A Heart of Ice

by Phoenix Briar

  Chapter Twelve

  Scarlet

  The pain is gone now, but I can’t feel my leg. Whatever the old woman used on me is working quite well…or my leg needs to be amputated despite the agony I just underwent. I know that Gabriel and the guards are in the room, but I’m frankly too exhausted to care. They release my skin, so now I can feel only Heather’s gentle, lukewarm touch working new, fresh stitches into my wounds. Then, she stretches out a long length of cloth and binds my leg tight.

  With a heavy, tired sigh, the old woman mutters, “She will heal, my prince. But ye and yer men get out o’ here so she can rest a bit and dress.”

  I turn my head to the side to watch meekly when Gabriel rises and moves towards the door. When I look back at the doorway, I see a young child there, his hair a colorful array of blues and greens and purples. He seems worried, afraid…but not of me…for me. Gabriel takes his hand and leads him out of the room, and although the child follows, he turns his head back with curious wonder at me, eyes wide and eager. Our gazes meet for a few seconds, my heart keeping the time, my golden gaze of fire and amber watching the cool serenity of his pale eyes.

  And then, he is out of my sight. The door closes, and I am left to the relative darkness of my room and the old woman who is cleaning up the mess on the hearth. “Thank you.”

  She is startled when I speak, standing and putting the utensils away. The old woman looks me over and smiles tenderly, giving a single nod. Then, she comes to my side and helps me to sit up before allowing me to lean on her to get to the bed.

  “Tha’ numbness will fade soon enough, milady, and the pain will be bearable. Ye can walk—ya need ta. But only a wee bit at a time. Sit there and le’ me comb yer hair ‘til it feels betta.”

  And so, I sit on the bed, my legs pulled up in front of me. I am tired and want to slouch and close my eyes, but every time I go lax, the old woman gives a sharp tap to my shoulder, and I sit up straight again. She sits behind me, running a comb through my hair. She pulls expertly at the tangles, tugging them loose, before smoothing down the silken locks.

  For a long while, she doesn’t speak, and I almost completely miss her words when she asks, “Scarlet, if I may?…the scars—ye have ‘em all o’re yerself—what…”

  I listen to her struggle with the question, and it takes me a moment to realize what she is referring to. I had assumed that it would be obvious where my scars come from, but maybe not… “It is why many women remain archers,” I tell her. “Many of my wounds are accidental—more or less,” although with Blaze, I could never really be sure. “From training or battling. But you are referring to the carvings, aren’t you?” I can tell by her silence that she is. My golden, bronze skin is marred by little swirls and half-moons of pale pink. The scars stretch over my chest, my thighs, under my arms. They do not cover me entirely, but for every tender and most painful spot on my body, there they are. “There…is a price to be a Knight Protector.”

  I almost thought she wouldn’t speak again. She finishes combing my hair and then just sits there for a moment before asking, almost in a whisper, “It meant…tha’ much ta ye?”

  “Yes…yes, it did.”

  When my leg regains some of its feeling, I experiment with wiggling my toes and poking gently at the flesh. At first, I can’t feel much, but as the medicine wears off, the flesh becomes tender once more and I quickly cease my experimenting. I can move the muscles fine, but most of the flesh is still numb. Heather warns me that I’ll have to be careful for the next few hours not to further injure myself since I won’t be able to feel it.

  “There nao,” she says with a sigh, my hair laying in thick, combed waves of silk on my shoulders and down my back, glowing copper and gold. She doesn’t speak any more of the scars. “I’ll go an’ get ye yer dress.” She stands from the bed and goes over to the array of cloth that she laid out for me. She motions for me to stand, and I do so quite unstably while the old wench pulls a smock over my head: the first one of simple cotton, the second of wool. Then, she tugs the petticoats over my head, the bottom skirts flowing in a vast collection of frills and lace to fill the skirt. She laces up the back tightly, but I fear complaining lest she add a corset.

  The dress goes on last. It is a pretty thing, made of a pale, teal velvet and lined with wool. It fits snug to my bosom and waist before opening daintily in a small bell at my hips. The sleeves are puffed, tied just above the elbow with a ribbon, before opening widely and dropping down to my wrists, which are hugged tight by my two layers of chemise. The laces are in the back, so the old Flora goes behind me and begins to lace them properly.

