Page 62 of A Chill in the Flame
“Guryon.” He dipped his chin in agreement. He told Ophir that he’d met the merchant at the party in the hour preceding the fateful events. The man was no lord, knight, or duke. He held no titles. He was a man of little importance, save for his crumbling empire as the baron of spices for the southern kingdom. The merchant Guryon was once a man who had mattered. His trips across, up, and down the continent’s coast and its seaside ports had come to a screechinghalt as storms had brutalized his ships, dashing his empire of peppers and cinnamons and salts.
Tonight, the three knelt with little dignity in the once-manicured bushes at the edges of the merchant’s garden. It was clear that his estate had fallen into something of disrepair over the past few years. Though late fall had made the grasses die after the season’s first frost and the trees turn into shades of oranges and browns, it was clear that his lawn had been filled with weeds and brambles long before autumn’s onset.
It wasn’t hard to imagine what the man might want with blood magic. Guryon would want his fortune returned. He’d want ships, and wealth, and power. He’d seek a way back into the life in which he’d grown so comfortable before it had been snatched from him.
One question that had plagued their minds was why there would be multiple actors in Caris’s mutilation. Whatever the late princess could offer, Berinth should have wanted for himself.
It had been a matter of debate what the team of malicious intent may have hoped to accomplish, unless they’d planned to divide Caris’s blood and sweetmeats among one another, each taking what they’d needed. As their ritual had been woefully interrupted, it had seemed as though few had profited from her death. The fact remained: they had killed her. Whether or not they achieved what they’d set out to find was of little consequence.
“You’re sure this is him?” she asked again.
His gaze was steadying. There was no condemnation in his repetition as he asked once again, “I am. Are you certain you want to do this?”
Ophir wet her lips once as she straightened from where they’d crouched behind the bushes, leaving her Sulgrave companions behind. Sedit trotted beside her as she walked with specter-like grace down the once-lovely path that led from the road to the estate. There was no sign of gardeners,servants, or groundskeepers as she moved forward. Her chin stayed high with regal control as if she floated rather than walked.
She didn’t glance over her shoulder as she reached the door, even if a swelling urge begged her to look to ensure that they were there. She knew that Tyr and Dwyn would enter at the first sign of trouble. As it stood, she hadn’t been deceived in a long, long time. She knew that neither of them had come into her life by accident. It was no coincidence that the same night other men had taken her sister, others had entered her own. Why they’d traversed the Frozen Straits, battled through the crowds of Lord Berinth’s party, or swum through the waves seemed unimportant. It was their story to lead, not hers. If they planned her no harm, she could only benefit from their presence.
Before leaving the castle in Aubade, Ophir had asked Dwyn in no uncertain terms whether the siren had planned to kill her, and when the girl had said no, she’d believed her. The rest didn’t matter.
Her attempt to swallow stuck in her throat like dry bread. No matter how hard she struggled, the anxiety wouldn’t leave her airway. Her feet remained glued to the landing as she examined her options. She raised her knuckles to rap against the front door but hesitated. Ophir took a step backward and looked at the house. In her concentrated forward motion, she’d failed to truly consider the space before her.
The lower levels were dark with the early hours of night. Only one light flickered in the upper right corner of the estate, suggesting that Guryon was home alone. She quietly tried the front door but was unsurprised to find it bolted. Ophir abandoned the path and began to move along the home’s perimeter, Sedit at her side. She brushed her fingers against the stones and mortar of his home as she passed by the windows, over the bushes, and rounded the corner. The handle to a back door opened easily under her twist as she stepped into the home’s kitchen.
It was cold.
There was no scent of bread, stew, or nice things on the air. There was no sign that a cook had been on the premises in a long while.
“In, Sedit,” she whispered, opening the door for her hound. His talons clicked against the stones with more noise than she would have liked, but seeing as how the man within was about to perish whether or not he heard them, she figured her silence wasn’t particularly important. Sedit wriggled his amphibious hindquarters the way a bloodhound fresh from the kill might’ve, blinking his many black eyes at his master.
“Shh,” she hushed her creature. He stilled to the best of his abilities, though his talons continued to clack noisily with every step. It was a relief when they left the kitchen and his paws could sink into the fibers of a rug’s carpeting rather than cold stones.
Ophir navigated through the rapidly darkening house as she crept down the hall. The last glimpses of evening light filtered through grimy windows, but no candles or fireplaces had been lit on the lower levels of the home. Shadows filled the space, their looming presence almost a separate entity entirely.
She began to mount the stairs and flinched when the first step creaked under her weight. After a pause, she relaxed her face from its responsive flinch and began to walk upward toward the lone candle light she’d seen in the windows. The corridor wasn’t particularly long, and the silence of the home suggested that no one else was present to thwart her mission. She would soon be alone with the merchant.
There were roughly three rooms on either side of the hall, but she knew with some certainty that they’d all been empty for a long time. This man lived alone. After several muted steps on the plush, dusty rug that stretched throughout the hall, her hand wrapped around the brass knob that would lead her into the only room that had shown evidence of life. Ophir breathed in through her nose, closing her eyes for final moments of courage. Then, she opened the door.
A man turned from where he’d been sitting at his desk, hunched over ledgers, quill in hand.
She froze studiously as she searched his face for recognition. Visions of the men and their hair, their jaws, their noses and exposed features against the man appeared before her as she recognized the man behind the mask. Guryon had hovered in the back corner as she’d thrown open the door. He hadn’t fought. He’d stood behind the man holding the sword that had been plunged into August’s torso, antagonizing her sister’s personal guard in his final moments of life. This man was no warrior—he was a coward.
“Guryon.” She said his name.
He blinked at her. “Are you…?” His question drifted off as he released the quill in his hands. The man stood from where he’d been sitting at his desk. Somehow, he hadn’t looked surprised at her entrance. His face looked deeply haunted, as though the ghosts of his soul had not allotted him rest in a long time. Perhaps he’d been expecting a phantom to claim him.
She pushed open the door further to reveal the presence of her hound. “Sit, Sedit,” she commanded. The vageth obeyed.
The man was clean, but his clothes were not new. He looked like he’d kept himself tidy, while allowing the world around him to fall into disarray. When his eyes settled on Sedit, he appeared to know that she’d come to collect a life debt.
“You’re Ophir.”
Her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “You know why I’m here, then.”
He closed his eyes slowly. “I didn’t…”
She took a step into the room, his hint at a denial emboldening her. “You didn’t what? You didn’t…mean to kill her? You didn’t…profit from her death, as you thought you might? Go ahead, Guryon. Whatdidn’tyou do?”
He opened his eyes again, but there was no fight behind them. His words may have been a question, but his tone didnot retain the essential upward tilt of inquiry. He spoke with flat acceptance. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?”
