Page 51 of A Chill in the Flame
The king’s voice held no kindness as he spoke a cold truth. “You can and you will, Ophir. Your days of parading around the city are over. It is time for you to live up to your responsibilities. Your sister took up the burden for the kingdom, but she isn’t here any longer. If you can’t agree to it willingly, I’ll see to it that Harland has your rooms closely guarded if you pose any risk of leaving the castle. I’ll have fifty men stationed outside of your chambers if that’s what it takes to keep you in line.”
She searched him for any trace of leniency, of compassion. She stared at the anger etched into her father’s face, allowing his resolve to chip at hers like a pickax over ice. “So that’s that, then. There’s nothing more to say.”
She searched his face for a sign of hope, of benevolence, of grace, but found none. The man nodded once in confirmation and relaxed the fist that had been flexed against the table until his palm was flattened. He leaned back ever so slightly into his chair as he waited for any further reaction to come from his child.
The pause stretched into a pregnant silence. The room began to ring with the same high, dizzying sound that only occurred between one’s ears. Ophir fell into a deathly calm, folding her hands in her lap as she looked from one parent to the other.
“Fine.”
The monarchs sat rigidly as they eyed her.
“I understand,” she continued, voice as blank as her expression.
They watched her, tensed with suspicion.
“I’ll stay in my rooms.”
“You’re…you’re okay, with everything?” Her mother’s blue eyes clouded with worry. They looked too much like Caris’s, save for the gentle concern her sister’s would have shown. Ophir couldn’t meet the intricate shades of robin’s egg, deep sea, sky, and gems she saw when she looked atDarya. She hated her mother’s eyes.
“No.” Ophir’s answer was honest enough to assure them she was not intentionally deceitful. “Of course I’m not okay with it. But I’m the heir to Farehold. Raascot is our ally. I don’t have to be okay with it to understand the law of the land—the obligations of Gyrradin.”
Her mother inhaled sharply through her nose. Something about the way Ophir had cooled so quickly unnerved her. “I know this isn’t easy, sweet girl. I’m so sorry to have to tell you in this way. Will you tell us if there’s anything you need? Let us know if there’s something that will make this transition easier?”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
She wasn’t surprised at their shared apprehension. They’d undoubtedly expected her to put up more of a fight.
“I’ll keep Dwyn with me as a handmaid—for the nightmares. The fire…her water…”
Eero and Darya nodded with clear discomfort. Whether Ophir lived in Aubade or Gwydir, her flame would pose a threat to any who dared lie beside her. No answer aside from a water-summoner had presented itself.
“Are you okay?” her mother asked again, ocean eyes prodding.
“Not even a little bit,” she answered honestly. The pregnant pause filled the room before she spoke again. “I haven’t been okay since Caris died. Why should it be any different now?”
Twenty-three
Her room was a flurry of motion. Ophir held up her middlefinger at the closed door the moment Harland locked it behind her. He remained in the hall like an ever-vigilant prison guard trapping her in her cell. The only reprieve she’d been granted was the reasonable request for a handmaiden who could quell her fire. Of course, handmaidens were usually demure ladies of fine breeding and modest clothing. Dwyn, in her daring black velvet dress with a plunging neckline and slit that ran up her hip, was anything but.
“I’m so sorry, Firi.” The look of pain on her face made Ophir think Dwyn really meant it.
“I’m only going to ask you one question, and I need you to answer honestly,” Ophir replied. She grabbed a leather satchel and began throwing things in it. She yanked any articles of clothing that were muted enough to pass as a commoner’s outfits from their various drawers and hanging places, a metallic water flask, and the sharp dagger she’d hidden under her bed long ago. The decorative elements of her room were a blur around her. She wouldn’t need beauty or comforts with what she had in mind.
Dwyn’s head moved side to side as the princess darted around the space, almost like a cat watching a caged bird.“Ask it.”
Ophir paused to look at the siren, and without any inflection, she asked, “Do you intend to kill me?”
The siren made a face between disgust and bewilderment. “What?”
“Whatever you need me for—whatever brought you to Aubade—I don’t care. I don’t care why you’re here. I don’t care why you need me, why you saved me, or why you wanted me to create a snake. I don’t care if it’s blood magic. I just…I don’t care. But I was there. I saw what they did to Caris’s body.” Ophir became statuesque in her stillness. “I saw how Caris had been cut open and… Dwyn, you’ve been my friend, and so far you’ve done more good than harm. This is my only question: do you need to murder me for my organs or whatever it is about royal blood that supposedly lured you here in the first place?”
Dwyn covered her mouth as she drew a sharp breath. Her voice dripped with genuine horror as she said, “Goddess, no.”
“Great.” Ophir nodded. She shouldered the pack she’d been gathering, then dragged a chair across the room, pinning it against the door to keep Harland out.
If they left now, no one would know they were missing until dinner.
Harland was right, after all. Ophir did pose the greatest threat to her own safety.
