A Heart of Ice

by Phoenix Briar

  I stand, slowly, until I am face to face with Cynthia, my golden eyes glowing with threat, like fires flickering and fading and flickering again. “And why doesn’t she speak?” I ask her with no attempt to hide the accusation in my words.

  She sucks in a breath, and her lips purse even tighter. Sarcastically, she snaps, “I don’t know. She doesn’t say.” And then, she turns and marches back into the room. I stand out in the hall for a few moments, feeling my skin burn from the bite of my nails in my flesh, until at last, I am drawn out of my wrath when my beloved child calls out my name with glee.

  Turning to him, I smile as he races down the hall to me, and I kneel and gather him up in my arms and laugh and swing him around, not giving a damn about my injury. I set him down and take his hand, walking into the dining hall with everyone else. The Lord of Marine and Lady Cynthia are already at their seats. I don’t see Zsoka at first, and then realize that she is munching on a plate of food by the fire, sitting on the floor.

  I find the sight curious, but before I can comment on the matter, two men fill the room with their presence, laughing together. Gabriel and Alistair. I toss them both an irritated look, but it melts at the sight of them. I have never seen Gabriel laugh like that. Even with me, he gives startled or wary laughs, but looking at him now, he seems so light and happy and carefree, something that I have never seen. He has never looked so beautiful to me there. And I feel a slight pang of jealousy in my chest for the companion who can make him laugh so.

  Speaking of, I notice then that Alistair watches me with a most peculiar smile, studying the way I admire Gabriel, and Gabriel’s eyes follow his friend’s look to me. I suck in a breath and glare at them both before turning to help Enté into his chair. Gabriel takes his place at the lord’s right, Cynthia at his left. Alistair sits beside Cynthia, and I take my place beside Gabriel, firmly lodged beside one man and across from the other.

  Although a fire is lit in the hearth, the room is filled with open windows that let in the cool, ocean breeze as the sun fills the room with golden hues. Only the hearth is warm, and Zsoka huddles into it with her hot food. The food placed at the table ranges from chilled meats to fruits and bread that have cooled but are fresh enough to still be soft. The men still talk amongst themselves, and have now included the Lord of Marine in their conversation. But Cynthia has not joined in and merely gives curt, one-word responses when the others try, her eyes fixed on me. Enté is oblivious to everything, trying to wield his utensils with care. I help him, showing him how to cut his meat until he knows enough to do it himself. After a moment, another tray is brought out, this one just for me. It’s loaded with piping hot soup, hot, roasted meats, and a goblet of warm ale.

  I am surprised at the courtesy since I had not expected it from Cynthia…until I realize its purpose. The meal is not meant to bring me comfort, but instead to isolate me and make clear my differences, as noted by the very garish tray and goblet, which are nicer than what the others use with their golden metal and intricate carvings, jewels studied in the base and rim—mocking me. Drawing attention to me. I feel my blood run hot while the others muse over the meal, curious and interested, but completely unaware of the violence that sparks between my eyes and Cynthia’s.

  And finally, I speak. And my voice, when it rings out, silences all others and commands attention. When I wish to be acknowledged, I refuse to be ignored, a tone that served me well as a Knight Protector. “Tell me: Zsoka is your daughter, is she not?” My voice is biting, hard and cold.

  Cynthia seems prepared for me to speak. And when the Lord of Marine opens his mouth, she beats him to it, snapping, “Our son brought her back from the war when she was orphaned. The fool chased her father out onto the battlefield where he was struck down. Since my son’s death, we have allowed her to live here, but she is not my child.”

  “So you harass her,” I accuse without tact. There’s not really any point being polite to her, hostess or not.

  “Cara…” Gabriel’s voice is a low, warning growl.

  I ignore him. “You abuse her. The bruises are fainter on her dark skin but I can see them. The scars are white, not dark. She won’t speak. Even if you are not the one to strike her, you continually hurt her. Like you are trying to do with me. You want her to be ashamed of being fire-borne.” The woman tries to speak, but I do not let her. No one else tries to speak, but from the corner of my eyes, I can see the Lord of Marine’s guilty look and Alistair’s surprised but knowing one. I cannot see Gabriel’s face, only his tense body. “Why does she sit on the floor by the fire?” I snap.

