A Heart of Ice Read online

  I am grateful when she removes the weight from my hand after I bring the glass away from my parched mouth, the old woman plucking it easily from me and setting it down again. Slightly more escaped from my dream-like daze, I turn my head to her, a long, tumble of auburn hair spilling in a tangled, angry mess down my shoulder. “There now,” the wench coos affectionately, “Come on. I ken ye would like a hot bath—come on, love. I’llna bite.”

  All in a rush, my memory comes flooding back, and flashes—of blood and white fur and bronze on steel—course through my mind. It all comes in a dizzying rush that my head spins and my body goes weak. I slacken a bit, putting my head in my hands and just breathing slow and steady for a long moment. I hardly notice when the woman, ignorant to my pain, shifts her arm behind my back to help me out of the bed. Mute and numb, I obey weakly, standing up. I feel stiff and aching, and even I can smell on me the stale stench of sweat and blood mixed in with the poultice packed into my wounds.

  I do not even recognize at first that this woman is able to touch my scalding skin without crying out, but as she leads me to the bath, curiosity overwhelms the dulling pain in my head, and I turn back to look at her. She is of lighter coloring than most Flora, but I recognize her as one immediately. Her hair is a soft brown, faded and aged with gray, and her eyes are a pale, worn green. Her skin has a healthy tint, but it is not the warm glow usually seen on a Flora.

  Scolding me for my hesitance, the woman pays no mind to my observations and hustles me over to the blazing fire. A towel is set on the floor next to a large basin of steaming water. I sit down with slow, agonizing tension, my thigh burning and aching. I hiss and groan past the pain, plopping onto my backside because my legs can’t hold me. I sigh and lean forward onto my knees, and Heather dunks a rag into the basin before beginning to gently wash my back. “I…can bathe myself,” I hiss, probably sounding a lot more threatening than I actually am.

  “I removed the stitches from yer leg and arm yestereve, dearest, so dinna fret about them.” The Flora dunks the rag in the water and hands it to me before wandering off to the other side of the room. There is a simple, stone chest that the Flora opens, sifting through several folds of cloth that I assume are dresses. I have no idea how she plans on keeping me warm in Crystalice clothing. They wear light silks and satins, cool to the touch. I need furs and velvet and wool, many layers of it.

  “Our Gabriel had all o’ Catherine’s dressus put in here.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head, shifting through them. “Poor thing couldna stand ta look a’ ‘em ev’ry day.” She sighs and murmurs some things that I cannot hear as I begin shifting through my memory. I recall once hearing that Gabriel’s wife had passed on some years ago from difficulties in labor. The child had survived, although barely, but his wife had not been strong enough to recover. “He’d want you in a serf’s clothes, assure,” she prattles on, “But we’ve none warm enough ta keep ye. Catherine was a Flora, ya ken. Most of us are mixed breeds and wear only wool. Ya need moar tan dat. She be teh only one wit velvet and fur. He’ll have ta suffer ta sight o’em ‘til we can fine ya sommat else.”

  I sit quiet for some time, looking over at the bed loaded with every pallet of fur that probably exists in the castle. I’m not entirely used to a bed; I’ve heard of them before, but never slept on one. At home, I slept on pallets of fur by the fire. But there are heavy wool blankets on top of the cotton sheets, and many more thick, heavy blankets piled on the bed. “I am called Scarlet…Scarlet Anita mei Ka’Rose.”

  The old woman only smiles, laugh lines in the corners of her eyes when she answers, “Aye then, my Lady Scarlet. Get yerself nice and cozy, I’ve a spell ta keep the water warm, so dinna fret.” The woman vanishes behind a tri-framed screen that hides me from view of much of the room. However, I can see from her shadow through the screen that she is laying out a dress and seemingly inspecting it. I do not expect her to speak again, but am not all too surprised when she does. The Flora does seem quite a loquacious creature.

  “I warrant Gabriel would ha’ lef ye in tha dungeon ha’ ‘is mum no got ‘er hands on ‘im first.” She clucks her tongue with disapproval and shakes her head, continuing, “I don’ yet think he kens tha’ this cold might yet kill ye. We decided ta put ye here, since it’s heavily guarded.” The old woman gives a boisterous laugh and grins a toothy smile. “Ye be in the royal hall, me dear! Were yer position no so dire, ye should feel quite proud.”

