Page 98 of A Chill in the Flame
Ophir made a show of her offense. “What would make you say that? Of course, I’m going to kill him.”
“Why?” Harland’s eyes were so wild with a cocktail of disappointment, anger, and surprise that the whites of his eyes could be seen all around his irises.
She shrugged. “Catharsis.”
It was truly an effort for Tyr not to laugh. Ophir made staying hidden rather hard. He steeled himself as he listened.
“Help me out here, Samael.” Harland turned to the third man, exasperated. So, the stranger had a name after all.
The man called Samael offered a dispassionate cross of his arms, leaning against the nearby wall. “I don’t think the princess is looking for input.”
“I already like him better than you.”
Harland glared, looking between them. “But if shewere?”
Samael appeared to consider this. “Who else have you met in the palace? What else has transpired since you’ve been in Tarkhany?”
Not many, she admitted. She’d been met by guards when she’d entered the city. She’d been escorted to the dungeon when she’d first confirmed Berinth’s identity for Tarkhany’s royal authorities. She’d interacted with the servants as they’d brought her meals and helped her bathe and dress. Other than that, she’d only had a few peculiar exchanges with Zita.
The barest curiosities sparkled in Samael’s expression. “Peculiar how?”
She amended that she didn’t know whether or not the exchanges were typical for Tarkhany culture, seeming rather embarrassed as she recalled the scolding she’d received on her ignorance of the other kingdoms.
“And the prince?”
Ophir’s eyebrows bunched in a confused frown. Her eyes unfocused into the middle distance, scanning as if she were reading lines from a tome as she scanned her memories. She’d told Tyr once of an ambassador mission between their kingdoms and her playtime with a boy who’d called himself the Prince of the Desert. She used to tell him everything. That seemed like another life, now.
“No, I haven’t met a prince. The queen hasn’t mentioned one, either. The guards did mention something when I arrived about who they were bringing me to see, but they decided that Zita should be the one to receive me. I don’tknow anyone else from the royal family, or if there is one at all.” Her sentence drifted away at the end, not unlike the wind taking the sand from the tops of the dunes and scattering it to the night sky.
The men didn’t need to press her further to ask if she found it unusual, because of course the answer was yes. It was hard to blame her. She’d been focused on the capture and pending execution of the man who murdered her sister. It was understandable that little else had been on her mind.
“Are you swinging the axe?” Harland asked. “Even if he wasn’t in his right mind when he committed the crime?”
Unruffled, she said, “Whether he’s mad or sane makes no difference to me. The man is stained with my sister’s blood. And, I assume you mean the metaphorical axe? Because yes, I will be the one who kills him. Tarkhany’s executioner needs no more blood on his hands. This is my fight.” She would burn him in front of all who’d gathered. It was her death to avenge.
From the placement of the mirror on the wall, Tyr could see the guard’s very transparent emotions, even though his back was to Tyr. Harland tilted his chin forward ever so slightly, meeting her gaze and hoping she heard him when he said no, it wasn’t her fight. If Berinth was little more than a puppet, he was not responsible for Caris’s death.
Ophir’s eyes bore two rebounding words:fuck you.
Tyr debated stepping into the light, mostly because he was concerned that if he waited too much longer, he’d chuckle in sheer delight of their absurdities and give himself away. Fortunately, it was decided that the men would return to their assigned rooms and Ophir would go speak with Zita. Samael had a gift for language and promised to do whatever reconnaissance he was able, and Harland more or less said he’d be brooding until dawn, should she need him.
Tyr knew she wouldn’t be pleased to see him, but the time had come.
The moment the men closed the door, he took three quick steps and put himself behind her to cover her mouth.He didn’t need her to call out in surprise when he appeared. He stepped out from the place between things in the same moment his hand clamped down on her mouth.
As anticipated, a startled cry bubbled from her throat.
Muffled by his hand, the sound was absorbed, and he turned her to look into the mirror. “It’s me,” he said, voice low. He saw her eyes meet his in the mirror and watched her shift from fear to fury. “I’m going to let go now. Don’t scream.”
The moment he removed his hand she spun on him. “Every time you—”
He put a hand to her mouth once more, then brought a single finger to his own lips, shushing her. He gestured to the door, arching a conspiratorial brow. Ophir’s face flushed with a familiar shade of pink at his nearness, which he appreciated. He kept his voice barely above a whisper. “A bird told me you might be in need of a spy.”
She shook her head in disbelief, toffee-colored curls moving about her shoulders as they spilled down her back. Her eyes were an even brighter gold than normal when she was angry, almost as if they were iron-scorched and heated in the fire until they were a blinding shade of yellow. “How is it that I can never get rid of you?”
He smiled. “To your credit, you do try. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you. Crossing the desert was astoundingly unpleasant, and I plan to hold it against you forever.”
She peeked over his shoulder. “Is Dwyn with you?”