  At first, neither of us speak, but as she finishes, she pats my back, but does not move. She sighs and shakes her head, and when I turn my head to look back at her, curious as to her dismay, she refuses to look at me and only answers in a melancholy voice, “I dinna ken tha’ master nor ‘nyone else realizes wha’ this place is goin’ ta’ do to ye. Ye’ll die here, Scarlet-love, if he keeps demandin ye like he does. Ye need rest. Not an audience with him.” She sighs irritably and looks to me apologetically. “Try not ta wear yerself out, and come back straightaway as ye can ta rest…maybe I can keep ye alive.”

  I do not answer. What can I say? She turns me around and studies me carefully, instead, standing a good head shorter than me. “Ye look odd in Crystalice clothing. It dosna suit ye, but ye look nice. Would ye like tae leave yer hair down?”

  “Yes,” I answer simply. She guides me to the small looking glass on the other side of the room, and I take a moment to study my appearance. My wounds are hidden at least, but my face and hands hold a few minor scratches. My cheeks are hollow and my eyes are dark. I look ashen and sickly. I feel it. There is a scab on my right brow where the hilt of Gabriel’s sword clipped my skin. My hands are rubbed raw and bruised and cut from the riding gloves, and I hold them out for my own inspection. Wrinkling my nose at how the cold makes them hurt, I hide them with silk gloves.

  Finally, I take a moment to study the whole of my appearance.

  The old wench is right. Even in my sickly sight, pale and grayish, my skin is dark enough that it contrasts sharply to the bright teal of the velvet dress. My rich, red hair, my dark skin and golden eyes. It doesn’t look right.

  I sigh, I turn back to the woman, who smiles her toothy smile and gestures to the door. There are a pair of blue slippers there, which I slide into before looking back to her. “Tha’ guard will take ye ta the prince.” I look at her a moment, my face grave, and I give a single nod. She gives another small smile, but I can see that there is something in her eyes, something unspoken, something for me. And so, I hesitate at the door, my fingers brushing the pull but not quite grasping it. She notices my gaze and looks up at me. There are faint tears in her eyes. “I dinna ken why ye did…but…thank ye…for sparin’ ma boy.”

  My brows knit together. “Sparing your…” And my eyes go wide. An image of the terrified young boy at the battle of the wasteland comes to mind. The one of three. The only enemy I ever let walk away from me. “Tam. You are Tam’s mother.”

  Heather nods, and her smile is weak. “Aye.”

  I close my mouth and watch her warily for a moment. As my caregiver, she could have easily killed me and none would have questioned her. But she has done nothing but care for me. Why did I let Tam go in any case? I do not have an answer, not even for myself, and I have nothing for her either. Instead, I soften the hard line of my mouth and answer her with a single nod before grabbing the pull of the door.

  Another sigh. I yank open the heavy, stone door. This castle is mostly smooth, polished stone, and although Inferno’s Den is a rough, darker stone, it feels so different beneath my touch. The Den’s walls always feel hot, like coals. And yet this stone is so damn cold that it is painful to feel. The old woman found it necessary to bring me a pair of silk and lace gloves to wear before letting me leave, and I am very grateful for them now. They do not offer much warmth or comfort, but at least they protect me from com
ing into direct contact with the cold.

  The pair of guards instantly turn their heads to me, one a bit shorter than me and in his wolf form. The other one is much taller than me and human. They wear no armor like the Inferno guard do, so their expressions of distaste and hatred are obvious to my watchful gaze. They do not speak, but I close the door and take a few steps out, both of them watching me as though I might sprint off. As if I could get more than a few feet with my leg the way it is.

  Finally, I turn to face them both, but they still refuse to speak. My lips pucker with annoyance, and my brows pinch together unhappily. “Well? Am I supposed to wander around here? Gabriel sent for me, and I’ve no damn clue where I’m at.” I am tired and in pain, and what are they going to do? Hit me? Torture me? Nothing could be worse than Heather digging through the gash in my thigh. So what really can they do to me?

