Page 15 of A Frozen Pyre
Zita’s lips pursed at the doubt in his voice. “Please do not defy my judgment again. Summoning Suley is the only way to know. If she takes residence in the palace, Tempus won’t be able to return unnoticed.”
“We will tighten our guard, Your Majesty. We will increase patrols. We—”
“You can’t secure the skies, Hassain. I will not hold my breath around every little bird. Until we know for sure that he’s not present, I can’t trust anyone—not even you.”
Hassain looked decidedly sour, but it wasn’t his place to have opinions about such things. His life had been full of unpleasantries as of late. He had been among the many in the midst of what the people were already calling the Sunrise Slaughter, when the ag’drurath had descended. He’d witnessed Tempus’s shift from Zita’s form into that of a horse as the monarchs barely escaped with their lives. He’d buried his sword into the gray flesh of the winged demon that looked nearly like a man. It had grabbed his blade with its bare hand, tar-black blood oozing as it pulled the weapon from its chest. It had pulled its nearly human lips back from the needles posing as teeth and hissed its murderous intent.
She knew from his account of the incident that it had been the single most terrifying moment of his life.
He said, “Last reports suggested that Suley was in a fishing village off the southeastern coast called Valor Mast.”
Zita’s brows met in the middle as she thought of the fishermen clinging to life in the coastal villages. Seafood was abundant and the temperature was cooler, but jagged red rock ran for miles from the sea to the sand. She didn’t like picturing Suley there. It was impossible to build homes on the unforgiving stone—merely chisel and carve shelters into the cliffs themselves. Nothing grew. The only fresh water came from collecting rain. Tarkhany’s southeastern coasts were the most goddess-forsaken places in her kingdom. At least in the capital, her people had water, gardens, shelter, and resources. Zita had petitioned the smatterings of desert populations to relocate to the capital, even visiting the cliffside towns and the nomadic clusters herself, but they’d resisted.
They had their reasons for not wanting to be around others.
She supposed this was why Suley had left. The village would be quiet. She’d always craved quiet.
“I’ll send a few men to collect her,” Hassain said.
“And?” Zita asked. “Have we learned anything more about the demons? What did the oracle say?”
“Our oracle knows nothing of their origin.”
“Of course.” Zita pinched her chin thoughtfully. She looked over Hassain’s shoulder at the door, mind wandering out of this room where they so often had meetings of the minds. She let herself think of the star-studded sky, of the chilly breeze that rolled off the dunes at night, and of the burbling fountains. She focused on the good, the beautiful, the things she loved about her palace and her people. Her mind then wandered to the ruins in front of the palace. She saw the splintered platform, the tar stains of viscous blood that had proven unable to be cleaned, and the pyre of bodies that had been sent to be with the All Mother in the wake of the carnage. The oracle—Tarkhany’s prophetess—needn’t have been present for the Sunrise Slaughter to know it had been a tragedy the likes of which had not been seen in hundreds of years.
The oracle saw only the future.
“Her reports were…bleak.”
Zita arched an expectant brow.
“These were the first roaches of an infestation,” he said. “The prophetess sees demons filling the content, spilling out from a single, moving source. It’s rare for her to see something with such clarity.”
She considered this. “Inevitability,” she said quietly. “An event as rare as it is bleak. So, there’s no stopping the demons. And what of the summit with the neighboring kingdoms? Does she offer predictions on its outcome?”
“The oracle’s visions were muddy regarding the meeting. You get everything you want yet leave with nothing. It will be flawless, and it will be chaos. You know when you speak of time…”
“Yes, yes.” Zita knew groans were undignified, but oracles were exhausting. This was precisely why the prophetessremained mostly undisturbed. Speaking of the future was like unraveling knotted yarn. “What of the guests from Farehold? Have they recovered?”
“The men called Harland and Samael? Yes. Both are healthy. Only one ingested the toxin, and he’s made a complete recovery. Shall I ready their provisions for their return crossing?”
She got to her feet. “No. I’d like to speak with them. I’m hoping they’ll accompany me to Gwydir. I can leave them with their king at the meeting. It would be advantageous to have members of Farehold on our side before the summit. Perhaps they hold sway over Eero and his judgment.”
“As you wish,” he said.
“If our meeting is concluded, will you fetch the men from Farehold? Harland and…Samael, you said? That name doesn’t sound local to their kingdom.”
“I believe he’s foreign, Your Majesty.”
She considered the name. “A citizen of Raascot?”
“I assume so. His birthplace remains unconfirmed.”
“Could he be swayed to our cause, if he’s beholden to no kingdom?” Zita asked.
Hassain chewed on the question. “I don’t get that sense from him. The man acts as if he’s helpful to the kingdom because he’s above the constraints of his homeland—not because he’s looking for favor in subterfuge. He may be an asset to us simply because he can be persuaded by truth.”
He bowed at the waist before departing. Zita exhaled slowly and sank into the chair, feeling the weight of the world collapse around her. She’d navigated her people through an exodus from their land. She’d kept Tarkhany alive. She’d rebuilt her empire. She’d done everything she was meant to, and yet the first time someone from Farehold had stepped foot on their soil in centuries, their people suffered.
