoccupied with the many dissenters rounded up by the king's noble soldiers. He's not likely to remember me until the end of the border wars."

 

Arcus snorted. "You would be dead by then."

 

I pressed my lips together. He was probably right.

 

The carriage pulled up to a stable door, and the driver hopped out while a broad figure shuffled over to help with the horses. Arcus stepped out and reached for me. For a man of such size, he moved lightly. I stiffened as he lifted and tucked me against his cold chest.

 

"Don't burn me and I won't hurt you," he said, invoking our earlier bargain. Pain distracted me from fear. I bit my cheek and clung to his robe, closing my eyes against the throb of my ankle.

 

"Tell Brother Gamut our guest has arrived," Brother Thistle said, motioning to a man waiting at the door. "Then take her to the infirmary."

 

"Guest?" I repeated drily. "Does the abbey welcome many guests with ankle chains?"

 

"Its standards have fallen abysmally," he replied, stepping over paving stones that had heaved up like jagged fingers. "Which is why this is the perfect place to keep you."

 

And you, I thought. They had taken me from the king's prison and were therefore just as guilty of crimes against the king as I was.

 

The large wooden door to the abbey was held open by a man holding a candle, the light reflecting off his shiny bald head, shaved in a white tonsure. He was quite old, with a curved back; large, bent nose; and sunken cheeks.

 

"The infirmary," said Arcus.

 

The monk turned to shuffle away into the darkness. We followed the candle as it bobbed along a corridor with arched windows and into a small room with four straw-stuffed mattresses on the floor. One of them was covered in a threadbare white sheet, a thin pillow, and a quilt folded at the foot. It was the first time I had seen anything like a bed in months. I leaned toward it, and Arcus let me down with a thump. I rubbed my hip and glared at him.

 

He motioned toward me with one hand. "Get her cleaned up."

 

With that, he turned and left.

 

"Charming fellow," I said to the monk as he lit a sconce on the wall.

 

The monk looked at me sharply, but then he nodded. "He can be abrupt, to be sure. But with his history, it is understandable."

 

"And what is this history that makes his rudeness excusable?"

 

He turned to me. "Time for questions tomorrow. For now we must tend to your physical state."

 

I wrapped my arms around myself and eyed him with alarm. The guards had been all too eager to amputate infected limbs. I had threatened their filthy excuse for a healer with blistering burns if he so much as entered my cell.

 

 

 

        

          

        

         

 

"Now, now," the monk said, his look softening. "You are in a strange place and you have no doubt suffered much, but this is Forwind Abbey. The brothers and sisters of the Order of Fors have pledged to take in those wrongly persecuted and in need of sanctuary. They may be suspicious of you, but you will not be harmed."

 

I studied him, the tightness around his eyes, the stiffness of his shoulders. "You're suspicious of me."

 

He studied me a little too long before replying. "I will judge you by your actions, not your heritage. But I recommend you keep your fire hidden. Not everyone is as accepting as I am, pledge or no."

 

"You don't need to tell me that."

 

He nodded and gestured at my ankle. "I am Brother Gamut. It is said I have a talent with herbs. If you will show me your injuries, perhaps I can ease some of your pain."

 

Reluctantly, I unwrapped the cloth under my cuff. The monk sucked in a breath as he saw the reddened shank that was once an ankle. He seemed to forget his distrust, moving closer to frown at the metal.

 

"We must remove that at once." He turned and shuffled to the door.

 

"No swords!" I begged.

 

He turned back, amusement crinkling the edges of his eyes. "No, child. I have a set of keys that may work. I will return shortly."

 

I wasn't sure I believed him, but true to his word, he was back in minutes with a set of keys, a bundle of cloth, and a tray that held a cup, a bowl of water, and a mortar and pestle, which he placed on a three-legged stool. His palsied hand trembled as he tried each key, until one of them opened my ankle cuff with a decisive snick. After setting the metal aside, he untied a bunch of herbs from his belt. Carefully separating the stems and selecting certain leaves and flowers, he ground and mixed them with the mortar and pestle, put them in the bowl with water, and placed the linen strips in to soak. I hissed in protest as he cleaned the wound and wrapped the linen strips around my stinging ankle.