Page 100 of A Chill in the Flame
11 hours and 15 minutes until execution
When you didn’t know where to go, every path was equally wrong. It was quite different from notcaringwhere you went, in which case, every step would have been equally right. Tyr returned to the courtyard, if only because he’d had luck there once before. Who was to say it couldn’t happen again? Additionally, its circular, centralized nature offered an equal advantage to the various points of the palace. Pillars supported cathedral-high ceilings on all sides, halls and rooms and things of importance and mundanity in all directions.
It was familiar, knowing what he wanted with no idea how to achieve it. He knew he needed Dwyn in order to figure out how to use borrowed powers, but he had no clue how to get her to give up her secrets without incurring the wrath of the bond they shared. Before he’d needed to know her secrets, he’d needed to find her in the first place. And before it all came the need to see the men who’d hurt Svea brought to a violent and terrible justice.
Kings, generals, and militaries would probably disagree,but Tyr was quite certain there was no such thing as a foolproof plan. All anyone could do—particularly a lone actor—was the next right thing, one step at a time, while hoping for the best.
The All Mother must favor him, he thought, as his luck sparkled within a few moments.
He’d been in the courtyard for no more than two minutes when a woman floated out from behind the pillars near the opposite end of the courtyard. He’d spent enough time in Tarkhany to know the posture of peasants and enough time lurking about the castle in Aubade to spy the way nobility carried themselves.
This woman was no commoner.
He marveled at the woman, skin darker than Odessa calla lilies, cloudlike dress stitched of night itself. Twilight-deep, jewel-toned purples and blues rippled behind her as she walked. While some of the attendants in the castle had been human, this woman’s arched ears were easy to spot from the close crop of her hair. From the quick, intentional pace of her stride, he’d expected her to cross the courtyard into a separate part of the palace. Instead, she came to an abrupt halt near the fountain.
Tyr took a few careful steps toward her, wondering if she was going to descend into the dungeon.
The woman exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring in a clear sign of anger. Her fists flexed at her sides. Before long, the bird took several careful steps toward her.
“I won’t insult you by asking you if you did this,” she said to the bird. He could hear enough from his free ear to know she wasn’t speaking the common tongue. The translation device was terribly useful. He wasn’t confident he’d give it back. “Because I know the answer. There’s no reason for those men to be here. This was handled.”
The bird cocked its head from one side to the other.
“No one’s here,” she said through her teeth.
With one step forward, the bird’s foot transitioned into the step of a man. She matched his height almost exactly,shoulders straightening as if to emphasize her anger. Whoever this was, she was not here to show a sign of weakness.
“I didn’t bring them here,” he answered, voice low and irritated.
As with Tyr and his ability to step between things fully clothed, the shapeshifter before him was dressed in finery both loose enough for the climate and brilliant enough to portray his status. His tunic and pants resembled the same blacks, oranges, reds, and yellows belonging to the bird moments before. This was an important man.
“You did, Tempus. You’ve been bringing them here for sixty years. You shouldn’t have gone to Farehold. You started this when—”
He looked to the side, crestfallen. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
She looked as if he had slapped her. The insult to her intelligence was as violent as any physical blow. “When I brought you in to this palace, you understood what you were getting yourself into. You knew who I was, and what I—”
“I’ve known that you will not bloody your hands with the justice you crave, Zita.”
“This isn’t justice!”
“Lower your voice. No one knows I’m here.”
Her hands flexed again as if controlling a great and powerful storm within her. Tyr idly wondered what abilities she might possess and whether or not he might be at risk of harm, should her wrath win.
Zita made a controlled expression. “If you’re seen, we’ll say you’ve arrived in the night. It’s well known: you’ve been on an extended trip away. I’d prefer that we keep it that way.”
The man she’d called Tempus showed a combination of frustration and defeat. “Why did you marry me, if I never stood a chance in your court? Why would you agree to this union? Hundreds of years have passed, Zita. He’s been gone for—”
Her expression changed in an instant. “Don’t you dare speak of him.”
“This! This is why! This has to happen. You won’t let him go. You won’t let any of them go. You won’t—”
“I’m not the one who needs to lower my voice,” she said, spinning on her heels as she returned the way she’d come. Tempus jogged after her, and Tyr responded by picking his way carefully across the courtyard. He hugged them tightly enough to slip into her room, undetected, as the door closed behind them.
Her room was not so much different from the one Ophir had been assigned, save for a few personal touches. Zita’s was thick with the same bright citrus scent that permeated the palace. He’d thought it had come from the incense that smoked from the pendulous fixtures around the halls and rooms, but perhaps it was as much from its queen as from the decorations.
Tempus ran a hand over his face. “Zita—”
