Page 95 of A Chill in the Flame
He understood her, but she couldn’t say the same of him. He hated that she was consistently surprised when he showed patience—always impressed when he was practical, supportive, and restrained. It was an uncommon reaction within thecastle walls.
Her pause told him that no, she had not.
He tried again. Rather than asking her in a way that might seem condescending, he chose his words to emphasize the belief that she’d already done the correct, intelligent thing. “When you affirmatively identified him, did he say anything?”
She perked at this, recognizing his tactic. He knew it was why he’d outlasted the others, just as he knew it was why she hadn’t chased him away.
“Yes,” she said, relaxing slightly. She put her hands behind her, propping her weight up in a more comfortable position. “He was feral when we spoke, but I expected as much. How would anyone act when they’d been caught on the run? How does any dishonorable man behave when they’re about to meet justice? He was incoherent. Nothing he said made sense.”
Harland allowed her a moment to process, knowing she’d get there in the next thirty seconds without him saying anything. He watched her face as her lips moved together. It almost looked as if she were rolling something over her tongue, testing an idea, tasting a thought.
“We should go speak to him before the execution,” she said.
Yes, this was why they worked together. He didn’t tell her what to do, and he didn’t underestimate her intelligence. He knew that she was perfectly capable and that sometimes the best thing he could do was play a facilitating role. “Do you have access to him? I’m ready now if you are. Though I do think Samael should come. He doesn’t need to know anything about your manifestation. He’s special in a way none of us have seen. It’s hard to place. He has…intuition. He’ll be an asset.”
“Intuition? What kind of gift is that?”
Harland’s cheeks puffed as he pushed out a slow breath. “He just knows what needs to be done. It’s an inborn judgement.He trusts when he knows what needs to be done. Of course, he has incredible skill in battle, or he wouldn’t have made it in the king’s guard. But when it comes to his intuition… Farehold would be without its king if it weren’t for Samael. Your father trusts him with his life.”
He wasn’t sure what Ophir knew of Samael, though, to be fair, her limited understanding perhaps matched his own knowledge of his colleague. He’d gained something of a mythical reputation for having saved King Eero’s life only a decade prior. Farehold’s king never spoke of it, save to sing the fae’s praises. Samael had bypassed thousands of years of convention with his instant promotion to spymaster. Despite his devotion to proving himself steadfast and trustworthy, the bizarre nature of his arrival and instantaneous rise to his station gave even the most open-hearted among them pause.
Still, Samael had yet to let anyone in Farehold down.
Neither Harland nor Ophir could say the same.
“Fine, fine,” she said, as if she didn’t have the energy to argue. “But I don’t want the attention I’ll draw in broad daylight.”
“You? Draw attention?” He regretted it the moment her lips flattened into a straight line. He took on the stance of a proper member of the royal guard, straightening his shoulders and dipping his chin as he said, “Come nightfall, we find the dungeons.”
***
7:00 PM
11 hours and 45 minutes until execution
Ophir had only been to the dungeons once, but Tarkhany’s layout was unforgettable. As with many dungeons, theirs was underground. It only required stepping into the palace gardens encased by the inner pillars of the palace walls. She led the way, baby-blue gown floating behind her as if she were madeof little more than clear, daylight air. The evening hour had already allowed for a stark drop in temperature, which hadn’t ceased to amaze her. No matter how blistering the noon hour was, the nights were incomprehensibly chilly. At present, it was the crimson hour before dusk. Still warm, but no longer unbearably hot. Ophir breezed beyond the final pillar and stepped into the courtyard, walking nearly to the middle. The rectangular fountain had a curious illusion effect, where it appeared to have a permanent shadow on one side.
She led them to a sinking set of stairs beneath the fountain. It unfurled into a large, circular room the size of the courtyard above them. It would have been dark, had it not been for the dim, crimson fae lights dotted above every cell.
Their jail was intermittently populated—perhaps emptier than the dungeons of Aubade, though she’d never had cause to go down there herself. Her brief appearance in Tarkhany’s dungeons the night prior had only served to confirm the identity of the criminal while he screamed rabid, frothing lies of his innocence. She hadn’t turned her head that night as he’d wailed after them, allowing herself to walk back to her room, heart warmed with vengeance.
Vengeance.
Dwyn would have wanted to be there.
Ophir shook her head of thoughts of the Sulgrave girl, focusing on the present moment. Dwyn. Fucking Dwyn. She wasn’t sure who she hated more—Dwyn, or herself for wanting to trust someone so badly. She looked over her shoulder at Harland and Samael, who didn’t rush her but seemed to wait for her to signal their forward movements. She’d trusted Harland once—before he’d escorted her away to be married off to Ceneth.
She held Harland’s eyes for one breath, then two. He dipped his chin slightly, encouraging her forward. The desert was arid, which prevented a musty scent from developing, but a stale, unwashed smell of bodies and sweat filled their noses instead. It made her miss the smell of sulfur and spoiledmeat. She could trust her creatures. Sedit would never betray her. Nothing she made would harm her. She wanted her hound. Instead, she had a guard, a spymaster, and a captive to confront.
Ophir stepped up to his jail cell and watched as Berinth’s eyes lifted slowly. Her stomach turned in disgust. She wanted to kill him now. She wanted to summon a demon within his cell, or to cook him on an open flame between the stones of his prison. The public execution would send a better message. She needed the world to know that they could not touch Caris without consequence. Ophir was the consequence.
The moment their eyes locked, he scrambled for her. His hands, smudged and filthy, wrapped around the bars.
“Please!” he began, words tumbling over each other like water over stones. “Please, you were there that night! You know me!”
She almost vomited in her mouth. “Yes, I was there, you sick fuck. I was there when you led her away. I was there when you—”
He shook his head. “Led who away?”
