Page 50 of A Chill in the Flame
They mounted the several flights of stairs in the winding tower that led to the space typically reserved for generals, diplomats, and meetings. Harland’s eyes touched hers briefly, his hazel gaze pained as he grazed over her golden, pleading questions. He opened the door for her once they reached the top of the tower, but he did not enter. He bowed to the king and queen and took his post outside to wait, closing the door behind him.
Ophir hesitated at the entry. The war room was in the backmost circular tower on one of the castle’s four posts. Itcurved with the same yellow-brown stones and cream mortar that filled the rest of the castle. They were toward the top of the tower so that the sun could fill the space with warm, cheery light without anyone worrying about their maps or plans being seen or intercepted by prying eyes.
“Mother, Father.” She nodded at them, dread swelling as she spied the worry on her mother’s face. “What is this about?”
“Sit, love,” the queen motioned. Her face was controlled in a way that served to deepen her anxiety.
Caris and Queen Darya could have been sisters, they looked so alike. Ophir saw Caris’s face in every line and curve of her mother’s features, from the scoop of her nose to the arch of her brow. Even Darya’s voice was too familiar. Their resemblance was another in a long line of piercing wounds that reminded Ophir as to why she spent so little time with the queen.
She needed more distance than even the walls’ corners and tilts and floors of the castle could offer. No stones would be thick enough for the separation required from her pain. The ageless fae exchanged looks and waited for their daughter to take the chair across from them. The map of the continent stretched between them. Something continued to stick in her throat as she eyed her parents.
The queen had the same wet-earth smell that had been Caris’s signature perfume. Between her blue eyes, the scent of rain, and her cascading, golden hair, Ophir could scarcely stand to be around her mother. Her voice was gentle as she broke the uncomfortable silence. “There’s no easy way to say what must be said. We understand that this will be difficult to hear.”
Ophir wanted to feel something else, but only one emotion came to her forefront. Anxiety burned from her stomach to her throat. “Please, just tell me what’s happening.”
Her father’s face was stern. The golden burn of his irises was as royal as the crown on his head. She’d received herhoney eyes from him, and in this moment, they were not kind. He did his best to sound emotionless as he delivered cold, impassive news to his daughter.
“The marriage union between Farehold and Raascot must continue as planned. Caris was promised to Ceneth at birth for the good of the continent. The intent to bring our two sovereign kingdoms together has not changed. In three months, you’ll be wed and relocated to Gwydir, where you’ll be expected to produce heirs who will rule a single, unified kingdom.”
No.
There was a strange, spinning sensation. She was quite certain she’d hallucinated, or misheard, or dreamed the words that had come out of this cold, dispassionate man.
Ophir’s mouth hung open, tongue paper-dry. She wasn’t sure if she had blinked a single time as the king had spoken. “I’m not seventy-five.”
A ceaseless onslaught of horrors assaulted her, and of all the injustices, this was the only thing she could think to say.
“Caris was,” her father said, no emotion in his tone. He amended, “Would have been, I mean. The marriage was set for this year. It is time.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He spoke like a man discussing the inevitability of taxes. This was not a father who loved his children. This was no man at all.
Her mother attempted to soothe her. “A true utopia is at stake, Ophir. Ceneth and Caris have spent decades in phase one of their plan, but it’s all meaningless if we don’t reach the second stage. Separation was a temporary relief from immediate violence or threat to the fae’s survival. The separation of humans and fae—the discrimination of powers—will make matters worse if things don’t move forward. Plans for a borderless kingdom have been in the works since before either of you was born. In the event of…” Her words drifted off. She couldn’t bring herself to reference Caris’s death. “We waited for as long as we could before telling you. But now that you seem to be getting better…”
Unity could not be chopped in one fell swoop of anaxe. The trunk of this complicated tree was thick. The cuts required to fell preconceived notions and rebuild the continent would be no small task. Caris had known this, and her passion overrode any fear of the challenge. Ophir saw it, and…
“I can’t marry Ceneth,” she said. She tried to swallow again past the knot that continued rising in her throat but found she could not push down the hardened lump of emotion. She remained perfectly still, perfectly calm, though she’d nearly ceased breathing. A monotonous, high-pitched ringing began to sound in the space between her ears as a headache born of oxygen deprivation sang its painful song. She inhaled slowly through her nose, but the ringing did not go away.
“Duty calls to you, Ophir,” her father said coolly.
The queen’s face rearranged in a complicated stitch of downward motions as she absorbed her daughter, from the shock of her face to the rigidity of her posture. She attempted levity despite her frown, but it did not reach her blue eyes. They were the same bright blue that her eldest princess had inherited. “A winter wedding will be lovely. We’ll decorate the castle with Yule trees and fill the halls with fae lights. We can serve whatever you want at the banquet. You used to love those cranberry tarts, didn’t you? Cranberry is so festive around the winter holidays. We’ll get a lovely stag. We can serve mugs of warm liqueur and lovely little Yule garnishes for every guest. Wouldn’t that be nice? I think it could look rather charming. Oh and the pine—of course we’ll cut fresh pine. It’ll smell divine. We’ll have Ceneth bring it down with him from the northern kingdom. The whole hall will be filled with the scent of pine.”
She’d been punched in the gut by invisible hands. “You think…you think I’m worried about what food will be served? You want…pine? You want to talk to me about decorations?”
“Ophir,” came her father’s exasperation. “This is not a matter for discussion. It’s my own fault for allowing so much time to pass on Caris’s shoulders. We did not prepare you.You were not groomed to take over, and I rest that blame on my shoulders. The fact remains: being born into the monarchy comes with certain obligations. Ceneth is a good man—”
“Does he know about this?” Ophir’s question sounded strangled. She wasn’t totally convinced hands weren’t gripping her throat as she spit out her words. “He was in love with Caris. He truly loved her. Hetoleratedme. Is Raascot’s king aware that you’re planning to swap us out as if he won’t notice?” Every word came out higher and angrier than the one before. She braced her hands against the table, barely clutching sanity.
Darya attempted to reach across the table to comfort her daughter, but Ophir jerked her hands away as if her mother were no more than the very snake she’d summoned.
“Yes, he knows. A love match would have been fortuitous, but, you have to understand, love matches are rare.” She tried to soften her expression. “A political arrangement was inevitable. Ceneth did ask if you’d like to see him to speak about anything before the wedding. I told him I’d send a raven with your response.”
If she didn’t find a way to choke down the knot in her throat, she was pretty sure she was going to throw it up. Her stomach churned violently as she picked through the words. “To be clear—you are asking if I want to talk to Ceneth or if I just want to wait until we’re at the end of the aisle and he’s lifting my veil before I see him? You’re asking if I want to meet the man who’s in love with my dead sister before we’re wed?” She looked between her parents. “This is absurd. You see how insane this is, don’t you?”
“Please try to be reasonable,” Darya sighed.
Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly like a fish lofted above the water. “I can’t. I won’t.”
The king slammed his fist and the women closed their eyes tightly against the sudden impact, resisting the painful urge to flinch. Eero rarely showed outbursts of emotions. He was a stoic man, making his anger all the more violent in thewake of their pain. Ophir’s lips tightened into a hard line.