  I scoff at the information and turn my attention back to washing. I dunk the rag again and slowly dab my way around my wounded shoulder, clenching my teeth together. Slowly, very slowly, the information begins to sink in. I…I am in Crystalice…the heart of my enemy’s territory…dear gods…oh Chelyah…With a heavy, lethargic sigh, I murmur cynically, “I have lived in the royal hall all of my life. It is no different from any other hall through which I have passed.” After an indignant snort to hide how badly I am trembling, I add, “Asides, no place in Crystalice can be honor-worthy.”

  The Flora only sighs and shakes her head yet again. “Ma dear ye still have much ta learn. Ye and Gabriel both be as daft as a babe in a swaddling cloth.”

  Since I only half understand what the woman says to me, the impact of disapproval and rebuke lessens to a degree. I blink slowly and turn my head back in front of me, still not entirely awake and still partially drugged. When a heavy sigh flutters from my lips, I close my eyes and lean forward against my knees. “How long have I slumbered?”

  The Flora does not answer me immediately. She seems to be as trapped in her own thoughts as I am in mine. She sits behind me, and when her bony finger taps my shoulder thrice, I sit up with an annoyed sigh. I cannot see the Flora’s face now, but if I could, I am sure that she would smile at me. The woman takes my hair in her hands and works a warm, creamy salve through it that smells heavily of lavender. She rubs my scalp and nearly puts me to sleep before I catch myself leaning over and quickly sit up again.

  Chuckling softly from my little slip, the old woman finally answers me. “Ye’ve been out fer about three days now since Gabriel came back with ye. I dinna ken how long ‘afore ye got here, only that ye been here so long and hadna woke ‘til an hour ago an’ fell back asleep.”

  My body tenses in surprise, and I swivel to face the woman, desperate to have heard her wrong. But my body aches and throbs with my movements, and with a groan, I slink onto my side. For a moment, I focus only on my breathing, letting my body slowly readjust itself, before sitting back up and looking to the woman, weakness and lethargy heavy in my eyes.

  “O’er three days now,” she confirms with a nod, motioning for me to turn around so that she can finish washing my hair. Obedient, I sigh with discomfort and turn back around.

  “So…why is it that you are here? I am an enemy…a prisoner of war. What is this supposed to accomplish?” I close my eyes, alarmed at my own calmness and blaming whatever tonics I’ve been given. I find the woman’s bony hands soothing in my hair while they rub my scalp, and a memory of my mother comes unbidden into my mind. Slowly, I open my eyes, thick, black lashes clouding my vision before I push the thoughts away.

  The woman clucks her tongue and gives a toothy grin. “Och, but yer a curious one! Jus like me wee Mira. She be me oldest bairn.” I listen quietly to the random information being sputtered from the old woman, and I wonder if I will become so long-winded with age. But I do not mind her prattling; it keeps my mind from wandering in the silence. “Ah, but tey was head straight for tha dungeon when he come stormin’ in ta palace wit ye all naked and swaddled up like a babe. Ye was der fer a wee bit, but da queen didn’ want ye dead, and teh king and the prince do what the queen says. So here ya be, lassie. None but a Flora could tend ye, and I ken gay fine ye canna tend yeself.” Chuckling, she adds, “Me thinks Prince Gabriel ha’ got it in his mind tha’ he can glean some information from me concerning ye, ma dear.”

  “And where is this Gabriel now?” I mutter with obvious distaste for the name upon my lips. Why d
id he not simply kill me? Even within the Crystalice castle, half sick, half starved, and half mad, with only the protection of a stubborn old Flora woman, I feel no fear. Perhaps I will later, when reality sets in that my life depends upon the good graces of the Crystalice prince, but in this moment, I only want to find that very prince and wring his neck and curse him for bringing me here to Crystalice when he could have shown mercy and given me a swift and painless death. It won’t matter. I belong to no one. I would sooner be thrown back into the dungeon than suffer his company.

  There is no knock, no shuffle of footsteps to warn us of his presence. All at once in our brief silence, the door bursts open and a powerful, furious man stands in its wake. Gabriel startles me out of my wits, forcing his way through a compliant door that knocks against the side of the wall when the heavy stone slings back.

