A chill in the flame, p.31
A Chill in the Flame, page 31
Ophir wondered if this was the “she” the soldiers had referred to.
10:00 PM
“I assume you haven’t learned our language before coming to our lands?” The Tarkhany woman spoke the common tongue with the same melodic accent Ophir had heard with the guards. It was technically a question, but it was clear she knew the answer.
“I’m sorry,” Ophir apologized, “though I am grateful you possess more skill and education for language than I do. I’m not here on a diplomatic mission, I’m afraid. I’m looking for someone. My name is Ophir.”
The woman’s eyes grazed slowly from the top of Ophir’s head down to her toes. While all fae had irises larger than that of a human, the coal-dark depths of her eyes almost made it appear as though they were composed entirely of pupil, with only the barest hints of white at the outer corners. It was almost owl-like. A slow smile spread across her mouth, revealing her pronounced canines. “Are you really? Do I look upon the Princess of Flame?”
Ophir straightened her shoulders, though it was shame that made her do so. “Please, accept my apologies. You know my name, my title, and my power. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Ophir waited for a name. She fidgeted uncomfortably, reminding herself that she could call hounds into existence at any moment. She thought of Sedit, wishing he were with her. Hell, she wished Tyr and Dwyn were beside her. Alas, she was alone. She’d come alone by design and would have to live with such consequences.
“Leave us.” The woman waved to the servant. Once she exited the room, the woman crossed to a long, thin table covered in foods and drinks. She’d brushed past Ophir in her pursuit of the table, and a citrus scent radiated from her. “Are you hungry from your travels? Of course, I’ll set you up to have you bathed, but please, Princess Ophir of the Middle Kingdom, share a meal with me.”
“Farehold,” Ophir corrected. “I’m from Aubade.”
“The Middle Kingdom,” she said with feigned gravity. “The kingdom that sees itself at the center of the world.”
Ophir wasn’t sure if she’d been insulted or if this was merely a show of geography. She stood uncertainly for a moment, scanning the room. She was confident she’d been brought to the stranger’s private quarters, though she wasn’t sure why she’d be escorted to a bedroom. After an uncomfortable silence, Ophir walked tentatively to the table and eyed the unfamiliar fruits. Many were brightly colored, fragrant, and utterly foreign to her. She selected a magenta fruit that looked to be covered in soft, green needles, frowning at it. “How do I eat this?” she asked.
The woman’s smile broadened, teeth brilliantly white. She plucked one for herself and demonstrated how to peel it, sucking out the sweet, white fruit inside.
“You don’t look filthy enough for someone who’s crossed our desert and wandered into my kingdom alone and on foot. Your hair is tangled, but your presence is…curious.”
Ophir’s hand flew self-consciously to her hair. She scanned her clothes, knowing exactly what the woman meant. She should have been caked in orange-red dust from the sand. She should have been coated in dirt, drenched in sweat, and half-mad with heat stroke. Instead, thanks to her winged mount, her hair had only twisted into snarls in the wind after a day and a half of flight. She could use a hairbrush, but she did not look fresh off the trail.
“Will you tell me your name?” Ophir asked finally.
“I suppose it’s only fair, though I find it insulting that you’ve entered my palace without knowing of my existence. I’m Zita.” She extended her hand.
Ophir clasped it, and Zita chuckled.
“You’re meant to kiss it.”
“But, I’m…”
“A princess? Yes, I’m aware. And I am queen of this land. These kisses are born of neither fealty nor subservience. They’re merely polite. You’ve made no effort to educate yourself beyond your bubble, have you? Such a pity.” Zita relaxed onto a lounging chaise and pulled a small bowl of fruits to her. “Princess of Flame, sit with me, Queen of the Desert, and rest beneath my shield. Tell me why you’ve come, and if I find your story worthy, I’ll tell you who I am. Is that a fair trade?”
