Page 21 of A Frozen Pyre
The moment Dwyn saw her, she was on her feet.
Decorum be damned, Dwyn crossed the banquet hall and walked directly for the princess. Half of the heads in the banquet hall turned to watch her as she breezed past them, but they may as well have been invisible to her. She rounded the long table to stand in the empty spot that Tyr had vacated only moments prior.
“Are you okay?” Dwyn asked.
“No,” Ophir answered, still unable to breathe.
Dwyn slipped her hand over Ophir’s only to realize she was still tightly clenching the knife. Ophir released the utensil, and it clattered to the table with a dull thud. “Let me grab a chair,” Dwyn said, excusing herself. She made idle chatter with a nearby attendant until a chair was fetched and squeezed into the place beside Ophir. It banged rather noisily against the floor and table as it slid into a spot that it most certainly did not fit.
It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t elegant. But Ophir needed her.Court politics wouldn’t get in the way of her readiness for emotional support.
Ophir caught Ceneth’s creased forehead as he glanced up at the commotion. His look wasn’t one of disapproval but of some resigned, sorrowful acceptance that his life was destined to be filled with deeply unfortunate absurdities. She broke eye contact first, hoping Raascot’s king would resume whatever conversation he was having with the advisor Tyr had called Evander. She peeked through her curtain of hair to see Ceneth clasp the man on his shoulder as he continued to walk around the banquet hall and address others.
“Firi, talk to me,” Dwyn said quietly. “You looked like you were having a panic attack.”
“I am.” Ophir struggled through the two simple words, tears threatening to spill over. “I can’t breathe. I can’t—”
Dwyn reached under the table and pinched her thigh with excruciating force. Stars exploded in Ophir’s vision from what would surely be a magenta bruise in the morning.
“Fuck!” Ophir realized too late she was cursing aloud. Several heads turned as she made a half-assed attempt to twist it into a smile, forcing a laugh as if she’d just been told an obscene joke. As soon as the curious partygoers looked away, she narrowed her eyes, hissing, “What is wrong with you?”
“Are you angry?”
She bared her teeth. “Yes! Of course I’m angry!”
“But can you breathe?”
“I…” Ophir’s tirade stopped short. She checked in with her body. The red tingle of anger had replaced the shallow, squishing anxiety that had consumed her only moments before. Its ruby glimmer ebbed as she examined her thoughts, her feelings, wiggling her fingers, testing her toes. She took a careful breath in, then released it. Ophir looked at Dwyn to protest, but her lips only moved noiselessly.
“You’re welcome,” Dwyn said, squeezing her hand.
Ophir was vaguely aware that people would have noticed their pairing even if they’d operated with perfect, statelybehavior. Instead, Ophir had choked on air, yelped, and then promptly held hands with the strange Sulgrave friend. Ophir dared to glance at Ceneth, expecting a disappointed glare for sure this time. Instead, she had the odd sensation that he was both aware of her actions and pointedly ignoring them. It was worse, somehow.
“Thank you,” she said at last.
Ceneth nodded to the guests before beginning his return to the table. She didn’t release Dwyn until the moment she felt comforting, unseen fingertips slide down her back. The tension leached from her body as she leaned into the touch. Ceneth pulled out the seat beside her, then offered a hand. She took it, standing at his side.
The gentle tinkling of cutlery on stemware silenced the chattering in the dining room as conversations ebbed and faces turned in polite attention.
Tyr left his palm flatly against Ophir’s back while Ceneth addressed the audience.
“Thank you for joining us,” Ceneth began. His tone was bright and his words were warm, but the emptiness behind his eyes fooled no one who’d known pain. “Princess Ophir and I are so pleased to announce the joining of Farehold and Raascot. Your support of this union means the world to us.”
Ceneth tilted his chin slightly, and Ophir understood the gesture.
He was asking her if she wanted to speak, rather than giving a command. It was subtle enough that, should she decline, she could merely sit. It was one of the many things that made their marriage sadder, somehow. She would have preferred that he be cruel. She could have hated him if he were boorish, or offensive, or cowardly. He was none of those things. They just didn’t love each other.
She squeezed his hand gently, surprising them both as she spoke.
“Thank you for welcoming me to Gwydir,” Ophir said. Her voice was a bit too soft for someone of noble upbringing,but then again, she’d never been one for royal proclamations. She’d preferred to get drunk on watchtowers with Harland while avoiding the obligations of a monarch. But those days had come and gone.
“I’d like to acknowledge something,” she said.
Ceneth tensed beside her. The entire room sucked in a quiet, anxious breath.
“There’s no integrity in pretending this is the future we’d planned. There’d be no honor in expecting you to see me as the queen on Raascot’s throne.” She looked at Ceneth, and he looked back at her with gentle concern. She returned her gaze to the people. “I loved my sister very much, and that’s something Ceneth and I have in common. A love for Caris, a love for our countries, and a hope for unity between Farehold and Raascot. This is my toast. Not for warm wishes, or for marriage, but to a better, unified tomorrow.”
Tyr flexed his fingers supportively against her back.
