Page 74 of A Chill in the Flame
“Call a medium.”
“Your Highness?”
He continued to rub at his temples. “I don’t have one in the courts, and I’d like to appoint one to reside within the castle. Please inform whoever you find that I hope for them to take up residence in our guest wing. I need to speak with Caris.”
The man shook his head. “I have to disagree. There are some powers—”
“Some powers that what?” His voice was thick with challenge. “Some powers that are evil? Some powers that should be forced out of the south and sequestered to the north, where all evil things reside? Some powers that are only for the wicked, dark fae of Raascot?” He looked disgusted with the man. “Find a medium and put them in my employ. Give them whatever rooms in the castle they’d like. Pay them whatever they ask.”
“And of one who can scry, Your Majesty?”
“Eero can wait. If Farehold’s princess is missing now, either she’ll still be missing by the time we respond to his raven, or they’ll have found her and the problem will have resolved itself. Or maybe she’ll be eaten by wolves, and then once again, the problem will resolve itself.”
The man frowned disapprovingly.
He clucked his tongue. “Come, now. I wouldn’t hurt Ophir. Do I blame her? Yes. Do I think she should have died instead of Caris? Yes. Every day of the year my answer to that will be yes. For as long as I live, my answer is yes.Am I angry with her? I think you know that response as well. But would I harm her?” He paused as if considering the question. “…No. It would upset Caris.”
“Caris is dead, Your Highness.”
Ceneth’s eyes flashed, burning with a dark, angry fire. The man flinched, understanding precisely what he’d done wrong. “And why are you wasting time telling me what I already know when you should be finding me a medium? Don’t come back until you have one.”
He didn’t want to sit alone in the war room with the smell of oil and fire.
When the advisor left, he took a rare stroll around the castle.Strollmay not have been the right word. Perhapssulkwould better suit his disposition. He wandered the grounds, looking at everything through the lens of what would never be. He and his golden, elfin bride had been meant to rule for one thousand years, madly in love. The castle grounds would have been filled with blossoming bushes. The yard may have had happy children, half him, half their beautiful mother, playing with well-loved puppies and bringing smiles to all of Gwydir. Instead, he’d be wed to her murderer.
But Ophir wasn’t the only one to blame.
No, the list of those who needed to pay was long and written in blood.
***
Even among the Raascot fae, there were a few gifts considered more terrible than others.
The wisdom of the kingdom was that an ability was no more good nor evil than the one wielding it. Surely that was true of all gifts, including mediums. Surely families were healed when they could learn their loved ones had forgiven them. A mother could hear that their child was safe and whole. A soldier might learn that the friend who’d fallen on the battlefield had passed on to drink pints in the great halls of the afterlife. Surely, there was good that could come from it.
Ceneth wasn’t sure why he was sweating.
He’d told his people for centuries that powers were morally neutral, as had his father before him. How could he believe that if he feared the gifts of the one visiting him now?
The war-room door opened and a somewhat androgynous fae stepped into the windowless room. A silk, copper-colored scarf was wound tightly around the fae’s hair, concealing it entirely, nearly matching the bronze of their skin. The medium examined the war room, then shook their head.
“I’m sorry,” said Ceneth. “I was expecting a woman.”
The medium waved a hand. “Such titles are constrictive and useless. Call me neither, for I am none.”
Ceneth nodded quickly. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He was king. He shouldn’t be apologizing to anyone, but he was nervous. Yet, this individual might be the only person in his kingdom that might allow him to speak to Caris. He’d signed over whatever authority or respect he had the moment he’d recognized their power to connect him to the one he’d loved.
“This won’t do,” they said. “You’re in this room to avoid your emotions, Your Majesty, not to connect with them. Bring me to wherever you had the strongest connection to your loved one.”
He knew exactly where he felt most connected to his beloved—the bride who would never be.
Caris had been to Gwydir twice. The first time had been on an ambassador mission with the entire royal family. She’d been escorted by an entourage of guards. The King and Queen of Farehold had been ushered through the kingdom, waited on hand and foot. While the first night had come with its uncomfortable cordial interactions, by the second night, they’d had a chance interaction in the corridor.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” The fair princess shook her head, her blond hair cascading around her bare shoulders. “I was just looking for your gardens. You seem to have so much space between the castle and the river, but where are your flowers?”
He’d laughed, and then immediately stopped himself when he caught her expression. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. I suppose the last woman on the grounds was my mother, and she wasn’t particularly interested in aesthetics. The castle really could use a lady’s touch.” He’d watched her blue eyes as she listened intently, nodding as he spoke to let him know she was engaged with his every word. “What would you do with it?”