“And by shield—”
Zita’s amusement colored her face. “I know one of your abilities, do I not? You know one of mine.”
The queen spoke in riddles steeped with consequence. Despite her grime and exhaustion, Ophir did her best to reorient herself as she would before royalty. She pitched her voice for due reverence.
“All right, then. I suppose I don’t know what you might consider worthy, but yes,” Ophir agreed, “I’m looking for someone who I believe to be hiding in your city. He goes by Lord Berinth. Do you know of anyone by that name?”
“That name? No. A pale fae in Tarkhany who doesn’t belong, however—that I do. Such a man resides in my dungeons as we speak.”
It didn’t surprise her that he’d used an alternate name. What did surprise her was how easy it had been to confirm his whereabouts.
“Did he commit a crime?” Ophir nearly gagged on her question. Aside from slaughtering Farehold’s firstborn heir, robbing Raascot of a queen, and gouging out royal organs, she amended within the acidity of her heart. “I mean to ask: why did the man I’m pursing travel to Midnah only to be thrown behind bars?”
“He wasn’t arrested for the crime of hailing from foreign lands, if that’s your question,” Zita said, sarcasm balanced on the razor’s edge of bitterness. “He was a raving lunatic, and I do mean that in the most dangerous way. Your—Berinth, was his name?—was screaming obscenities, hurling stolen objects, and violently attacking anyone who attempted to subdue him. Truly, I’m pleased to hear he’s a criminal. I refuse to punish the indigent, and madness is a consequence of a world without the food and shelter due to all mankind, human and fae alike. Midnah is an asylum with numerous shelters and support for those in need. We do not, however, tolerate violence and hatefulness by those who perceive themselves to be above the law.”
“He deserves to die,” Ophir said.
“So he shall.”
“And I need to be the one who does it.”
The queen tutted her tongue, propping her head up with an arm as she leaned more deeply into the elegantly turfed furniture. “You’re meant to be telling me a worthy story, are you not?”
Ophir looked for a place to sit, but the room was so spread out, it was hard to decide upon a location. Zita sensed as much and gestured lazily for Ophir to sit beside her on the chaise. She took a seat and made an honest expression of her discomfort. “Again, I extend my regrets. I don’t know if this is common practice in Tarkhany, but—”
“Common practice in Tarkhany?” The woman raised her eyebrows. “This is common practice amidst royalty! Tell me, Princess Ophir, if I were in your shoes: would you not be entitled to explanations from someone who wandered into your castle?”
She thought of how both Dwyn and Tyr had wandered quite confidently and disrespectfully into her room, setting up camp in her life. Her title and its entrapments hadn’t meant much to them.
“Do you want to know what I know of Farehold?”
“I…”
“I know that King Eero and Queen Darya have ruled for the last three hundred and forty-two years. I know that two daughters were born to them, one of whom claims to sit here beside me. I know your language, your seasons, the names of your cities, and of your religious expression. Do you know why I know these things?”
Ophir did not.
“Because I understand that the world is composed of more than one kingdom. Does Farehold know the same?”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and she was.
Zita waved her hand. “Apologies are useless. Now, I’m owed a story. Please proceed.”
“My sister was murdered,” she said, spilling the venom that had sloshed behind her teeth until her anger filled the room. Caris’s death was common knowledge throughout Farehold, and not a secret she needed to grip with both hands. The second half of her rather brief story may have been a gamble to share, but she was a manifester—what did she possibly have to lose? “The man called Berinth—the one I believe is in your dungeon—must pay for what he’s done.”
From the expression on Zita’s face, it was clear this was delectable information, tasted and savored as if it were a rather decadent sweet. “You’ve crossed the desert alone, unaided, unguarded, for revenge? My, my.” She positively sparkled, sitting up and leaning in with true entertainment. “Well in that case, you are most welcome. I do love a strong woman, almost as much as I love a tale of vengeance. Let’s get you set up in a room, run a comb through your hair, and I’ll see about tracking down the location of your nemesis, shall I?”
