Page 75 of A Chill in the Flame
It had been like breathing.
They’d stepped into one another’s lives as if they’d always existed there. Their stories had begun somewhere in the middle, as if it were quite by accident that the author of life and time had left out the first part of their lives, too tired to write how their souls had been born together, grown up together, known each other on a level deeper than blood and bones. Ceneth had accompanied her through the grounds as she commented on what she’d fix or change, all while showering Gwydir in sincere compliments every time she saw a lovely bend in the river, glisten in the stone, tall tree, or friendly face. He hadn’t faked a moment of sincerity with her. Everything between them had been so easy.
He’d known his heart belonged to her before they’d left the gardens.
They wanted as one. They planned as one. They even dreamed as one.
Ceneth blinked away from the memory. “My bedchambers, I suppose. No, no, nothing untoward. I won’t have you thinking a single improper thought of her. She was perfect and peerless in every way. It was me. I used to dream of her all the time while she lived. Almost every night, in fact. And now…”
The medium turned from the war room as if they were leading the way, even though they had no idea where the king slumbered. Fortunately, Ceneth’s advisor was still present to escort the medium through the halls. The castle had its twists and turns, but after a few winding flights of stairs, they found themselves in the king’s room. It was ostentatiously large,with a wall of floor-to-ceiling latticed windows that opened onto an enormous balcony overlooking Gwydir.
“Your bed?” the medium asked, their expression heavy with implication, though not of judgment.
Ceneth felt a compulsion toward honesty. Caris had passed, and there were no secrets worth protecting if they might cost him the ability to reunite with her once more. “We weren’t intimate. Not in the flesh. But my dreams knew only her nearly every night after we met. I haven’t dreamed of her since she passed, and it’s like I’ve lost her all over again.”
The medium took it upon themself to drag the desk from where it had rested against the wall closer to the fireplace. The grating sounds of wood and stone disrupted any sense of peace and decorum, but after the curtains were drawn and candles were lit, a deeper, more ominous energy filled the room. The medium sat on one side of the desk with their back to the fire, becoming a dark silhouette as the flames licked behind them. They extended their hands across the table and made a sweeping gesture for Ceneth to take a seat.
The advisor had remained idling in the doorway, but with one pointed look from the medium, the man was dismissed. He closed the door behind him to give them privacy.
“Sit,” the medium said.
Ceneth knew exactly why nervous adrenaline coursed through him. He wasn’t afraid of what he might meet. He was afraid of disappointment. Caris’s absence would be yet another loss in a string of acute, painful streams of mourning. He was afraid that she would not answer his call. He was afraid to face the reality that perhaps the spirit did not live on after death. A greater fear seized him that even if there was, she wouldn’t want to see him.
The medium’s hands remained extended until Ceneth placed his palms in each of the medium’s hands, clasping them loosely.
“Let your mind go blank,” the medium said, voice low.
Ceneth silently obeyed.
“Picture her.”
He did.
“Listen to my voice as I take you to her. Listen as I count backward from ten. When I reach one, you will be reunited with your beloved. Ten”—the medium’s voice continued in a slow, steady pattern—“nine, your heart feels light. Eight, your mind is empty. Seven, your body is relaxing. Six.”
They continued to count down, and with each number, Ceneth felt himself disconnect further and further from the chair, the desk, the bedchamber, and the mortal plane. He heard the number two, and then opened his eyes when the number one failed to come.
The medium wasn’t there.
“Caris?” His voice caught in his throat as he stared into the ocean eyes of his beloved. The outline of her hair, her shoulders, her slim frame caught against the flickering backlight of the fire. The smell of newly budding flowers and the petrichor just after a spring rain filled the room. Her hands were soft yet strong as she held him.
She smiled sadly back at him, squeezing his hands. “I’m so sorry we never get our wedding.”
A hot, violent spike of tears stung his eyes, but he didn’t dare release her hands to wipe them away. “Are you really here?”
“Yes, and no,” she said, testing each word for accuracy. She spoke slowly, carefully. “Time is blurry here. I’m with you. I’m before you. I’m thousands of years beyond you. Things have never been and will always be. Threads, tangled and interwoven. Tapestries and patterns and lines between then and now and next. All of it, and none of it, and yet I still wish you could have seen me in white. I have the loveliest dress picked for our day. Had. Will have. It’s hard to say.”
The tears spilled over his lids as he looked at her, cheeks pink and healthy, hair as golden as the sun. Her lips puckered in a sympathetic pout, as if she knew that nothing she could say or do would ever ease this pain. There was no comfort.She tried, releasing the grip from one hand so that she could use her gentle fingers to run soothing pats and traces along the king’s giant, calloused hands.
“I’m to marry Ophir.” He closed his eyes as he delivered the news.
“I know.” She nodded. “It’s already happened.”
Rejection and denial bubbled through him, horrified at her words. “No, she’s missing, she—”
“You’ll marry her, but she won’t be your bride. There’s no betrayal. I won’t feel hurt or wronged. You’ll need to do it to save her. From what could be, for her, for you, for the world. It doesn’t work. It does. It hasn’t. It will. The threads, the fabric, it’s still being woven. It’s already finished. It hasn’t begun.”
Half of what she said didn’t make sense. It was garbled and nonsensical, though her voice was bright, curious, and clear. “You speak of fabric? Time?”
