Page 24 of A Frozen Pyre
Ceneth leaned back in his seat. “Say your piece, Medium.”
Tyr eyed the exchange from the space between things. It was true. The king of Raascot was summoning the dead.
“If you’ve never spoken to anyone about your dreams,” the medium continued, “you’d have no reason to suspectthem as anything but dreams. It’s not uncommon for dream walkers to spend their lives without realizing they’re predisposed to such a gift. It may be why you feel most connected with your beloved here near the bed. It would explain why you no longer dream of her.”
Ceneth looked like he’d been slapped. “One doesn’t simply discover powers at my age. It’s not possible.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, no fae would be expected to understand the well of their gifts unless forced into trials of demonstration, which simply aren’t done.”
He sighed. “Maybe they should be.”
But Ceneth had lost his steam. His anger had waned before it had even had the chance to swell. He extended his hands again.
“Are you sure?”
“Please,” said the king.
The word was so desperate. Tyr had heard that sound only in the voices of those lost to addiction in Aubade’s alleys. He had never imagined such a broken word on the lips of Raascot’s monarch.
Ceneth’s fingers twitched, and the medium sighed. They slipped their hands into Ceneth’s, held them for a moment, then frowned. The pair’s faces were mirrors of displeasure. The medium tilted their head to the side, eyebrows bunching against their confusion. Finally, they sighed and released Ceneth’s hands.
“What?” Ceneth demanded.
The medium shook their head. “There’s something impure about the connection. Something isn’t aligned. I won’t be able to channel her.”
Shit.
Tyr was certain his presence was to blame. If he could have slipped out of the room undetected, he would have done it. As it stood, he was grateful the medium had been unsuccessful. For all he knew, a ghost would have been able to see him in the space between things.
“Is it because of Ophir? I’ve seen Caris once since hersister arrived, I—”
The medium stood.
“Please don’t go,” Ceneth said sadly.
“Your Majesty, I have no control over the spirits. I’m a conduit. When the door is shut, it’s shut. We cannot force it open, no matter how badly we want to.”
“Just tell me.” The king’s voice was miserable. “Did Caris shut it? Is she unwilling to see me? Is this her?”
The medium made a pitying sound. “No,” they said, “she has told you time and time again not to visit. If she could close the door, I believe she would have long ago. She has not, because she cannot. Something is amiss in your castle, Your Majesty. If you’d like, we can try again tomorrow.”
Ceneth balled his hands into his fists, then relaxed them. He stood, rubbing his temple as if he were battling a blooming headache. He escorted the medium to the door and ushered them out with a curt nod. Tyr made a dash for the door, but it closed before he could slip out.
Shit, shit, shit.
He relaxed against the wall. This was a situation he’d been in plenty of times. Entering places you didn’t belong often meant remaining in those places for longer than you intended. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to tell Ophir that a medium was in Ceneth’s employ. He trusted her with information, but he didn’t want her to risk carving open a wound that had taken so long to knit its scarred, jagged patches over her heart. Perhaps he’d add it to the list of secrets that would damn him to hell. So, there he stood, in the shadows, pondering the fate of his immortal soul and his relationship to Ophir. Instead of escaping to the kitchens or spying on the princess and her witch, he was left watching Raascot’s king as the man paced in tight circles at the foot of his bed. He continued to rub his temple, adding pressure until it looked as though he might injure himself.
Ceneth stopped mid-stride. He sucked in a shaky breath before sinking to the bed. And, much to Tyr’s surprise, alonein the dark of his room with the curtains drawn, the King of Raascot wept.
Ten
Silk sheets. An arm draped over the warm, feminine shapeof a lover. Slitted gray beams of morning light. Ophir’s first thought was one of comfort. Her second was to remember that happiness was an illusion when the world was ending. Sleep was her only true reprieve. She couldn’t figure out what had woken her until the rhythmic rapping started up again.
“Princess Ophir?” came a muffled call from beyond the door.
Dwyn groaned. “I thought they were going to leave you be. What is this waking up at dawn’s first light bullshit?”
Ophir wiped her eyes. She often stirred awake in the gray light of morning just as Tyr slipped out of bed. He had not shared her room that night, and as a result, she’d slept much later than she’d intended. She cracked open the curtains only to see that it was not, in fact, dawn. Given the bright, cheery light, it was safe to guess that they’d already slept in until after the morning’s tenth bell. She looked at Dwyn’s mussy-haired shape where the fae remained half-buried in the sheets.