“How soon?”
The queen’s head tilted to the side as if amused by the informality of the question.
“How soon can I kill him,” Ophir reiterated.
“You’re on Midnah’s soil. I expect you will not be so brazen as to disrespect Tarkhany law?”
Ophir’s fingers clenched into fists. Her flash of emotion was not anger with the queen but fear that justice may be slipping between her fingers like desert sand.
“Once you’ve confirmed his identity, I’ll confirm with my advisors regarding your testimony and his subsequent fate.”
“How long?” Ophir repeated, impatience bleeding into defiance.
“Assuming he’s found guilty? We’ll need a day to erect the scaffolding while the city’s criers proclaim his sentence.”
“How long?”
The queen had every reason to find her repetitive line of questions annoying. Instead, her lips flicked upward in a wicked smile. “After our meeting concludes? You will be shown to your chambers, and you will sleep. Then there will be one full day, and one full night,” Zita replied. “In scarcely more than thirty hours’ time, you’ll have your justice, Princess Ophir.”
Zita stood and called for her servant in their native tongue. Quick instructions were given, all of which Ophir was able to understand with perfect clarity. With her hair over her ears, they might not even be aware that she was in possession of such a device. A detailed sketch was sent to their chambers within the hour, each prisoner’s portrait strewn before them with excruciating accuracy. Ophir pointed to Berinth in no uncertain terms, identifying him amidst the array of artfully done profiles of humans and fae with Farehold features, ensuring that Ophir had indeed located Berinth. Everything was going better than Ophir could have hoped. Maybe everything would be okay, after all.
Forty-one
11:00 AM
19 hours and 45 minutes until execution
“You can’t be serious.”
Dwyn shook her head in smiling awe as they pressed themselves into the wall, eavesdropping on excited muttering going on beyond the palace walls. “Oh, is there nothing she can’t do?”
It had taken them the night to gather their bearings and gain the intelligence necessary to learn that Ophir had been in the capital for a day or so, comfortably residing within the palace walls. It was also brought to their attention that they’d arrived just in time for what was to be the very public execution of a foreign fugitive: Lord Berinth.
“I can’t believe she found him,” Tyr breathed, keeping his voice low while they remained in earshot of others.
“I can.”
“She can’t hear you. You don’t have to kiss her ass when she’s not around.”
Dwyn turned from where she’d kept her cheek to the wall, glaring. “Is it so hard to believe that my emotions are genuine?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they are. She’s gone from the most fragile, direction -less thing on the continent, to an unstoppable force. She fears nothing and accomplishes everything. There’s no one I’d rather have as a partner. Now shut the fuck up. I’m trying to listen.”
He pressed into her a little too close in the shaded alley as they arched their ears toward the gossiping going on just around the corner. She threw an elbow for him to get back, but he did not.
“…four of them!”
“All from Farehold?”
“Yes! But two…”
Tyr whispered, “What is she saying?”
Dwyn spun on him, shoving him with two hands so he created space. She fumed back at him. “You just spoke over what may have been valuable information. Why don’t you disappear and go down there! Use your ghost power and make yourself useful!”
“Because I don’t speak the language!” he bit back, keeping his words to an angry whisper. “You’re the one who keeps sucking civilians dry so you can understand what they’re saying!”
She waved a hand to shush him.
“Which I appreciate—” he tried to amend, remembering their conversation.
“Appreciate me later!”
By then, the bystanders had moved on to other topics. Dwyn was visibly annoyed, but they’d learned enough. The courtyard in front of the palace would host a beheading at sunrise. Given the city’s heat, she was grateful everything seemed to close around midday. She wasn’t sure if she would have been able to stand in the crowd to watch Berinth’s justice while baking to death, pressed against thousands of bodies.
“What do you mean, beheaded at sunrise?” Tyr asked.