  At last, Cynthia gives a poisonous hiss. “She is an Inferno. That is where she belongs.”

  The words are carefully chosen so that their meaning is ambiguous whether the girl belongs on the floor or whether by the fire. But either way, I know the meaning. The whole table falls silent save for the breathing of me and the woman, each of us scarce containing our rage. Finally, I stand up and pick up my tray and my goblet and push back my chair.

  I turn to the fire where Zsoka watches me with shame and guilt and fear and…a very small want. I wonder what it is she hopes for. She looks like she might cry but is much too proud to. So, in the silence of the hall, I move to the other side of the room and tuck my legs beneath me before sitting down with my tray and goblet. “May I sit with you, little one?” I ask gently, watching the girl with large, golden eyes and giving her a sad smile.

  Zsoka studies me for a long moment before nodding slowly. I smile a bit and incline my head, beginning to eat. And we sit there by the fire together. The others at the table mutter amongst themselves, talking quietly. I can probably make out their words if I try hard enough, but I don’t care enough to try. Instead, I let Zsoka taste some of the food on my plate. I laugh when she makes a face at the steamed vegetables, and we smile together. I let her sip on my ale since she wasn’t given anything to drink, and we eat there together, so many questions in her eyes. I wonder how much she remembers about her homeland…how much do I remember? It’s been almost a year since I last saw the roaring forest, the hard, red clay of our earth. It seems like years since I have seen our towering, black forest and amber flames.

  “Do you remember?” I ask softly after a long while, looking over at the girl whose eyes are beginning to droop from a combination of a full, warm belly, and the bit of ale she’s had to drink. She looks over at me though, silent and curious. “Our homeland? Inferno. Do you remember?”

  Her eyes hold pain for a moment, and she rubs one arm, giving a half shrug. So not much then, I imagine. I sigh a bit and then give a small smile. “Do you remember the story of the moon and sun?”

  She looks up at me with clear interest in her eyes, and my smile widens into a small grin.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Gabriel

  I suppose that by now, Cara should stop surprising me. Attacking Alistair the way she had wasn’t too unexpected, although the look on his face when she had stormed down the stairs had been priceless. “Where in the devils did you find a woman like that, Gabe?” he asks in a grunt, giving a low laugh as he rubs his wounded stomach. I know that feeling. She doesn’t look like she would cause too much damage, but Cara knows how to throw a punch, and I have a feeling that Alistair will be feeling that one well into morning.

  I throw him a grin and a laugh. “I bested her in a duel. And when it came down to dealing the final blow…well—”

  “You couldn’t kill her,” Alistair fills in and nods to himself. “Not that I’m saying you should have ended her but…no one would have faulted you.”

  “I would have,” I told him with a sigh, hands on my hips. “Besides…I don’t want a woman’s blood on my hands…”

  “No…” he says warily and chuckles, “Judging by that green look you gave me, I’d think you’d rather have something else of hers on your hands.”

  I cut him a sharp look. Alistair is the only person in the world who can get away with saying such to me, and he abuses that right of
ten. “Mind your tongue, brother,” I warn him. Warmth colors my cheeks, but it’s not so much my pride offended as I am angry at his words. Something about it rubs me the wrong way. As if Cara is nothing more than a conquest. But…Cara is more than a woman to take to bed to love one night and send her on her way. Hell, if it was that simple, I would have done so already. But Cara is…not that. I know that if ever I do claim her…she will consume me… all of me. I would no longer be my own again. And somehow, that is almost more tempting than the thought of her body against mine.

  “What’s that look for? I didn’t mean a thing by it,” Alistair amends, chuckling a bit and watching me, although his eyes are much too careful. He has seen something interesting there and wants to explore it. I know better than to let him.

  I merely chuckle and say, “Mind it not. Cara is merely… a tax upon the mind.”

  “I can imagine,” he says and laughs, and we start down the stairs together. “You called her Cara…a nickname perhaps?” he teases.