  “Prince Gabriel, La’Heitan,” one guard snaps, glowering at me, one hand at the hilt of his sword. I know it would only take a mild provocation before it is at my throat.

  The wolf sighs and gestures with his head, standing to all four legs and nearly five feet tall just at that. He begins down the hall, and when I follow him, the human guard comes up behind me.

  There is no ounce of gladness to be found in either of them, although I do not suspect that I should have ever have found any. But I pity them. I am certain that they did not volunteer to guard me, protect their people from the creature who represents the war and the enemy who has taken so many of their loved ones. They certainly do not want to protect me from those who, in their eyes I am certain, would be justified in taking my life.

  Just like the gloves, the blue slippers offer little protection against the cold, and I curl and uncurl my toes continually to try and warm them as I walk. But still, it is better to have nearly useless slippers than to come in direct contact with the icy floor.

  I think on these things when a soft noise catches my attention. Picking up my head, my molten gaze finds a small form curled up on the ground, his little knees tucked up to his chest and his pale, spindly arms wrapped around them. He’s beneath the window, trying to make himself look as small as possible with his head tucked into his chest and his muffled cries echoing past his clenched teeth.

  A boy. The child who followed Gabriel into my room. His son, perhaps? My mind works swiftly, going through the information in my head. With Mit’an’av dead and Gabriel a widower, this child is the next heir. He makes a pitiful, sad sound, and my heart clenches a bit, watching him. My eyes are hard and cold as I move towards him, but the guard catches my arm. His hand is frighteningly cold, even with the layers of my clothes, and it sinks deeper into my bones. I whirl on him with a fierce hatred in my eyes. “Let go of me,” I snarl. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him.

  His eyes only harden, and he tightens his hold. “That is the prince’s son.”

  “I can see that,” I snap. “And he is crying.” He stares at me for a long moment, a tightness in his jaw, those pale eyes watching me. Finally, having lost my patience, I hiss, “He is only a child!”

  “Exactly.”

  I know what he thinks, because I thought it too. The child is an easy target. If nothing else, he is my enemy. More so, he is the Crown Prince’s only heir, but…I can’t hurt him. Not that I could if I tried with these two guards but…war is between men and swords, not innocent ones. The innocent should be protected, no matter their blood. Finally, I shut my mouth and say low, “He is only a babe. Or would you like to explain to Gabriel why you left the young prince crying on the floor? You can’t pick him up and watch me at the same time. So let me make sure he’s all right and you can keep that sword in your hand.”

  He is nearly growling, and his hand tightens, now officially hurting me. My nostrils flare with pain, but I am glaring at him, meeting the tall man look for look. Thankfully, he is just as uncomfortable touching me as I am being touched, and he lets go, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Be warned, woman…any aggression towards the boy, and I’ll have your head.”

  I give him a level look and then turn back to the child who is watching us with fear and anxiousness. My eyes soften against my will, and I pad a few steps over to him. He curls up tighter, and I feel the tense guard at my side ready to yank me back at any moment. I keep a bit of distance and crouch down, watching the boy. My leg screams and threatens to unseat me. He relaxes a little with me as small as he is. “Hush, little one…why are you crying?”

  The boy hiccups his tears back into his throat and then murmurs and whines some only partially coherent, much elaborated story, “I dano wha I did…’es so angre…went to ya ‘oom an’ we came out, he’d na smile or ‘old me’.”

  Anger squeezes my heart and makes it thump hard in my chest, but I push it away and hide it from the child, giving a very faint, unbidden smile. “Where is your father now?”

  “‘is ‘oom,” he answers, pointing to the door to what I assume to be Gabriel’s chambers.

  I glance to the door and then back to the boy. “Would you like to go see him? I bet he’s not angry at all. Come on.” I offer out my arms, and the guard sucks in his breath. But the boy, so eager for affection, scurries up awkwardly and right into them. I wrap my arms around him and carefully stand, my leg cursing my existence. Oh, I’m so stiff…I just want sleep…ow, stitches. Ow.