Her face remained utterly expressionless as she met his gaze. “I mean they’re beheading him at sunrise.”
“But Ophir is the one who wants revenge. Why would she want someone else to do it? Why would Tarkhany get involved? Why would—”
“I’m sorry, do you have a fundamental misunderstanding for translation? I’m relaying the message. Their queen gave some decree last night, they’re spending a day informing the people and overseeing labor, and other than that, I have exactly as much information as you do.”
Dwyn had killed no fewer than six people since their arrival in Tarkhany, three of whom had unwillingly given up both their lives and their home so that the Sulgrave fae had a place to hide. Their horses now had a shaded place to stay, which had made Tyr happy. He didn’t like the idea of subjecting Knight to the heat just because he was on a foolhardy mission through the desert. Tyr had asked why she didn’t kill hundreds and stockpile blood but inferred from her answer that she’d tried something of the sort once, only to find borrowed abilities to be rather time-sensitive. He stopped himself from commenting on the mass murder of what had undoubtedly been a helpless village in the name of her experimental pursuit for power. He was trying to get on her better side, after all.
***
They’d been in the house for scarcely a minute before Dwyn stepped out of her clothes, leaving them in a pile by the door the moment it latched behind her. She collapsed onto the middle of the bed, dark hair sticking with sweat to her neck and part of her back.
“Move over.”
“Sleep on the floor,” she murmured into the pillow, voice muffled.
He made a face, looking at the rock-hard floor. It was cool, which was nice, but he couldn’t imagine a less comfortable night’s sleep. “The floor is stone while the bed is big enough for three.”
Three who remained were mummified husks in their very room, watching them with dehydrated, lifeless eyes. They had no place to bury the bodies in the sand, stone, and clay of Tarkhany’s capital. They’d remain in the room as dead sentinels, monuments to Dwyn’s callous theft of life.
Dwyn sighed and moved from her place comfortably in the middle to the far side of the bed. It was too hot to sleep under the sheets, but the family had barrels of water set aside. She’d been able to call to it in the form of a mist, cooling them intermittently to keep their body temperatures low. Tyr took off his shoes, then his shirt as he lay down next to her. He—as did most people on the continent—possessed a modicum of modesty more prevalent than the siren’s.
“You got an answer from me in the desert,” he said, folding his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. “I want a secret.”
She rolled to her side. “Fine. It’s too hot to fall asleep. What do you want to know?”
“It’s something I’ve been thinking of for a while. The more I’ve been around you, the more I’ve seen your power, the more confused I am.”
It was clear from her expression that he’d tickled her curiosity. “Go on,” she prompted, propping herself up on her elbow as she looked at him, black curtain of hair falling over her shoulder, gaps between tendrils of hair revealing the curves of her breasts. From her navel, to her hips, to her toes, she was far too comfortable being naked.
“You can do anything,” he said.
“Is that the question?”
He shook his head. “Can you manifest?”
“Is that the question?”
Tyr met her eyes at last. “Why haven’t you broken the bond?”
Her expression tightened. “You’re asking why I haven’t removed my tattoo so I can kill you,” she reiterated flatly. Ah, yes. The siren understood him just fine.
He didn’t bother nodding, just continued to look at her.
“The Blood Pact doesn’t use a natural power for the bond. You know that. Their namesake has appropriate connotations. It’s unbreakable.”
“But surely—”
“It’s not magic. It’s not a power. It’s a curse, Tyr. We’re cursed. We willingly submitted ourselves to a fucking blood curse. Surely, if there were a way, I would have done it. The removal, that is. Not the killing you.”
His eyebrows lowered, lips twitching as if fighting the urge to smile.
“No—”
“You don’t want to kill me.” His smile began to spread.
“I didn’t say—”
He was certain his eyes sparkled. “You don’t hate me.”
“Tyr, I hate your guts.”
He shook his head, still grinning. “You don’t want me dead. You said so yourself.”