  I give him another look and chuckle a bit. “Ah, if she would ever let me. No, she will not answer to her full name if I call for her.”

  “Scarlet?” he asks.

  “Indeed,” I reply, feeling a twinge of anger that this man is given leave of her name when I am not. I consider Cara and I to be…companions of a sort that I could probably venture to use her name. But I do not trust Cara not to smite me for it on principle alone. We arrive in the hall as we talk of the recent happenings since our last meeting. None is as close to me as Alistair. He is my oldest friend. My brother in arms. We are laughing when we came into the dining hall, and I had meant to finish my conversation before continuing to the table, but I notice Alistair’s eyes waver from mine. I follow them and find Cara standing before us, and whatever look she was holding is gone, and she turns impetuously from us to help Enté.

  I thought that dinner would be a pleasant experience. The conversation is lively and enigmatic, and Cara does not interrupt or grow irritated with it. Enté behaves himself as well. Everything seems to be right. At least until Cara’s powerful thrum of a voice steals command of the hall. It is as if her words shoved my own back into my mouth, down into my lungs. I look to her, astonished, as she begins to challenge the Lady Cynthia. I try to silence her, but she keeps on, ignoring me.

  And for the first time, I notice the little Zsoka, who is in fact sitting by the fire, huddled in close to it with her tray. She crouches protectively over it as if she is used to having to guard her food and now does this out of habit. She eats quickly, for half of her food is already gone, contributing to my theory that she is not used to as much food or being able to keep it long. She stops eating though to watch Cara, and I follow her eyes to Cynthia, to the lord of the manor, and then to Alistair.

  I am angry on Cynthia’s behalf at first, until I see the guilty looks of the men, and the self-righteous indignation in Cynthia’s eyes. Surely not. If there had been any such mistreatment of the child, it would not have been permitted. The Lord of Marine and I discussed this specifically when Zsoka was made Enté’s Senai. She will not be their heir, but she is their charge. She is expected to be cared for and well treated. Zsoka is to them what Cara is to me. They are expected to take care of her. But it is clear to me now as my eyes bore into those of my host and his nephew that this is not the case.

  Cara stands up, and I make no move to stop her. Let her do as she wishes. I will deal with them. I am scarcely aware of her going and sitting on the floor by the fire, talking quietly with the child, but I keep my eyes on the others. “Lord of Marine,” I growl after a long moment of tense silence. “Is there truth to what the lady says?”

  “You trust her word over ours, my lord?” snaps Lady Cynthia, face flushing.

  I give her a level look. “I do not remember addressing you, milady. I was speaking to your husband, the man I placed in charge of the child—of my son’s Senai.”

  The lord does not meet my request. He watches me with aged eyes, fine wrinkles just beginning to show around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Alistair sighs. “Gabriel, I—”

  “You will answer my question,” I command, ignoring my friend.

  The man at last, sighs and says, “I placed her care in the hands of my wife, to treat her as appropriate for her behavior.”

  My scowl deepens. “Such an answer will not excuse you from blame.” I turn my eyes on Cynthia. “How then, milady, has she been treated?”

  “As appropriate,” the woman snaps, and then checks herself and replies more carefully. “She is obstinate, my lord. She throws tantrums and lights herself on fire. She does not speak properly or politely, even when told to do so. She dances through that halls—dances, milord! As if some thing possessed! She wears her underclothes outside instead of her dress! By all rights milord, she acts like a savage! As though she were a Kerijan!”

  Alistair chokes on his drink at the use of such a word which is not suitable for polite society in the least. Lady Cynthia has given a child, a child not much older than my son, the term of a woman who abandons her husband and children and sells her body freely on the streets. The lowest form of existence in our society. Even beggars and prostitutes are referred to in higher favor. It takes effort to control my anger as Alistair clears his throat, drinking more water. “Did it ever occur to you, madam,” I reply angrily, “that in her homeland, these actions are part of commonplace society and are not the mark of…a disrespectful woman?”

