Page 10 of A Frozen Pyre
“Make a replacement,” Dwyn said. “You’re a manifester, after all. A goddess shouldn’t have to do something that displeases her.”
Ophir looked at her five fingers, heart sagging. She dropped her hand. “If I tried to make a fae who looked like me, I’m certain the beast would come out with four heads and twenty eyes and tentacles for arms.”
“Then we put a toffee-blond wig on it and make it wear a crown,” Dwyn said with a smile.
Ophir wasn’t ready to joke. “I’ve never made anything good.”
“Nonsense,” Dwyn said. “Everything you’ve made has been spectacular. You’re a being of sheer power, and your creations reflect that. Maybe the world doesn’t understand them yet, but they will. You’re making history, Firi. Now, should we manifest a doppelgänger?”
Her silence was answer enough.
To her credit, Dwyn dropped the issue. “Come on, then; let’s get you ready for your husband,His Royal Highness,” she said, no hint of reverence to her words.
A chilly sort of heaviness weighed down Ophir’s shoulders at this.
Dwyn motioned as if she were a dog shaking rainwater from her fur coat. She discarded the sleep, the unpleasantness, the angst from her skin as she looked Ophir with new, alert eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t fair. You’re going to be the queen of Raascot. Of course, I don’t want you to be forced into a marriage. But if you’re here and this is the path you want, I’m here to support you. Let’s get you in the bath.”
Dwyn hopped up from the bed and headed toward the bathing room as Ophir asked, “Are you being supportive, or do you just want to get me in the water?”
“Are the two mutually exclusive?”
She would have been clean, dressed, and ready to meet the king within thirty minutes, had it not been for the twenty-minute distraction that occurred in the bath’s warm waters. That being said, it put a smile on both of their faces, relieved immeasurable tension, and sent her off to breakfast as if she were tipsy from a strong glass of whiskey.
“He’s not going to be happy you’re late,” said one servant quietly as Ophir slipped out the door. She shot a parting glance at Dwyn’s smug, still-naked form as the siren leaned against a bedpost. Dwyn flicked two fingers in a salute as the princess disappeared around the corner.
“I’m sure His Majesty is magnanimous enough to understand that life can’t always happen on a schedule,” Dwyn said.
That, and that many of us are more amenable after we’ve climaxed, she thought.
A distant pocket of her brain understood that she was skating on very thin ice. One did not disrespect a king. Then again, a princess did not run off from her kingdom and shirk her royal responsibilities. Furthermore, no decent fae conjured demons, murdered people, and took multiple lovers in the same night without either knowing of the other’s pleasure. Perhaps she would not make history for being the most virtuous monarch, but at the very least, she would bethe most satisfied.
Her room had been tucked deeply into the Castle of Gwydir. Within a few moments, a door opened as a servant ushered her into the dining hall. Ophir had hoped that others would join them but was dismayed to find Ceneth at the table, alone. Every chair had been carved to accommodate large black, angelic wings. Ceneth’s were folded behind him in the kingliest way as he tilted his head in greeting. He wore a tailored navy-blue dress coat that seemed to have captured the very stones of the kingdom around him. Given that she had generally only seen him at the gates of Farehold before immediately disappearing to the wall to drink her weight in wine, she’d expected him to wear a crown of some sort, as he always had upon his arrival in Aubade. Perhaps such showmanship was only for when he made diplomatic appearances or sat on his throne. She idly wondered how often he’d worn it around Caris and then swiftly decided she didn’t want to know.
Ophir swallowed as she approached the table, unsure of where to sit.
He offered her a grim smile and patted the seat nearest to him.
“Please,” he said, “let’s talk.”
She didn’t want to, but that wasn’t his fault. She didn’t want to do anything. She’d never wanted to do anything. The sliver of soul that recognized her selfishness forced empathy to the forefront as she sat gingerly in the seat beside the king. Ophir frowned at the unfamiliar food, but her grumbling stomach urged her to take her chances. She scooped a number of aromatic fruits, meats, and pastries onto her plate. Ceneth ate quietly beside her until she’d had time to digest her food. Once she slowed to sip her tea, he was ready to break their silence.
“Ophir, I think we should respect one another enough to be honest.”
Ophir’s fingers went motionless against her teacup. She shifted under the intensity of his stare but resisted meeting ituntil it became clear that he would not continue without her acknowledgment. She fought the grimace as her eyes slowly rose to his. Their gazes touched, then softened as they truly saw one another. She’d known he wasn’t her enemy—not truly. She hadn’t hated him. She hadn’t even been angry with him. To her knowledge, Ceneth had never done anything wrong. His crimes were that he’d loved her sister and desired a better future for the continent. Her reluctance to be in his presence stemmed from somewhere much deeper.
“May I go first?” she asked, surprising even herself.
His eyebrows lifted. Clearly, he’d expected to do most of the talking.
“I’m not Caris,” she said, stating the obvious. “But I also don’t think you expect me to be. I blame myself for her murder, and it would be right for you to blame me, too. I accept that. I miss my sister more than words can say. And I’ll…” She stopped herself from telling him that she’d always blame herself for Caris’s death. She bit her tongue before saying she’d spend every waking moment avenging her sister. Now, anytime she tried to think of her mission of vengeance, her thoughts ran off a cliff and tumbled into a black abyss, ending with a throbbing headache and the image of Berinth’s face.
It was hard to think about her purpose, if she was born for one at all. Caris had known her life’s calling. The eldest princess was born to bring the kingdoms together. Ophir, however, was caught in the terrible, tar-like nothing of uncertainty. If she pulled herself out of the goopy pit and forced the world to see Caris’s vision, perhaps she could mend things and bring the land together. If rage found her again, and she prayed it did, she might claw her way ashore and leave the pit behind only to tear the world apart.
Maybe she would sink into the blackness and do nothing at all.
In lieu of a migraine, she said, “I’ll do what I can, as your political bride. For her.”
His face softened, and for the briefest moment, she saw the true well of his heartache.
