46. Thyra
Chapter Forty-Six
Thyra
Frost blasts from Stellen’s hands as he races past me.
I leap away from him, a cry on my lips, my senses in turmoil before a thump outside the tower registers in my hearing.
What…?
Stellen disappears into the blindingly bright sunlight, reappearing a moment later, dragging Antony inside.
Steam rises around both of them, but it’s coming from Antony’s body, along with the scent of burning flesh.
“Antony!” My voice is a near-scream, panic filling me as I reach for him.
“No, Thyra, too hot!” Stellen warns before I make contact. “He’s burning up.”
The heat rising off Antony’s armor drives me backward. How is this happening? It’s only morning. Antony can walk in sunlight…can’t he?
Another flood of frost blasts from Stellen’s hands, flowing across Antony’s armor, but it’s clear he’s fighting an uphill battle when Antony’s head lolls and the steam continues rising.
“P…a…ge,” Antony mumbles, somehow still conscious, his hand shaking as he draws his fist away from his chest, a piece of paper clamped between his fingertips.
I don’t know what that paper is or why it’s so important that Stellen immediately sweeps it into his pocket with a quick, “Fuck, it could have caught fire,” before another stream of frost flows from his hands.
“Downstairs,” Stellen rasps, dragging Antony across the floor to the staircase. “There’s a bathing room down there. We need to put him under the cold water and get this armor off him.”
I race ahead down the stairs, taking note of the larger space I’m entering.
Barracks sit off to the right with several rows of narrow beds and multiple shelves. On the nearest set of shelves, I recognize the satchels Nara carried on her back when I last saw her, one bag containing my Alak-Teahan coat and the other the scrolls and maps from the Frost Kingdom.
On the left is a bathing area made of polished stone, each wall fitted with multiple head-height water outlets while pumps are located at intervals around the floor.
Stellen is right behind me, but he pauses at the shelves, shoving the piece of paper into one of the satchels before hoisting Antony up again.
I hurry to the water outlet straight ahead, pumping water as fast as I can to get it started.
Stellen pulls Antony under the spray while Antony mumbles disjointedly and Stellen snaps, “Don’t you fucking die on her, Antony.”
The water sizzles across Antony’s torso, a freezing downpour that gives me hope.
Propelling myself under the heavy spray, I ignore the cold and at the same time risk burns by taking hold of Antony’s helmet, pulling it free and carefully laying his head back on the floor.
While Stellen works on Antony’s chest plates, I reach for Antony’s arms, quickly unlocking the mechanisms by memory, having seen Antony remove his armor in the past.
“Like this,” I gasp in the spray before I demonstrate to Stellen, who slides free the interlocking plates from Antony’s right shoulder first.
His burns become visible, welts and peeling skin that horrify me, but the water seems to be helping.
Clamping down on my fear, I focus on removing Antony’s boots while Stellen reaches for his left breastplate.
At that, Antony lurches into a sitting position, snatching hold of Stellen’s arm with his now-ungloved fist, snarling like a cornered animal. His eyes are half-open, one eye appearing filled with blood.
“No.” He snarls.
“We’re trying to help you.” Stellen draws on his power, frost icing over Antony’s hand, forcing Antony to let go.
With another garbled curse, Antony hunches over, still in a sitting position, clutching his arm protectively over his left breastplate.
When Stellen reaches for Antony again, Antony’s fangs appear. This time, his rebuke is intelligible. “Get away.”
Frustration rises within me. “Stop that. Your armor is keeping the heat in.”
Antony’s focus swivels to me. “You, I will allow to remove my armor,” he says, continuing to hunch over his breastplate. “Not him. And not this part of my armor. I don’t care if I fucking burn.”
My frustration billows.
So, apparently does Stellen’s. He utters a “humph” before he retreats and begins pacing opposite Antony.
I’m certain Stellen must be debating using his frost to strike Antony’s armor in an effort to crack it apart.
I’m not sure if he would succeed. Victor designed this armor and I’m certain he tempered the steel to resist heat and frost—which is probably why Stellen’s power wasn’t cooling Antony before.
With a mighty effort, I shove my frustration down. “Fine.”
As fast as I can, I continue to work, removing the armor from Antony’s legs, leaving alone the pants he’s wearing underneath. Then I tackle the remaining plates on his arms. Tricky when he won’t lift his right arm away from his chest.
Finally, I reach for the last plate across his back. “Lean forward so I can get this off.”
“Enough,” he says, flinching away from me and hunching more sharply in the spray.
“Antony—”
“Enough!”
His shout drives me backward, but a second later, his eyes roll back in his head.
He crumples to the side, his head about to hit the floor.
I’m closer than Stellen. I throw myself forward again, my knees thwacking the stone before I catch Antony’s right shoulder, pressing my chest to his chest and drawing his head into the crook of my neck.
I’ve ended up half-crouched, half-kneeling, supporting his bulky weight.
If my armor weren’t magical, I’m certain I would be waterlogged, the silver threads tightening against my skin to ensure the liquid flows right off.
My hair, on the other hand, is dripping, dark strands plastered around my face and Stellen’s yellow ribbon heavy with liquid in my braid.
Now that Antony’s unconscious, Stellen moves quickly, releasing the catches on the final plates across Antony’s shoulders, carefully removing them. When he’s done, I draw on my strength to maneuver Antony so that the water can hit the back of his neck and flow across both sides of his body
Only one plate remains, the breastplate Antony was clutching, now lodged between Antony’s chest and my chest. It feels hot but thankfully not burning.
“Keeping him under the water is the best thing we can do for him.” Stellen crouches on Antony’s other side, the spray gleaming across his face and shoulders. “Can I take him from you?”
Before the blood bind gave me strength, I wouldn’t have been able to support Antony’s weight, but if I let him go, then I’ll have nothing to do but pace and wait and hope, and I can’t do that.
“I’ve got this,” I say. Then add, “The final piece of his armor—can you remove it?”
“Are you prepared for his wrath if he comes to and finds it gone without his consent?”
I tip my chin up, the best rebellious gesture I can make in this position. “He won’t hurt me.”
Stellen rises to his feet and rounds behind me, crouching at my side, his expression suddenly unreadable. “Yet you fear that he will.” Then, more quietly, he whispers, “You fear that I will.”
I shiver when Stellen brushes his fingertips across my right forearm. The blood bind.
“You fear retaliation,” he says, the growing ice across his face and shoulders turning the farthest water droplets into snowflakes.
I meet Stellen’s eyes as I push every small piece of hope and compassion out of my mind and prepare for the confrontation we will inevitably have. “Yes. I do.”