Page 16 of A Chill in the Flame
Ophir tried to shake her head but had no idea whether or not she’d been hurt. She didn’t know anything. She stared with unseeing eyes as he quickly and roughly assessed her to ensure she hadn’t been punctured. He didn’t touch her—simply ensured that the blood that soaked her did not belong to her.
She did not speak, and he did not say goodbye. The man disappeared like a dark phantom in the night.
Ophir didn’t lie there for long.
She stood to go look for her sister. She needed to find Caris. She needed to help her. She needed to find a healer. She needed the royal guard, the constabulary, the knights. She needed…
Ophir stumbled to a halt as she realized the full weight of what she had seen. Understanding hit her as brutally as though she’d been struck in the back of the head with a brick.
Her feet did not need to find the healer’s hall. She didn’t need to return to Bernith’s manor. She didn’t need anything, because Caris no longer lived. She’d taken her sister to a party, and it had gotten her killed. She was the reason her sister was dead.
A sickening curl—that of a poisonous weed growing roots and vines and branches—began to grow from her belly. The wicked plant twisted within her for two days until it had reached her mind. While the castle planned the firstborn sister’s funeral, Ophir clung to one thought, and one thought alone: she wanted to join Caris. The noxious plant with its twigs and thorns and barns told her that the only thing she could do was to leave. While others slept, she spent two nights awake, picturing the noxious weed and its shadowsupon the ceiling until that wicked curl within her brought her to the beach. Its roots urged her onto the beach, aching within her as she stared at the water. It knotted more deeply inside of her, urging her to make the pain go away. It told her that everything could be washed away if she stepped into the waves. The memory of Caris, the sight of her lifeless eyes, the pain and guilt and shame of what she’d done could drown with her among the waves.
She removed her shift and let the wind carry the thin fabric to the black waters before she knew what she was doing. She marveled instead at how warm the waters were. Almost as warm as if she’d waded into Caris’s blood.
Seven
Now
“Wake up! Goddess, you have to wake up!” Harland’s cries were louder than the screams that had shaken her from her night terror, her sister’s body the last image behind her eyes.
“For fuck’s sake!” A second, angry female voice cut through the darkness.
Ophir came fully conscious in a room filled with steam, not smoke. Water sizzled and misted against the red-hot stones of her room. She gasped and sputtered as a second wave assaulted her, cooling the remaining embers.
Ophir couldn’t see the speakers through the thick cloud of mist, but she understood who’d come to her rescue. Harland’s muttered gratitude sounded conflicted at best. The woman’s mocking “You’re welcome” solidified what she knew to be true.
“Wake up, Firi,” Dwyn called through the steam. “It’s time for breakfast.”
The sentence was absurd, but then again, her life had been upended months ago. Why should things start making sense now?
Under different circumstances, she would have been surprised at how quickly her parents had welcomed Dwyn. Instead, the castle was so desperate for a solution that they’drejoiced when Dwyn was introduced. Harland had given King Eero and Queen Darya a brief report of the situation, but they hadn’t needed more than a few words. Not only was it an incredible relief to learn that Ophir had a friend, but the fact that this friend was a fae with the powers of water was a miracle from the All Mother, according to the queen.
Ophir supposed the Sulgrave fae hadn’t fully understood what she was signing up for as the royal family had her fully moved into new, unburned rooms along with their daughter. She was promised she would be compensated handsomely for the miracle she brought to their family, and the king refused to look a gift horse in the mouth. King Eero neither knew nor cared why she’d traveled south from Sulgrave, or how she knew his daughter. He would have been thrilled if she’d found a wet log in the forest that had quelled her destructive fears. The only thing that mattered to him in the world was that he kept his only remaining child alive.
“Hurry up, Firi,” Dwyn sang, tone mocking as she said, “It’s impolite to keep your goddess-given miracle waiting.”
If the All Mother had begun answering prayers, Ophir preferred that the deity focus on justice and leave her to her sooty demise. She answered through the sweltering mist. “I haven’t decided if you’re a blessing or a curse.”
“That’s what happens when you pray for someone else to do your bidding,” Dwyn said. Her dark shape emerged through the cloud, water droplets hissing as they evaporated the moment they hit the floor. “If you want things done right, you’re going to have to take them into your own hands.”
Ophir’s face fell. She looked at the destruction she’d wrought, heart sagging. “I can’t.”
“Oh, Firi,” Dwyn said softly, snatching her hands. “If anyone can, it’s you.”
Eight
That Night
“Goddess dammit!” Tyr cried out in anger, punching the castle’s exterior. “Fuck!”
The impact drew blood and sent a shock of pain from his knuckles to his shoulder. It hurt his bones, his joints, his shoulder. He winced against the shallow pain of scraped skin as the sea breeze brushed against it. This night was built on the backs of misery and disappointment. The dark waves breaking against the cliff muffled his outburst, mingling his frustration with the endless noises of the sea.
He’d been so close. He’d followed the wretched siren south to find her circling Aubade’s royal heirs like a vulture. He’d beaten Dwyn to the party. He’d had the princess in his arms. He’d been so certain he’d robbed Berinth of his victory, that he’d bested the witch, that he’d saved the royal heir to live another day. But his unyielding focus on Ophir had blinded him to Berinth’s prize.
Tyr never let himself get angry like this, but this was no normal night.
Wisdom dictates that one not speak ill of the dead, but if it weren’t for goddess-damned Caris, everything would be fine. Instead of saving lives and preserving his ongoing placein the race for knowledge, he’d fucked up with such spectacular thoroughness that he didn’t even know where to start.