  “I heard from a guard that she had woken.”

  At least he looks less battle-ready now, I muse. His hair is combed and let loose in straight, silver locks to fall over his shoulders and down his back, and his rough fighting garb has been replaced with a fine, silk doublet of a teal color, embroidered in blue designs. His slacks are a simple blue, stuffed into thin, leather boots.

  I hiss, a cat’s yowl in my throat. Golden fur ripples over my skin, and I try to summon the energy and the consciousness to Shift.

  Heather jumps up in an instant and heads towards him, shielding much of him from my view. However, before he can speak, she begins prattling nonsense and trying to usher him out of the door. “Shame on ye, Gabriel!” she cries at him, “Ha’ ye lost yer wits, child? Get out o’ this room lest ye ruin both yers and the lady’s reputation! Fer pity sake!”

  He retaliates in an instant, stopping any advances she had to pushing him out of the door. He turns to face her, the full force of his frozen gaze upon her, harsh, cruel, and…he seems unsettled at the way she flinches from the sight. “She is not a guest, Heather. I could care less for her reputation and lesser still for her life! She deserves nothing less than the hangman’s noose! She is a murderer!”

  I’ve heard enough, and I shift from my crouch, stars dancing in my vision, blackness threatening to overtake me. Still, I scream out, “The hell I—!”

  “Enough, you wretched woman!” he snarls, his voice crashing through the room and down the halls. Both Heather and I go very still, Heather’s wrinkled, thin lips slightly agape. I am neither surprised nor frightened, but I merely breathe a bit hard, no doubt from exertion and the breath from shouting.

  He narrows his eyes, and he sets his sights on the elderly woman, and curtly answers, “I’ve no wish to deal with her when she is in this state. Send her to my chambers when she is decent.” Without another word to either of us, he turns, grabs the side of the door, and slams it closed behind him.

  My heart thunders like that of a bird’s for a long moment, before I finally trust the door enough to slowly unclench my muscles, my whole body trembling with pain and fatigue. With a sigh, Heather reclaims her place behind me, and I keep my eyes on the door. I am exposed to the chilly Crystalice air with my body wet, and I just want to be finished with her cleaning my wounds so that I can dry. The Flora helps me clean my hair thoroughly before sitting at my side. She picks and prunes at the sewn gash on my arm, carefully picking out dried bits so that the wound can heal properly, washing it and padding it dry.

  Once she tends my arm, I am set to stand and let the woman dry me. She bundles my hair in the towel and stokes the fire in the hearth. Why a room in the Crystalice castle would have a hearth, I cannot comprehend, although since there is little evidence of burns on the stone, I assume that it is more for decoration than use. Or perhaps it is for the Flora who prefer temperatures somewhere between scalding and freezing. My mind wanders as I sit before the fire, settled on another towel and letting my skin absorb the welcome warmth of the brilliant flame.

  Heather takes her place at my side and carefully begins to inspect my thigh. My mind drifts away from her scrutiny and the dull throbbing, wondering what the Crystalice would eat. Surely, cool meals, but even cold meat must be cooked. It is not until the woman clucks her tongue with worry and disapproval that I come out of my daze, turning my attention to her.

  “What is the matter?” I ask, watching as she carefully lifts my leg, turning her head over all angles to peer into the wound. She tests the swollen, flushed skin around it with a gentle finger, and a startled yelp escapes me when pain sears like a poison through my veins, stealing my breath.

  Heather looks up at me to measure my pain, and then looks back to the wound. “I fear, Lady Scarlet, that Gabriel ha’ made a fine mess o’ yer thigh.” She studies it in silence for a moment, and I do not dare to break her concentration to speak. “I’ll stitch it again an’ bind it up tight. Tha’ should keep away infection. I’ll hava use a poultice from ta apothecary and a spell from ta sorcerer.”

  “Will I be able to walk?” I ask her, bile rising in my throat as she turns her attention to a slender, curved knife. I recognize it as an instrument to remove stitches, the curved, sharp tip used to slip under the thread and detach it while causing as little harm as possible to the surrounding skin and the wound beneath. But it is a wicked-looking instrument akin to many I have seen made for barbarous intents.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabriel

  I go to my son’s room to visit a little with him before that Inferno La’Heitan is sent to me. I find the child playing on the floor with marble and glass soldiers and horses that I gave him last year on his birthday. Even if he breaks them, which he has done to two, the break is easily mended with my ice.

