Page 114 of A Chill in the Flame
Dwyn was surprisingly happy to see her. She reached for Ophir the same way that the princess had reached for Tyr the night before, and Ophir accepted the offer. She tucked her body in closely, snuggling into the intimacy of the early morning hour.
“Are you afraid?” Dwyn asked. Her tone wasn’t judgmental. Merely curious.
“A little.”
Dwyn pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I think that’s okay. Everything new is scary the first time.”
Ophir moved away just enough to see the silhouette of Dwyn’s shape against the early hour. “Do you get used to killing?”
Her face muddled into a soft frown. Dwyn asked, “Can I answer your question with a question?”
Ophir nodded.
“Did you feel bad when you killed Guryon?”
She didn’t have to think of her answer. Her voice stayed low in respect of the early hour. “Not at all.”
Dwyn ran her fingers through her hair. It was comforting, almost the way her mother used to do when she was a child, or the way her sister would do on their sleepovers. She closed her eyes, leaning into the sensation. Each individual strand of hair tingled as it moved, the gentle scrape of nails feeling so good with each stroke. “And the farmer and his friends when they were going to drag you back to the castle?”
Her eyes stayed closed, lulled by the steady stroking of fingers in her hair. She knew that on some social and moral level, she was supposed to feel guilty, but she didn’t. “I asked them to stop, and they didn’t. They had their chance,” she said, fully relaxed by the soothing stroke of Dwyn’s hand.
Dwyn agreed. “Some peoplehaveto die. It isn’t always for the greater good. Sometimes it’s for personal gain, and that’s enough. The farmer had to die for you, Firi. That’s enough. Your life is reason enough. There needn’t be any grander meaning than that.”
Ophir exhaled slowly, then breathed in the palace’s citrus. She was tired of the scent of oranges but was quite sure she’d never get sick of the way Dwyn smelled. She leaned into her hair, inhaling mint by the breathful. It was such a bright, comforting, unique scent. It was perfumed and nourishing, exotic and familiar all at once. Such a unique, sharp, lovely smell.
Dwyn’s hands continued to work against her scalp, each comforting line having a more relaxing power than the one before. “What if I had to kill for you, Firi?”
Perhaps the question should have alarmed her, but the sudden rush of mint set her muscles at ease. Had Midnah enchanted its mattresses to make all who rested upon them disoriented and groggy? She hadn’t noticed it the other mornings, but there was something new… Something…heavy… Something…
The haze of Dwyn’s scent was overpowering and calming all at once. Ophir shrugged, too relaxed to feel any emotional attachment. She succumbed to the mint, the peace, the serenity. “I’m sure you have.”
“What if I had to kill Tyr? Or Harland?”
Goddess, she was so sleepy. What a lovely trick. She’d have to thank Zita later. And perhaps ask her why the Queen of Tarkhany and her lovely servants hadn’t offered this hypnotic slumber before. It was like sucking in bowls of opium in her favorite haunts in Aubade. Why was she so, so sleepy, unlesssomeone in Midnah had granted her a supernatural sleep before the grand execution?
It didn’t matter. It was fucking delicious. Ophir yawned. “Would they deserve it?”
“What if I said yes? That they deserved it because you are the greater good, and they stood between you and the future you wanted.”
She opened her eyes, looking into the shadow. Her vision rippled with blissful, lovely, drunken comfort. “You can’t kill Tyr though, can you.” It wasn’t a question. She knew the answer. She knew enough from their exchanges, enough from the odd way they worded things, from their peculiar alliance, that something resentful existed between them. Dwyn would have drained him eons ago if she could have.
“And Harland? If he dragged you off to marry Ceneth?”
Ophir struggled to form thoughts. Goddess, drugs were so nice. Why had she stopped doing them? She’d ask Harland to bring more to her room when she returned to Aubade. Would she return to Aubade? Would she talk to Harland again? She was amazed that she didn’t care. Truly, nothing mattered. Fuck, whatever this was, it was so damn pleasurable. A spell? A recipe? A pillow mist she could bottle and pocket and carry with her to every mattress for the rest of her days? Mmm, it didn’t matter. It did. Not. Matter.
Was this conversation important? She didn’t know. She didn’t remember. Maybe they’d been talking about the weather, or whose kingdoms had the softest beds. Damn, wow, for fuck’s sake, for the love of the goddess, this feather-soft bed was everything. Mint pressed into her throat, filling her lungs with the gloriously choking perfume of her companion. Whatever Dwyn was saying, it didn’t matter.
Ophir meant to make a full-bodied, apathetic expression, but it resulted in an unfeeling shrug against the pillow. “I’d prefer for him not to die, but not as much as I’d prefer to not be shipped to Raascot against my will. I guess you’re right. I would choose my path over any universally accepted greater good.”
Dwyn’s hands felt so good against her body. Her soft arms tucked Ophir in more closely, squeezing one arm around her while the fingers of her opposite hand continued working against the back of her hair. Ophir rested her cheek against Dwyn’s chest. “Keep that in mind today when you kill Berinth.”
Ophir made a small, agreeable noise against the soft pillow.
“Ophir, you know I’d do anything for you, right? That I’ve been here for you, on your side, helping you through everything? You know I’d kill for you?”
Ophir was quiet as she wondered whether or not any thoughts were worth voicing in this delightful mist of calm and joy, but she knew the answer. She believed it. She didn’t care, though. The stroke of fingers, the mist of mint, the thick, heavy press of love and sleep may as well have been hypnotic swallows of a healer’s numbing drug. Dwyn had her back in a way so insane, so troubling, so unconventional and terrifying and beautiful and wild that it should have been forbidden by the All Mother herself. Ophir wasn’t sure how long it had taken her to know it, or believe it, or understand it, but for better or for worse, Dwyn was on her side. She could have said all of this, but instead she just said, “Yes, I’m aware.”
“You know Tyr and Harland hate me. It’s not an uncommon response. I’m an uncommon person, after all. So are you. I do things that make people hate me.” Her words were meant to be important. Ophir knew it from the gravity of the message, the intentional weight of each word, the pause between each sentence. Dwyn was telling her something meaningful, something she needed to pay attention to. Her eyes stayed closed against the growing gray of dawn, knowing that soon, she’d have to face Berinth and the crowd. Soon, she’d be the very piper that needed to be paid. Soon, her time would come.