  “Well they are not respectable here,” she says tersely, putting on a show with her puffed breathing and tears in her eyes. “I have done my best by her to raise her to be a proper Crystalice woman.”

  “And let us hope that you have not killed everything good in her to do so,” I growl and stand from my seat, no longer hungry. I need to get out of this room before I kill someone.

  “Do you remember the story of the moon and sun?”

  In the moment of absolute silence, Cara’s voice rings clear and beautiful as she sits with the child. Zsoka looks up at her with curiosity and wonder in her eyes, and Cara smiles ruefully down at her. I pause. “Long, long ago,” Cara continues, her voice deepening and lengthening in the true way of a storyteller, “The whole earth was dark. There were no lights in the sky. No sun or moon. Not even stars. Long ago, there was only us…” Cara grins and holds her hands out in front of her. “Instead of lights in the sky, each person was aglow in beautiful colors.” Flames flicker from her hands, curling around her arms, a brilliant, warm glow in the darkening room. “Each person glowed from their heart-fire. This beautiful, glorious flame.” Zsoka is enraptured now. I hear a chair scrape and look over to see Alistair stand and move closer to the fire. He takes a seat in a chair far away enough to be comfortable, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching Cara and Zsoka.

  The fire bursts forth from Cara’s hands, making Zsoka gasp—the first sound she has made all night—and out of the fire hovering in the air, people emerge, dancing and spinning, shapes of them all. “And each person had their own light according to the strength of their heart. The kindest of all people, those who were wise and generous and loving, had big, beautiful heart-fires. But the cruelest of people, those who hurt other people, had small, weak heart-fires. And so everyone knew by the size of a person’s heart-fire whether they were good or bad.”

  The people vanish, leaving behind only one face in the flames. She is beautiful. For a moment, I think it to be Cara’s own face, for it is similar. But no, the nose is more curved, the lips a little thinner, forehead a little taller. A sister, perhaps, or a mother. “But the most beautiful heart-fire of all was that of the Princess.” She smiles, and I am as enchanted as the child and take a seat not far, listening to the woman tell the story.

  “Many princes came to see the Princess, because her fire was so amazing. One prince was very handsome and clever, but his heart-fire was small and weak. The Princess had made a promise that she would only marry a prince whose heart-fire was as bright as
hers, so that together, they could lead their people with compassion and wisdom.

  “Years passed, and many princes came. Some of them had pretty heart-fires, but none as bright or as beautiful as the Princess’ fire. The Princess almost gave up hope. Surely, she thought, it would be better to marry a prince with a smaller heart-fire than to be alone. But at last, a Prince arrived. His heart-fire was bright and beautiful—every bit as much as the Princess’. Everywhere he went, people smiled because of the warmth of his fire. When he was near, everyone could see so clearly.

  “‘At last, I have found you,’ he told the Princess. ‘I have searched for years and in many far away places for a princess with a heart-fire like mine.’ And so the Prince and Princess were married, and the whole kingdom rejoiced.

  “All except for one. The handsome prince with a small heart-fire was very jealous. He wanted to marry the Princess and keep her fire all for himself. And so, the wicked prince used up all of his Magik from his heart-fire in order to curse the Prince and Princess. He separated them and placed them both on opposite sides of the sky so that they could never be together. Before, the sky had been completely dark, but now it was always bright! The Prince and Princess tried to reach each other, but it was no use because they were cursed to be on opposite sides of the sky.

  Because of all of this, the Princess cast a final spell, draining most of her Magik. No longer would heart-fires shine on the outside. Instead, they only shone from within, so no one knew how bright their fire was. You could only tell by what people said and how they treated each other. And so the Princess took all of the love and beauty in her heart-light, leaving behind kindness and gentleness and patience, and spread out the love and beauty into thousands of little, beautiful fires all across the sky.

  She did this so that the night would be a time of rest and peace for the weary, a time to prepare for a new day. These little heart-fires were her children, and she loved them. And since the Princess’ fire was spread out and not as bright, every morning and every evening, she could see her Prince for a little while. And so they were never really apart. Each had their own beautiful heart-fire, and they were able to be together forever.”