Phoenix Blackwood's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Phoenix stepped through the tall doors and the storm cut off behind him. Warm blue light filled a great hall of ice. But warmth was a lie. The floor was ice. The walls were ice. His wet clothes clung to him, and his teeth would not stop knocking. He had found the woman, but he could barely stand. If he did not get dry soon, he would be too weak to say one useful word. The woman watched him from across the hall. She wore a pale blue gown stitched with silver. A thin crown of ice sat in her blond hair. She held herself straight, like someone used to being obeyed. Her blue eyes moved over his shaking body without pity. "You're dripping on my floor," she said. "I'll stop when I stop shaking," Phoenix said. He tried to grin. His mouth would not hold it. "Is there a fire in this place, or only ice?" She did not answer. She turned and walked deeper into the hall. He followed because he had no better plan. His boots slid on the smooth floor. Twice he caught himself against a cold pillar. They passed under an arch into a smaller room. Here stood a huge stone fireplace, broad and dark, out of place among all the ice. No fire burned in it. Logs sat stacked and ready, dusted with frost. "Warm yourself," she said. "If you can." Phoenix knelt at the hearth. His hands shook too hard to strike a spark. He fumbled and dropped the flint twice. Cold had stolen his fingers. He pressed his palms flat and breathed on them and tried again. Nothing caught. He looked up. "I can't feel my hands. I need help. Not charm. Help." Something shifted in her face. Not warmth. Surprise, maybe, that he had asked plainly instead of smiling. She crossed to the hearth and knelt beside him. She took the flint from his frozen fingers. She struck it once. A spark jumped. She struck again, close and sure, and the dry kindling caught. Flame climbed into the stacked logs. Heat rolled out and touched his face. Phoenix leaned toward the fire and shook harder as his body woke. He pulled off his soaked coat and spread it near the flames. Slowly the shaking eased. His fingers began to sting, which meant they were alive. "Thank you," he said. He meant it, and it came out flat and true. She rose and stepped back from the light. "I am Elara Wintermere," she said. "You may dry yourself. Then you will tell me why you truly climbed my ridge. And do not lie. I have heard every lie a man can tell." The fire held now. Phoenix would live. He was warm, and he had her name, and she had knelt in the ashes to save him. But she wanted the truth, and the truth was that he had come to win her.