Page 1 of A Frozen Pyre
Prologue
Midnah, Tarkhany
“It can’t be opened. We’ve tried everything.” The advisor wrung his hands uncertainly as he eyed the monarchs.
“Destroy it,” Tempus urged, voice ripe with irritation.
The queen sighed, gliding from where she’d rested to pour herself a glass of wine. The sharp scent of citrus filled the room as she moved, accompanying the gossamer, weightless fabric that floated behind her. Zita shook her head, bored with the men and their outbursts. “What advice is that? We destroy what we don’t understand? We don’t know where it leads. We don’t know what it offers. You’d have us eliminate all possibilities?”
“Spare us your righteous monologues,” Tempus said.
She took a slow sip of her wine, expression cool as she savored every drop. She lowered the glass and relaxed her weight against the table. She addressed the advisor when she spoke, though her eyes did not leave Tempus. “Give us a moment, will you?”
The advisor nodded nervously as he exited the room.
The palace had been spared from the calamity that had claimed scores of lives. The winged demons hadn’t just claimed those caught in the collateral damage as the enormous beastshad touched down, nor the ones lost to the stomach of the dragon. The true death toll had come when the royal guard had dispatched to fight the creatures. Tar-like blood had filled the courtyard, intermingling with the sulfuric stench that rolled off their amphibious skin. Strike after strike, blow after blow, fallen man after fallen man, the body count had grown into the dozens before a valiant warrior had hacked the final, decapitating blow through the elongated, serpent-like neck of the monster. The victory had been enthusiastic, raucous, and short-lived. A hush had pressed on the guards as the fallen creature had begun to twitch, its body rolling toward the severed head. Smoke-like tendrils had emerged, knitting the parts together before the men had realized the unspeakable, nightmarish truth: the creature could not be killed.
The retreat had been challenging and tinged with the sort of shame that clouded the soul from failing at an unwinnable game. Tarkhany was under siege from atrocities that had spilled over from the darkest and most depraved of night terrors, and there was nothing they could do.
“Did you hear what they’re calling it?” Zita asked.
Tempus made a scoffing noise as he crossed to a chair. He sat and looked away.
“Ag’drurath.”
“Winged death,” he said. “I’m aware. The dragon of winged death and its winged reaper. The people make it sound like we’re at the end of times.” He looked at her then. “I suppose you want to blame me for this, too? Do you think I had something to do with it?”
She arched a brow. “You did.”
He clenched his fist, then resumed looking at the wall. “You could express gratitude for what I did on the morning of the execution. If you hadn’t thwarted—”
“I am Tarkhany’s queen, and you locked me in my chambers at sunrise like a common prisoner. You assumed my form, took my place, and set forth to murder Farehold’s princess. And I am to be grateful?”
His eyes flashed red. “You would have been safe from the dragon’s attack if you had remained in the palace. Farehold would have gotten what it deserves.”
“If you had killed their only remaining heir, you would have brought war to my doorstep after I’ve moved heaven and earth to escape the grasp of that blasted kingdom’s overreaching fingers. You are a blight, Tempus.”
His lips pulled back, baring his sharpened fangs. “I am not the one who brought demons to our home.”
Zita took another slow drink of her wine. She lowered the glass and ran a finger along the rim. “I’m not a fool. I know you can’t create or summon hell. You have no command of death. But you have attempted to take justice into your own hands against my wishes on more than one occasion. You attempted to poison our guests, including a monarch and friend to the continent to whom I’d extended clemency and intended to help with her retribution. And you would have seen her dead with a thousand witnesses.”
His twitch of anger betrayed him.
“I think you should know something,” she said.
He exhaled slowly before looking at his wife once more.
“Not only will I never love you”—Zita stared at him while he absorbed each word—“but I will never forgive you. You are no friend to Tarkhany. And I don’t care if you’re in the form of a man, a bird, or wearing my crown and dressed in my finest attire, impersonating me before my people: You are not welcome. I will give you until tomorrow to leave of your own volition, and then I will have the guards escort you.”
Tempus wore his emotions on his sleeve. He sounded crushed, then confused, betrayed, shocked, and furious—dominoes of emotion as he sputtered. He was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room quickly as he headed for her. “I’m king!” he shouted. “No! You, you can’t—”
Zita raised a hand and wiggled her fingers.
Tempus froze. The halted sound of his advance echoedoff the smooth marble walls as a stifling fear descended upon him. She held his eyes as his gaze flickered between her face and her fingertips. The anger leached from his face as a new emotion entirely replaced it. “You wouldn’t.”
They both knew she wasn’t talking about her shield. She possessed a great and terrible power that would bring all of Tarkhany to its knees in an instant.
Zita looked at her hand, then back to Tempus. “I would. But you know how reluctant I am to use it. Don’t force my hand, Tempus. Be gone by the morning.”
