Page 96 of A Chill in the Flame
She scowled. “Don’t youdareplay this game with me. Give me a reason to end you now, Berinth.”
“My name isn’t Berinth!” His pathetic attempts at deceit were a disgusting plea. He gripped the bars like a rat trying to dig its way out of a cage. A hand shot through the space between the bars, clawing at them as if they might reach out to comfort him. “You have to help me! I’m an innocent man. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t even know where I am!”
Ophir opened her mouth to scream at him but felt a shoulder on her hand.
It was meant to be a calming gesture, but she turned the flame of her fury on Samael instead. If Harland hadn’t been there to absorb her blow, to intercept the moment he recognized her wrath, Samael may have left the dungeon with third degree burns. Harland was no stranger to being scorched by her fire. Her fire quelled within her palm as she glared up atHarland, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes hard.
“Don’t touch me!” She tried to shake free, but he kept a heavy hand on her shoulders.
Instead of addressing her, he looked to Samael.
The fae said nothing; he merely shook his head. It was one swift motion to the side, an abrupt cut of denial, that said everything he needed to say.No.
“What!” Ophir demanded. “What’s ‘no’!? No, don’t kill him, it’s immoral to murder? Is that it? Because guess what?!” She didn’t care if her yelling was unseemly. She saw the whites of the eyes as the other prisoners pressed themselves to the bars to watch. “I’m killing him in the morning. That’s right, Harland. Come tomorrow morning, I’ll be the one who kills him.”
Harland remained silent, looking to Ophir, then back to Samael.
Her anger spiked higher, somehow. She hadn’t thought it was capable of growing.
Samael’s expression was unreadable, though somewhat amused. “What an interesting gift.”
She looked between them, relaxing enough so that Harland released his bruising grasp. “Flame?”
He pursed his lips. He was not speaking to her. Turning to the prisoner, he asked, “What’s your last memory? Before being dragged to the cell?”
Berinth continued his despicable, clawing motion against the bars. The iron slid beneath his palms, forcing him to adjust his grip time and time again. The smell of piss hit her once more. She could barely keep herself from gagging on the putrid scent, particularly mingled with her overall revulsion for the man. She scowled at the exchange as he spun idiotic lies about his family, his life, his village.
Samael turned back to Ophir. With no emotion, he said, “You knew his name was not Berinth, correct? You expected it was a pseudonym?”
She frowned. Yes, it had been suggested that he’d beenusing a false name. “Why do you ask?”
Samael arched a brow. He looked at Harland as if asking whether he should speak his mind, but Harland nodded.
“He did everything you accuse him of,” Samael confirmed. “I’m certain you’ve correctly identified the man who killed your sister. But this man is innocent.”
Perhaps she’d kill Samael instead. “Listen. I don’t care if you saved my father,” she growled, taking a step closer to him, “I’ll—”
Harland quelled her temper, putting his hands on her shoulders once more.
“Samael.” Harland’s eyes flared with urgency. “Can you explain?”
Farehold’s spymaster shook his head. He could not.
Harland’s frown deepened, but now Ophir’s expression was mirroring his.
“What are you saying?” she asked. “SomeonemadeBerinth kill my sister?”
Samael appeared unbothered, as if this were any unimportant weekday afternoon. “I’m saying, he is not responsible for what happened. He doesn’t remember it. He has no recognition of you before your encounter in these dungeons. I know that to be true. And if this man was at the estate the night of Caris’s murder, he wouldn’t be able to effectively conceal his recognition. He couldn’t fake knowing you.”
“He was…what? What could you be implying?” Ophir prompted.
“He was threatened? Forced? Coerced?” Harland offered.
“He was hypnotized.”
Forty-three
Important milestones were often marked with fanfare—cakeson birthdays, gowns and blushing maidens and parties for weddings, banquets for coronations, hand-whittled bassinets for newborn babes, solemn blood oaths under the dying, crimson light of sunset. Then there were the things that happened in the quiet of the night, the events behind closed doors, the moments between whispers. Some changes took place in seconds, whether the heartbeats before and after someone called themselves a maiden, or the single inhalation as a dagger slipped between ribs. Others started so slowly, so softly, that day by day everything seemed the same, and then one day you looked around and systemic injustices had grown around you like thorny vines sealing in a garden. One false promise, one implication, one right at a time, things became stripped away until nothing remained.