  But the boy starts whining and squirming, and I watch the guard stiffen and pull out his sword a bit. “Ow, ow! Hot! Hot!” the boy cries, alarmed.

  I realize my error at once and send my temperature plummeting. I swoon, swaying a bit, and the wolf guard leans against my back, keeping me up while I hold the boy carefully. When my temperature is cold enough, although still probably uncomfortable but not enough to not want to be held, the child nestles into me. I regain my footing and smile down at him. It is worth the discomfort of feeling so cold and disoriented. And it will only be for a short while.

  “What is your name, child?” I murmur, walking once more, keeping my gaze upon the child to comfort him in the knowledge that he has my attention.

  Grinning with pure delight, he answers proudly, “Enté.”

  “Enté?” I ask, and he confirms with a curt nod. I glance down at him, unsmiling but gentle. “I rather like it. A strong name for a warrior.”

  Enté beams with pride, although he understands only that I compared him with a soldier. He squiggles and giggles with delight, grinning broadly and leaping into an endless jumble of conversation until we reach the door some few yards away. His incessant chatter makes my head throb, but I do not mind so much as I mind that Gabriel seems to puff about like an angry dragon, not carrying who is around. How many times, I wonder, did my mother have to go and pull me out of some crawl space and take me to my father so that he could assure me that he hadn’t yelled at me or many times even realized I was in the room. He had patted my head and kissed my brow, but I was still afraid of being near my father when he was discussing military matters. I do not want Enté to feel the same.

  “Hush now.” He grins again and nods eagerly before waiting in anticipation as the guard knocks on the door.

  “Enter.” The voice sends chills tingling up my spine, but I force them back and walk into the room, the child clinging to me.

  When we enter the room, Gabriel is standing on the other side, facing the window with his hand clasped around his opposite wrist behind him. The door, like the others, is made of frosted glass, and the floor is smooth, frosted ice on marble. The walls are a lighter marble, blocked in even, simple squares. Little ornaments the room: a black, marble desk against the adjacent wall, no hearth, not even a rug. The other walls are lined with shelves and bookcases, filled with books and interesting boxes.

  “Why do you hold him?” The menace in Gabriel’s voice rings loud through the room, and my attention returns to him. Enté shifts in my arms, tucking himself against me and peering with wide eyes at his father. Gabriel turns an accusatory glance to the guard who stares back at him cooll
y.

  I watch him for a moment, feeling my heart beat hard with anger. “Shut up,” I snap. I am trying to be diplomatic, trying to keep from upsetting the child in my arms who is too young to understand. I am trying. “He was crying in the hallway. He thinks you’re mad at him, Gabriel. Now fix it.” I bite out the last part, quite proud of myself for holding back most of the expletives in my head.

  If Gabriel is surprised or feels any emotion past the stoic expression on his face, I cannot tell. Moving carefully towards me, he plucks the child from my arms, his icy hand brushing against the inside of my only slightly warmer arm. He says nothing to me, nor even looks at me for that matter. He reclaims the child and holds him, walking a bit away from me, although I can still hear their conversation easily.

  “Enté, does the woman speak true, my child?” His voice is the most gentle I have heard it yet, a strong, steady strum of notes that coax and soothe. It surprises me, and I stare at the back of his head. Enté bows his little head and nods. A tender, loving smile graces Gabriel’s features, his eyes softening, the hard lines easing, and I find myself curious at such a sight. When he smiles so fondly at his son, his eyes lose their hardness and become liquid pools of serenity.

  He turns from me again, so that I can no longer see that same softness claim his expression, but it is warm in his voice when he replies, “I see…forgive me, little one. I did not mean to be sharp with you. But go now…I’ve matters to attend to which you cannot understand.” I doubt that Enté understands anything at all in what Gabriel says to him, but the child seems to find only affection in his father’s tone, not condemnation, and so he smiles and allows Gabriel to walk him to the door.

  Immediately, I move out of the way. I am slowly raising my temperature to that of a comfortable heat, tempted to light my body aflame but doubting that I have enough strength to keep it going for long. I shuffle to the side, standing out of the way of the door so that I am not forced to come in contact with the ice-peoples.