Page 61 of A Chill in the Flame
“Vageth.”
He grimaced. “Are you sure that’s what you want to call them? Are you sticking with that? Vague hound? That’s…”
“It’s great,” Dwyn finished.
“Kiss ass,” he muttered.
“Dog,” she replied.
Twenty-nine
“Is this her work?” one of the men asked, nudging the charredremains of a corpse with his foot. The late warmth of autumn shined down on the country home, but despite the corpse’s grilled appearance, the body was cold. The other two fallen men and their blood loss helped him to establish a timeline. It had been hours since this slaughter had occurred.
Harland took a knee by the body and looked at the sight around him. While one was clearly the product of fire, the other two had been mutilated by some unholy power. It almost looked like the product of a wolf, but something about the bites and claws was unnatural. An intrusive thought crept into his mind at the idea of unnatural creations. The guard pictured the snake on the edge of the cliff and brought a hand to his eyes, rubbing his temple. At this point, he had no idea what Ophir was capable of, though he hadn’t expected it to be murder.
“Maybe they deserved it?” one of the men offered, voice mingled unconvincingly with hope and some indiscernible emotion.
Harland and his men were tired. They’d been on the road for weeks. A few centurions had stayed at the castle to guard the king and queen, while others had been posted atall of Ophir’s preferred entrances and exits to Aubade, should she try to sneak back into the castle. The rest of them had dispersed among the cardinal directions surrounding the royal city in search of Farehold’s last remaining heir.
A pleasant breeze rubbed the nearly naked autumn branches together, scattering a few reddish leaves to the ground. It rustled his hair. On the wind came a distinct sadness. The day was too lovely for such horrors. Harland’s chest tightened. It wasn’t just the bucolic setting of the cabin near the trees, nor the distance from the surrounding villages. It was the snared rabbits that had been left, untouched, fallen by the man’s feet.
These men had not deserved what had been done to them.
Harland knew exactly why Ophir had run.
She’d lost Caris, and he’d stood guard outside of her door after she was told that her freedom, kingdom, autonomy were to be taken as well. She’d been informed she was to be married off to King Ceneth, and she did the only natural thing she could have done: she’d fled. He blamed himself every bit as much as he blamed Dwyn. He knew little about the Sulgrave fae, save for her arrival bringing on new and terrible changes for all of Aubade, if not the entire continent. The ominous legends connecting blood magic to royal hearts had seemed like little more than ghost stories. He’d been a fool to believe that the timing between Caris’s slaughter and Dwyn’s arrival was a coincidence. Caris’s death had left a gaping wound just big enough for an opportunistic snake to slither in, only this one was more deadly than the serpent on the cliffs. It was true that she’d spared Ophir from drowning, but the princess she pulled from the waves was no longer the one he recognized. Dwyn’s influence had not only twisted all he knew to be true of Ophir’s character but had threatened their alliance with Raascot.
He’d love a chance to get his hands around the throat of the wicked water fae, just once.
“I think we’re on the right track” was all Harland said.“Do what you need to do to see these men are buried. I’ll meet you in the next village,” he announced. The guard returned to his stallion and swung his legs up into the saddle. He urged his horse onward before they could argue. When they finally found Ophir, Harland wanted to be the one to confront her.
Thirty
“Are you sure you’ll recognize him?” Dwyn asked in a whisper.The air was colder in the first hours of night. The bushes that concealed them had browned for the season, ruffling slightly against the wind. The night was clear, but moonless. Only the silver sting of stars burned the sky, allowing them the coverage of shadow and darkness.
Memories assaulted Ophir. She tasted the copper tang of blood in the back of her mouth as if drowning in the thought of Caris’s blood. The thick scent of roses wove its way from her memory directly into her nose, nearly causing her to gag. She shoved down the waves of visuals that splashed through her mind, flooding her from within. She forced herself to focus on only the faces and their masks. They’d been burned into her thoughts, both waking and sleeping. The princess had been shaken awake and doused in water, surrounded by ember and ash from her angry flame as the men from that night had pursued her even in her nightmares. She’d seen the cruel shapes of their jaws, their noses, their eyes, their teeth, their shoulders, their hair behind her closed eyelids for months.
“I’ll recognize him,” she promised.
Tyr had been at the fated party long enough to learn thenames and identities of several partygoers. He continued to prove himself extensively useful. Lord Berinth may have fled, but he had not been a lone actor in the unspeakable pursuits of that night.
Tyr slid his hand onto Ophir’s arm, completely ignoring the way Dwyn’s face scrunched in disgust. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. His voice was strangely calm.
Ophir began to object, but he went on.
“Don’t mistake me, princess. They’ll get their vengeance, and you’ll be the one to give it to them. They deserve to die, and they will. Let me go in and secure him. I can have him in ropes and on his knees before you so much as set your foot in the door.”
Ophir swallowed at the seriousness in his voice. He wasn’t telling her to be forgiving, or to be ladylike, or to let it go. He wasn’t telling her to let him handle it. He was offering to neutralize the immediate threat so her avenging spirit might be swift and easy.
“No.” Ophir shook her head. “I want to do this. I want to do it all.”
“She can handle herself,” Dwyn said, shooting him a glare. He returned the narrowed eyes.
“Sedit will come in with me. And if things go south…”
“We’ll be right behind you.” Dwyn nodded in agreement. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to use the plural of the word, but as much as she hated Tyr, some part of Ophir suspected that Dwyn knew it was better to present a united front.
“Guryon?” Ophir asked, looking at Tyr.
