Page 100 of A Frozen Pyre
One minute. Thirty seconds. Ten. Five.
Ceneth flashed the sign as the bride stepped up beside him. The bishop had barely opened his mouth to speak as Galena lunged for her king.
She locked onto him with viselike intensity as Zita raised her hand above her head and called upon her feared power—the one that had kept her palace prostrate before her whenever she quirked a brow or wriggled her fingers. No one dared defy their queen when she possessed the power to destroy.
No one else possessed this gift, she was certain.
Word of it would have reached her ears. She might have met her equal, fought for the crown, bequeathed the throne upon someone new, if it had.
But with great power came immense loneliness, and Zita was peerless.
The time had come to use her gift. It was a power so terrible it would bring the world to its knees should she choose to use it. Her wisdom and benevolence alone had kept her from unleashing it on the world as the centuries passed.
His gaze bore into Eero, waiting for him to meet her eyes as she spoke a single word.
“Frenzy.”
***
Harland opened his eyes to screaming.
He’d heard men on the battlefield. He’d heard women in childbirth. He’d fought in wars and rushed into flame to saveOphir from her night terrors.
He’d never heard the pandemonium that bounced off every stone in the chamber. The shrill screams and bloodthirsty cries clawed through his very core, ripping him limb from limb as they forced him to his feet. He stumbled to the wall and hoisted himself up against spinning, dizzying nausea as the sounds drove him forward. Harland blinked time and time again but couldn’t clear the fog from his brain as he fought to reach the small circular window that separated the bridal chamber from the coliseum beyond.
The sun had dipped below the lip of the stadium, casting the entire coliseum into shadow. He must have been unconscious for hours for the entire building to be saturated in shades of gloom. How long had he been asleep? Had he missed the ceremony? He fought through the bleary fog to separate nightmare from reality as the sounds continued.
Surely, a horrid part of his mind remained suspended in unconsciousness. Perhaps it was the broken part of his heart that didn’t want to see Ophir marry another. Perhaps it was the wicked piece of himself that wished he’d been the man at the far end of the aisle. And yet, as he blinked, his vision found its focus on moving shapes and bodies across the sand, but the sound did not dissipate.
He grabbed for his sword but stumbled as if he were missing a limb. He looked down and fought the urge to vomit when his body rejected the sudden motion. His equilibrium knew no peace as his hand searched the empty air for a weapon that wasn’t there. Wherever it was, it had been stolen from his hilt. He was defenseless as his hands flattened against the wall so he might look out the window.
Surely, he was dreaming.
Vomit choked him, catching in his throat as thick, miserable poison pumped through his veins. He was wide awake for this nightmare.
He flinched again against the noise as he begged his eyes to make sense of the shapes, of the dark, seeping liquid, ofthe sounds, of the tumbling from high places, of the piles of corpses, of the toppled decorations and scraps of instruments and shreds of fabric and rivers of blood.
Then he saw her. The woman he knew had not been Ophir.
Ceneth. Zita. Galena—the winged companion he’d learned was responsible for their uselessness at the summit. They stood on the sand while the world raged around them. Aubade was falling into chaos, and they were immobilized lighthouses in the storm.
A high, horrible sound cut through him like butter as a woman’s voice came from directly behind him. He swung on unsteady footing to see the Duchess of Yelagin, bodice torn, teeth bared, fingers flexed as if she bore claws. Eyes wide and angry, she threw herself at him with the fury of a rabid animal. He had no idea how royal dignitaries had made it from the coliseum into the passageways, but the woman appeared terribly ill.
“Du—” It was all he could say of her title as she attempted to tear out his throat. He knew enough of fighting to understand that she was no worried woman or skilled assassin. It was with the crazed, violent frothing of a dangerous animal that she tore for his jugular, gargling her spit and blood despite the wounds she already possessed.
Harland attempted to disarm her, to pin her, but the fight was over in an instant.
She’d made for a killing blow, and he’d answered in kind.
Harland continued to fight against the fog as he stumbled into the hall. Screams rushed through the corridor of the coliseum dungeon as if they were water filling the space.
This was precisely what he’d seen through the window, though he’d refused to believe it was true. He didn’t know how much time he had left to get out. Tens of thousands of people were feral, they were bloodthirsty, and soon, they’d be upon him.
Part V
Unmade
Thirty-Six
