Page 115 of A Chill in the Flame
For now, she’d savor this moment. She’d remain in this drunken stupor, whatever its marvelous, curious source. Fornow, she’d answer Dwyn. Yes, she knew they didn’t like her. Yes, she knew Dwyn was a reclusive murderer with a propensity for violence. Yes, she knew all of these things, but she also knew that Dwyn wouldn’t hurt her. She believed it with the sort of fullness that others believed in the All Mother. Maybe that’s what love was. It was trust, it was understanding, it was stupid, inexplicable belief. But again, now was not the time to say all that. Instead, she answered with two words.
“I know.”
“Firi?”
“Hmm?”
“I have something I need to tell you. Something important. Something that, once it leaves my lips, will have no power over you. Something that will never hurt you again.”
Fifty-one
6:30 AM
15 minutes until execution
Ophir didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this.
The morning light in the desert was infinitely prettier than any she’d seen in Farehold. Maybe it was the dry clarity of the air, or the infinite expanse of the dunes on all sides, but the gentle pastel gradients were unmatched. Perhaps it was because she was used to sunsets on the western coast, rather than the endless horizons in all directions provided by the desert. Midnah’s enveloping warmth helped. It was much easier to enjoy a morning when the air was perfectly pleasant, its dawn climate too early to be anything lovely.
A low scaffolding of sorts had been constructed over the fountain that stretched in front of the palace. It elevated the entire party onto a platform above the crowd, safely removed from reaching hands or the wayward daggers of the particularly rebellious, while still within their line of sight. She had pictured it, of course. She’d seen beheadings, hangings, and magical executions in Aubade. They didn’t happen often, but life was long, and justice had a way of finding its target.
Executions in Aubade weren’t an entirely solemn event. Occasional street vendors would sell food from their carts,and crowds would gather for the excitement. But it certainly wasn’t the banquet thrown in Tarkhany.
Dressed in the finest, airy lavender gown she’d ever seen, face painted for royalty, hair half up, Ophir held her chin high as she exited the palace into the first light of morning. She gripped Dwyn’s hand for comfort, unwilling to let go. Ophir was escorted by several guards from the palace to the platform where the crowd waited. The moment she’d exited the palace, she’d been greeted by the music of what may have been a harp or maybe a lute.
Loud, bright, lavender, wonderful.
She wiped the residual effects of minty, relaxing rest from her eyes. Dwyn squeezed her hand, sending an electric bolt of resolution through her. In lieu of pillow talk common to lovers basking in morning glow, Dwyn offered the peace and reassurance Ophir needed to get through the morning. Berinth was to blame, and she was here to deliver justice. There was no looking back.
She scanned for the musician, seeing a man sitting upon the platform with a large instrument that looked like an upright cello, with the stretched leather of a drum for a covering between his legs. He played it masterfully, the music quiet and respectful enough for the occasion, while still bright and lovely. A cornucopia of breakfast foods stretched out across the platform. It was lined with chairs intended for Ophir, her guests, Zita, and her retinue. Street vendors were out in full force, with breads and fruits distributed among the onlookers and the guards alike.
Among the newness, there was one thing that Aubade and Tarkhany had in common.
At the center of the platform, the man she’d known as Lord Berinth knelt, shackled.
Good. She resisted the urge to spit. Rage crackled through her, flame threatening her palms.Let him grovel. Let him see me coming. Let him sob as the wrath of kingdoms presses down on him.
She wasn’t sure who would be accompanying her thatmorning but was relieved to see Zita approaching. The woman wasn’t as friendly-looking as she remembered, but perhaps they were both just nervous. Ophir did her best to smile, though she wasn’t sure that was the appropriate reaction. At least Zita looked pretty, if not familiar. She wondered if the queen had chosen her orange, black, and gray dress intentionally. She was dressed like the same long-legged bird that stomped about the garden, poised against vipers, cobras, mambas, and the like.
There was one final serpent in the palace, and this one could not be killed. Ophir straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and envisioned herself as the big, black snake, ready to strike.
The seats to either side remained empty. The desert queen mounted the steps to the platform, gesturing for Ophir—the middle kingdom’s princess, so she’d been called—to sit beside her. Ophir looked over her shoulder to see Harland and Samael trailing behind her with the other guards. She met Harland’s eyes for the briefest of moments before facing forward. She didn’t have the emotional space for his disapproval. He could handle his revenge however he wanted if his sister was murdered at a party. Ophir was here to do whatever was necessary.
The bubbling voices and faces rippled with surprise over Dwyn’s presence. Ophir was the foreigner they’d expected, not someone from Sulgrave. She hadn’t been introduced, expected, or invited. No one seemed to know what to do with the way Ophir gripped her hand, unwilling to be separated from her unusual guest. They made space for the unexpected companion as Ophir took a seat with Zita on one side, Dwyn on the other. She looked at the food in front of her, unsure if she’d be able to eat. She scanned the sea of faces, merry chatter, eyes floating to her over and over again—the stranger from Farehold, the first time in centuries someone from Aubade had come to visit, and it was for an execution.
She mustn’t overthink it.
Berinth, the murderer, the traitor, the villainous scum, remained on the platform. She’d call her flame. He’d scream. She’d get to watch him die as her fire engulfed the man whose hands had plunged the knife into Caris’s body. She could call her fire in her sleep. She’d done it a dozen times, usually without intending to. Summoning flame was as easy as breathing. It would be one moment of power, then a lifetime of knowing that he no longer stalked the earth. He would die. His life would smoke out, and she’d know the barest edges of peace.
It would be easy. She could do it. There was nothing to worry about.
Soon, it would be over. Soon, this would all be a memory.
She continued to look about, wondering where Tyr might be. He’d promised he’d be here, and she had to believe he was only steps away. She knew she wouldn’t see any evidence of him thanks to his frustrating, useful, wonderful, miserable gift, but she thought it would be comforting to at least know he was there. She wished he had the power to speak mind to mind. Dwyn was an excellent support system, but her cup was only half full. She longed to be flanked by the two who’d gone on this journey with her in all senses of the word.
Her eyes snagged on someone. It wasn’t Tyr, but she was not alone. Harland and Samael rounded the line and mounted the steps at long last, escorted to the far end of the table. She knew they were behind her in the line but hadn’t expected for them to be invited onto the platform. The tension in Harland’s shoulders and taut, forced neutrality of his face told her he was far from happy. Samael’s expression was something else entirely, though she couldn’t quite discern what emotion he was displaying. What an odd man he was. Maybe someday she’d care. More likely, she never would.
The food looked delicious, but nerves made her too queasy to eat. Piles of aromatic rices, spiced meats, brightly colored fruits, and dense, honey-coated pastries dotted thetable. Pitches and goblets of waters, wines, and juices lined the table. Over the sound of the crowd and the music of the string instrument, she could make out the sounds of Lord Berinth’s loud, inelegant sobbing, punctured by rough, disgusting pulls of sloppy congestion. It was fitting that the bastard was unwilling to die with dignity.
