Page 26 of A Frozen Pyre
Ophir shrugged. “I think he’s resigned to your presence. We arrived as a unit. There isn’t a monarch, past or present, who hasn’t had the luxury of appointing advisors.”
Dwyn’s eyes twinkled with what was unmistakably pride as she said, “Look how far you’ve come, Firi. From a drowned ocean rat to the one uniting the kingdoms.”
Ophir extended her hand and took Dwyn’s with a sincere squeeze. “You did this, you know.”
Dwyn scoffed. “I did, didn’t I?”
Ophir rolled her eyes and tried to release her hand. “Oh my goddess, your humility is staggering. This was supposed to be a sweet moment!”
There was no further delaying it.
The summit would commence whether they were ready or not.
They dropped hands as the servant opened the door to allow Ophir and her guest to enter. They were the last to arrive.
Ceneth stood when she entered, and he didn’t settle into his chair at the head of the table until she’d taken her seat. Normally, she’d think that it was an empty gesture fitting for the betrothed, but with Ceneth, she wasn’t so sure. The man was kind, which pained her all the more.
The Raascot fae—winged and otherwise—copied their king’s movements. They ceased their conversations and stood politely until their ruler returned to his high-backed chair.
The side farthest from the door had been allocated to Farehold. Ophir felt some small hurt that her father hadn’t risen to greet her. He couldn’t even be bothered to echo her husband-to-be’s perfunctory manners. Harland was at King Eero’s side, though he’d stopped speaking the moment she walked in, accompanied by Samael and a woman she didn’t recognize.
Ophir wasn’t sure whether she’d fully earned the vitriol in Harland’s once-loving eyes, but chances were that, yes, she deserved all his hate and more. She wished he were still the man who wanted to share drinks with her on the wall. She wished he was her friend, her confidant, her ally. He’d lost the right to those titles the day he’d trapped her in her room, intent on shipping her off to marry Ceneth.
In the end, they’d both gambled and lost. She’d ended up engaged and in Gwydir, and he’d watched her slip between his fingers until she was no longer someone he recognized.
She waited until she was in her seat to dip her head in polite acknowledgment of the royal party from Tarkhany.
Gilded trays of fresh fruits and pitchers of hot tea, wine, and water separated her and the Queen of the Desert. Zita chatted with Ceneth’s stiff-backed advisor—a woman Ophir knew to be Onain—close to the door. She broke conversation long enough to offer Ophir the greeting her father had neglected to.
“Princess Ophir.” Zita gave a light bow, dipping her chin in a true, slow apology. “I want you to know that those responsible for the banquet have been dealt with swiftly and without mercy.”
Ophir swallowed, unsure of how to respond. The smell of roses was as distant as the perfume of a dream upon waking. She saw the lavender of dawn, the dark flash of wings, the fluttering eyelashes as Dwyn wilted before her eyes. The events of that morning were a brand of chaos she’d tried to forget. Conflicting truths formed the early warnings of a pulsing headache before she tore her thoughts away.
Tyr must have been nearby and sensed her spike in blood pressure, for his hand began to move in slow, comforting circles against her back. He was always careful to keep his touches light and noiseless. She knew he’d spent centuries perfecting the craft of remaining undetected.
Unable to speak, she supplied a weak smile.
Zita gestured to the man at her side. “This is my advisor, Hassain. And serving as my second is my companion, Suley.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Hassain dipped his head.
Suley tilted her head, hundreds of long braids spilling to the side. The woman’s mouth twitched as if it was a struggle to refrain from speaking. She eyed Ophir skeptically, brows arched as she studied the princess. Suley dragged her gaze slowly around Ophir, as if not looking at her but through her. She did not bow.
Zita had the timeless, unquestionable elegance of a monarch who’d reigned for one thousand years. While her black dress hadn’t deviated too dramatically from the fashion of Tarkhany, she’d wrapped herself in a floor-length fur shawl in matching black to stave off Raascot’s chill. She needed no adornments, no jewels, no bangles or crowns for the room to know of her sovereignty. She wore a gold band atop her head with royal beams radiating outward, resembling the dawn and its light. There were no gems, no embellishments, simply the gold bars that created a halo around her ethereal face.
Suley, on the other hand, wore the divisive fashion of someone who had either everything to prove or nothing to lose. The long braids hung to the middle of her back with two tight buns above each ear, both decorated with gold, revealing to the room that she was, in fact, fae. She wore sharp, elaborate kohl darkening the corners of her eyes. An interesting black tattoo emanated from Suley’s temple, cresting just above her eyebrow and just shy of her cheekbone. Ophir spied three celestial bangles, one in each ear, and a third brilliant sunburst hooped through the center of her nose.
Ophir nearly gasped at the wave of scent that poured from Suley. Atop the fragrant spice was a sharp, almost painful scent that reminded her of kitchen herbs, but not quite. She couldn’t quite place the scent, though it reminded her of healer’s halls and hospital beds. She’d never been so overpowered by a single fae’s personal perfume.
“Speak with me soon, will you?” Zita asked. “We have much to discuss.”
Ophir didn’t dare look at Dwyn.
She didn’t know how much of the room’s reaction was on Dwyn’s shoulders. Did Zita wish to discuss how the siren had gotten behind her walls? Did King Eero refuse to greet her because Dwyn’s arrival had preceded Ophir’s departure? Running from Aubade and leaving a trail of carrion in her wake was hardly an action that would make a father proud.
She stole a glance at Harland.
Her former bodyguard hadn’t stopped staring at her since she’d entered. He sat at her father’s side, though King Eero still played the rather cold role of a dignitary and chose to remain neutral where his daughter was concerned.
