Page 89 of A Chill in the Flame
“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 shamethat 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 scannedher 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 mydungeons 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?”
