Page 97 of A Chill in the Flame
Zita had been there for them all.
She’d worn the beautiful white gown when she’d married her husband—human, though he was. She’d loved him with the brightness and intensity of the sun, giving him her moments, her heartbeats, her milestones and monuments. She’d given him sons, raising their faelings with crowns on their heads and pride in their hearts, leading her kingdom byexample. She’d hosted events at the seaside summer palace—a beautiful home where her father and father’s father and family for generations before had lived in the hottest months to escape the heat of the desert. She’d graciously extended the invitation for their friends and allies from the colder climates to make themselves comfortable and employ her servants, sleep in her bed, and look upon the ocean at sunset in the winter when she was away. She’d arrived to meet her friends and allies only to be met with an army of thousands and the announcement that no, they would not be leaving the summer palace, and that she and her royal caravan should turn around and go back to the desert. The middle kingdom, the Farehold fae, had staked their claimed in the land she and her kin had owned for thousands upon thousands of years.
Shielding was her secondary ability, and attempts to protect her loved ones from the sun nearly cost her life. She’d been on the trek, clutching her heart against the pain of betrayal, weeks and miles and sunsets away from the nearest healer, when her husband succumbed to heatstroke. They’d only had supplies for one direction of the journey, but were forced to march back empty-handed, their lands taken, their seat of power on the coast stripped.
She’d been there as word of fae forced north into Raascot filtered into her ears.
She’d been there as her demi-fae children, not blessed with immortality, had grown old and succumbed to death while the virus called Farehold spread. She’d been in her throne room when their king announced the birth of a son called Eero, and in her dining room when word came of his marriage to Darya.
And she’d been there when the king of Farehold’s only remaining daughter stumbled unaccompanied into Tarkhany, asking her for help.
Forty-four
6:00 PM
12 hours and 45 minutes until execution
Tyr opened his eyes. He held his breath as he dared a glimpse of the woman who shared his bed. He’d been prepared to wait until the earliest hours of morning but was immensely relieved that the sun’s baking rays had joined the ocean of travel fatigue to pull Dwyn into a deep and corpse-like sleep long before the supper bell’s toll.
Dwyn’s deep slumber resembled the comfortable peace of someone who rested with a clear conscience. She’d remained above the covers, the soft cloud of her dark hair the only modicum of covering on her still-naked shape. The barest hints of crescent moonlight filtered in from the window, casting their room in deep shades of muted grays and midnight blues. While he knew it would take a lot to wake her, he still moved with painstaking slowness as he slid out of bed and tugged his shirt over his head. Grabbing his boots, he tiptoed to the door before slipping them on. The second before opening the door, he stepped into the place between things, unseen by all the world.
Dwyn would be angry when she awoke, but he didn’t imagine she’d be surprised. He didn’t love leaving Knight behind, but the horse was in a shaded shelter with plenty of food and water. It was a vast improvement over the endless stretches of sand dunes that the beast had endured. Two horses and a beautiful, sleeping monster in a woman’s body stayed behind as he set off toward the palace.
Ophir was in the royal palace, and that was all he needed to know. Dwyn had been privy to the same information he had, but she’d chosen to go to sleep. She’d always had more patience than him. Maybe she planned to let Ophir work out her rage through a sunrise execution before trying to ingratiate herself once more. Her path forward was of little concern. Maybe if he did his job well, Dwyn wouldn’t need a path forward at all.
He’d win.
If there was one thing he was good at, it was slipping into places he wasn’t meant to be.
Given that they’d taken over a home as close to the palace walls as possible, all he needed to do was walk past the guards and through the front gates to enter the palace grounds. The centurions were none the wiser, and within a matter of moments, he was in the orange-scented mist of the incense-laden palace. He’d never been anywhere with ceilings so high. While he knew he needed to focus, it was hard not to gape at the pillars, the overflowing potted vines and moon blossoms, the statues and gauzy curtains that separated parts of the enormous room to offer privacy without restricting the airflow in such a hot climate. It was a work of art. He wished he had more time to appreciate it, but he was on a mission.
This next part would be challenging. Entering the palace was easy, but finding the princess was a bit like looking for a blueberry in a barrel of poison berries. Everything looked the same and choosing wrong meant trouble. He couldn’t simply open doors and poke his head in without alertingevery resident to the presence of a ghost. He scanned for clues, for something, for anything that might indicate where in the palace the bedrooms might be. The palace grounds were enormous, and he could just as easily find his way to a ballroom, any number of kitchens, the servants’ wing, or a royal menagerie before he stumbled across the princess.
He took a few more cautious steps toward the centermost area, where the pillars gave way to a large, circular garden. Fountains, lush, tropical vegetation, and an exotic bird wandered about the courtyard. His eyes snagged on an odd dip near the fountain. It appeared to be a pool of shadow, but something about it didn’t look quite right. The fae lights twinkling about the garden should have cast a dim, even lighting—there shouldn’t be consistent shadows gathered to one side. Tyr approached the shadow near the fountain, realizing with each passing step that he wasn’t seeing a shadow at all. The courtyard gave way to a sinking set of stairs.
The fountain’s burble had covered the voices initially, but as he drew closer, he could distinctly make out the sounds of conversation. Tyr wasn’t sure what he expected to find as he slipped quietly down the staircase. Perhaps a treasure trove, or a collection of art, or maybe this was where the royal tiger slept whenever it didn’t have a prisoner to devour. Instead, he stepped into what was unmistakably the dungeon, seeing none other than Ophir, her personal guard, a strange fae male, and the unmistakable face of Lord Berinth.
The gaunt, bedraggled lord was not alone.
***
7:15 PM
11 hours and 30 minutes until execution
It was hard not to smile. Tyr supposed it didn’t matter, as Ophir and her compatriots couldn’t see him, but it didn’t feel entirely wholesome to grin at the chaos unfolding in theprincess’s allotted chambers. Harland, ever the white knight of the moral high ground, stood firmly in the camp of belief that the one they’d believed to be Berinth was innocent and should be spared. Ophir, true to her temper, didn’t give a fuck whether or not he’d been in his right mind—it had been this man’s hands stained with Caris’s blood, and he deserved to die. Perhaps it was the third fae making him smile. The man leaned against the wall with one shoulder, inspecting his clothes for signs of dust as if the conversation were of little interest to him. It was relatively comical when contrasted against the princess’s furious pacing and Harland’s expressive gestures.
“Isn’t your gift god-tier judgment? What do you have to say about this?” Ophir spun on the new fae.
The newcomer sighed, still dusting his clothes as if they were infinitely more interesting than the princess’s mood. Tyr studied the man for any familiar traits, but he did not look like a citizen of Farehold. Still, he spoke to Princess Ophir as if he were a natural born subject as he said, “More often than not, good judgment is realizing you don’t have enough information to make a decision.”
“And?” she pressed, angry. “What would you have me do?”
He looked at her with a taciturn expression. “If Berinth is killed at dawn, will Caris have been avenged?”
“Of course not!” she fumed. “If he’s a puppet, that means I have more questions than answers. Where are the puppeteers? Who do I have to blame?”
“Then,” Harland attempted to clarify, “you won’t execute him tomorrow?”
