Page 88 of A Chill in the Flame
“You’re a princess?” He responded in the common tongue, his words curving as curiously as her ornamental device, the lilting, unfamiliar accent compared to the flat sounds of thecitizens of Aubade.
Surprise and relief colored her cheeks in return. “Yes, I am. I’m the daughter of King Eero and Queen Darya of Farehold. I’m looking for someone who I think is taking refuge in your city.”
He turned to the first guard and translated her message, which, thanks to her device, she received with perfect clarity.
“Another one?” The first guard’s tone was more unnerved than surprised.
“Two is hardly an invasion,” the translator replied in his native tongue.
The four exchanged uncomfortable looks, their horses shifting with impatience.
“Two too many,” the first guard muttered. “Will this one also go to the dungeons?”
The dungeons.They’d already stumbled upon another foreigner in the city. Berinth. It had to be. Her heart raced at the picture of Berinth caught behind bars like a rat in a cage.
“No, no,” the second replied, “this one claims to be royalty. A princess.”
She hung on every word, ascertaining that she was to be taken to the palace so that their king might decide what to do with her—they hadn’t used the word “king,” but she gathered his position of power from the context.
To her surprise, the one who’d translated dismounted from his horse and offered it to her. She expected him to swing back into the saddle, but instead he led the horse while remaining on foot. It may have only taken seventeen minutes for the guards to find her, but it was another hour of escorting her through the city before the first otherworldly firefly dance of fae lights illuminated the world surrounding the enormous, vase-shaped tops of the palace. The gates were opened, and they were ushered in, but Ophir had little attention to spare on the minutiae of city life while her eyes were busy drinking in the golden palace—at least, the tops seemed to be made of gold. The body of the palace was madeof an unfamiliar light-colored stone, not quite marble, but not the cream or custards of Aubade. The same tall, branchless trees she’d noticed in the city grew in rows here, their leaves gathered at the top like a feathered plume on a hat. The greatest display of wealth and opulence in the desert was the wastefulness of water that flowed freely from decorative fountains and reflective pools before the palace doors.
They left the horses behind as she stepped into the surreal, out-of-body experience of having lived decades of life, been to so many parties, seen countless things, and yet had the hubris to assume she’d seen most of what the world had to offer. Meeting Dwyn and Tyr had made her starkly aware of how little she knew of Sulgrave. Arriving in Tarkhany was a wakeup call to her narrow exposure to the world. She thought of all of this, and none of it as her eyes scanned the tall pillars that held up unfathomably high ceilings—doubtlessly for the heat, allowing it to rise while the humans and fae below remained comfortable.
Ophir kept an eye on the bodies around her as she entered the palace, trying to see if there were any mannerisms or practices she could perceive and adopt before making a fool out of herself. Instead, she was too distracted by the loveliness of the intricately designed fabrics in the flowing swaths of clothes, much of it loosely draped and leaving little to the imagination. A curious bird nearly the height of a fae wandered about the castle on two thin legs. Its body was an interesting combination of white, black, and gray, but its face was the vibrant orange and yellow of sunset. Elaborate tufts of black feathers looked like a spectacular halo, almost as if the bird was wearing a crown. It turned to look at her, cocking its head curiously to the side.
She turned to inquire about the unusual bird, but the guards were whispering to one another. She kept her mouth quiet as she listened.
“Let’s take her to the king.”
“No, we’ll let her decide what to do with the princess.”
“Is that wise? Should she—”
“She’ll want to see the girl.”
Ophir’s earpiece translated each message rapidly as her eyes darted from person to person. The man who’d given her his horse knocked on a door and whispered to the answering servant. Ophir stood stoically behind the guards, wondering who she would meet and what might unfold.
I’m a snake.
She repeated Dwyn’s affirmation until she believed it. She had nothing to fear. She had power. She could strike. Ophir’s fingernails bit into the flesh of her palms nervously, wishing Dwyn were here now. It was a foolish wish—no different from wishing there had been poison in her wine or hoping a storm might capsize your ship. Wanting Tyr or Dwyn was no different from desiring your own demise.
She knew it to be true. And yet.
The servant returned and exchanged a few more whispered words to the guard. Their voices were too low for her to discern what was being said, though she tried. The guard gestured for Ophir to follow the servant as he took a step backward, ushering her into the long, pillar-lined palatial space beyond.
Aubade’s castle was huge by all measures of the imagination, but the vaulted ceilings of the palace made it seem larger than life itself. Rooms in Aubade were half of the size of the halls and foyers in Tarkhany, and she assumed it was by design. Her bedchambers at home needed to be small enough to capture the heat from the fireplace. Similarly, these rooms needed to be large enough to allow the heat to dissipate, rather than suffocate the resident. Ophir attempted to ask the servant where she was going, then her name, then what they were going to do with her, but the woman did not respond. Either she didn’t speak the common tongue, or shedidand preferred not to answer.
No matter where Ophir looked, a new, vibrantly colored, brightly scented object, flower-filled vase, incense-ladenpendulum, or elegant bust decorated the large, open rooms.
“Here you are,” said the servant with flawless command of the common tongue.
Ophir’s eyes became unappreciative slits. How rude.
They led her to a fae woman with close-cropped black hair in a loose gown that would have matched the burned- orange desert sands in daylight, contrasting beautifully against the rich depth of her skin. It wrapped around her neck, covering her chest, but with a daringly low cut in the back. When she turned to lead the group farther into the room, Ophir could see the entire divot of her spine as it ran from her neck all the way to the small of her back where the dress scooped, fabric gathering once more just below the dimples of her hip bones.
Ophir wondered if this was the“she”the soldiers had referred to.
10:00 PM