  He speaks very little, only grinning up and mumbling some incoherent language to himself as he continues his play. He is learning to speak and often does quite well, but he still prefers that incomprehensible babble. Occasionally, he looks up to me and gestures to the figures, and I nod and smile faintly, sitting beside him.

  Not ten minutes pass before a knocking disturbs us. Enté only watches with curious eyes when I stand and leave. The fire wretch’s guard is at the door, his face contorted in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “My liege, De’sanla and I have some…concerns regarding the prisoner.”

  Sighing, I toss an angry hand through my hair, the silver strands falling haphazardly around my face and down my shoulders. “What has she done now?” I snap, shutting the door firmly and heading back to the woman’s room. I can already tell that this woman is going cause me much grief. I should have put my damned honor aside and killed her.

  When we stop a bit of a ways outside of her door, her shrieks and cries of pain are the first to greet my ears. I look to both of the guards, my brows drawn up in mild surprise and confusion. “Has she gone mad?”

  The guard clears his throat and answers, “Not to our knowledge, sir.”

  Without another word to either of them, I toss the door open again, Enté having decided to join us. I had not noticed that he chose to follow until his little hand closes around my breeches. Looking down at him, I watch as he peers with curiosity and fright into the room, and I follow his gaze.

  The woman is laid out before the blazing hearth, Heather bent over her leg, and I catch the sheen of the silver knife. The Inferno is screaming and shrieking like nothing I have ever heard, struggling visibly against the pain, her fingers wrapped around the towel and her skin shining with sweat. She is breathing hard and in a considerable deal of pain.

  Heather snaps something at me, and my eyes go to her. Instantly, I rush inside, commanding Enté to remain in the doorway when I and the two guards restrain the prisoner. They grab her scalding arms and waist, and I go to Heather, using my weight to pin down the woman’s legs. Her skin is like a serrated knife on my skin, scraping and burning at the cool flesh. She screams louder, and my eyes move to her face while Heather continues her work.

  Her brows are furrowed with pain, her forehead creased and tight with the enormity of it. Her jaw opens wide with her shrill cries, and I watch he
r throat contract as she sucks in a gasp of pain. Wondering at what would cause such torment, my attention turns to the wound on her thigh.

  Heather carves at it agilely, unearthing the thick puss and dumping it into a bowl. Between doing this, she tosses hot water into the wound to get rid of the smaller collections and flush out the wound. Very few things in this world can make me uneasy, but the sight sends my stomach churning unhappily. I force my gaze away from the sight and back to the face of the shrieking banshee. Her tanned skin is warmed with the fire, tears sparkling like fine crystal in her eyes.

  Finally, Heather sits back, cleaning the wound and dabbing it dry. She douses it with a vile of dark liquid that I recognize as a tonic used to numb the wound, enchanted with a Magik to heal it. And it comes at no small price either. “Why did you not use that before…that?” I ask, finally beginning to relax when the girl goes slack. The other guards sigh and pull away from her, nursing burns on their arms and hands.

  “The puss was blockin’ tha wound. It wouldna’ ha’ soaked in,” she explains, simple as that.

  The demoness groans and tugs on her limbs, trying to turn on her side and inch away from us. The towel has struggled to stay in place through her tossing and fighting, but as she tries to turn, I doubt it will cover her much longer, and I have no wish to catch a glimpse of my prisoner’s backside.

  “Don’ ye dare, Scarlet mei Ka’Rose!” Heather snaps. So this woman does have a name. In an instant, Heather draws up her hand, shouting at the guards to move, and when they jump back, she uses a spell to take the water from the boiling bath and toss it onto the Inferno. It is then that I realize that Scarlet had been about to Shift, for she sat back on her rump—the towel falling uselessly into her lap—and she looks to me, and then Heather, her pupils large disks, her eyes no longer a golden brown but yellow and seeming almost to glow. After a moment, the soaked and scowling woman calms down, easing herself back down, closer to the fire, and she turns her back to us, trembling.