Page 28 of A Frozen Pyre
Dwyn did not seem like a commoner at the table with kings and queens. She appeared born for the role as she said, “We did away with monarchs some time ago. We’re composed of seven independently governed districts, each with an elected Comte. Sulgrave thrives.”
“Then why,” Zita asked, “would you leave?”
Dwyn looked at Ophir, then at the others. “Because I can.”
Zita seemed to have more on her mind. Despite the congress of foreign rulers, she remained interested in the Sulgrave fae. She asked, “I’m told you have a gift for water, and it’s been suggested that you’re responsible for the door in my courtyard. Is your gift for travel how you were able to achieve what so many have tried and failed to do in crossing the Frozen Straits?”
Without missing a beat, Dwyn beamed. “That’s right.”
Ophir wasn’t sure if she loved her or hated her. Dwyn deserved to be kicked under the table. Though she supposed that it was wise for one to take an easy lie when it was offered on a silver platter. Dwyn creating doors for travel would certainly tie up the loose ends of a number of questions.
Whether or not she was satisfied with Dwyn’s dispatch, Zita didn’t share. Instead, she turned lazily to Farehold’s king. “Eero,” she said, using his name with all the informality of childhood friends. “Tell me, how have your people been enjoying my land?”
The air left the room.
It was quiet enough to hear a single bead of sweat fall from the tense king’s brow. Ophir didn’t attempt to hide hersurprise. She gaped at her father, looking between him and Zita while she silently demanded an explanation.
After a long, pregnant pause, Eero lowered his voice as he said, “You know I wasn’t responsible for that.”
It was as though Ophir’s eardrums had shattered. Stars exploded in front of her eyes. She’d been hit with a wooden plank. Before she even knew she was speaking, she blurted out to the room, “What the hell is she talking about?”
Ophir shot a look to Ceneth. His face was also strained, but he did not appear nearly as shocked as Ophir. Beside her, Dwyn’s eyebrows were raised in little more than quiet interest.
Ophir returned her prompting stare to her father.
“Well?” Zita asked lightly. “Are you going to tell your daughter, or should I?”
Eero motioned as if to bang his fist against the table. It appeared he possessed the strength to think better of it. “It was six hundred years ago, Your Highness, and—”
“Yes!” she called, smiling. “It’s been merely half of my lifespan thus far. For six hundred years prior, and generations upon generations before that, Aubade belonged to Tarkhany!” She flashed her teeth brightly at the room. “In fact”—she turned her eyes to Ceneth—“if I’m not mistaken, your grandfather and my grandfather were coastal neighbors, were they not? My, what a fun game of trade we’ve all played. Tell me, Ceneth, do you enjoy the cold? Have your people been amenable to the migration from their ancestral lands into the mountains so Eero and his pale citizens might enjoy milder weather?”
“Zita—” Eero attempted.
“QueenZita,” she corrected. “And no, Eero, you did not hold the sword to my throat. That was your father. You did not force us to cross the desert and drive my human partner to his death under the sun; that was your father. But tell me, Eero, in six hundred years, how have you made efforts to right these wrongs? Because from where I sit, not only are youstill on a stolen throne, but you have two monarchs in lands that the goddess did not give them.” She turned to Ophir. “Tell me, child, what do you know of melanin? Have you never questioned your colorless skin in the coastal heat, the year-round sun, the endless spring, while Raascot’s people sit in the snow? Don’t get me wrong, Princess Ophir; you can’t be held responsible for what you did not know. But I’m curious, now that you do know, what obligation might you feel to make things right?”
Ophir’s mouth dried. She looked between her father and Zita, then to Ceneth.
“I had no idea…” was all she could say.
Zita rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear, but now you do. You didn’t know of our customs until you did, and you adapted. You didn’t know of our food or our clothes or our palace until you did, and you adapted. And now you know of our history. How will you adapt?”
“Say, now—” Eero cut in.
Ophir looked to him, then to Harland. The baffled look on his face told her that Harland was just as surprised as she was. To his side, Samael’s expression remained impassive.
“Oh, please.” Zita brushed his interjection away with a flick of her wrist. “I’m not asking you to abandon Farehold. I’m not a monster.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “I don’t expect to ever step foot in Aubade again. But we were overdue for a conversation, and frankly, my people are owed far more than an apology.”
Ophir didn’t realize she was shaking her head until the motion had unintentionally gained the room’s attention.
Zita shot an irritated look. “What is it?”
Ophir’s eyebrows remained bunched as she looked at Zita. Again, she spoke without thinking. The first thing that came to her lips was “After all this time, what shape could justice possibly take?”
Zita’s face relaxed. She leaned back in her chair, coy smile returning.
“I was right to give you a chance. Justice,” she repeated. “Seeing its need and understanding its impossibility. Maybe you are the princess this continent needs.” She folded her hands in front of her before flashing a bright smile. “Tarkhany is doing beautifully, for the most part. Save, of course, for the winged serpent no smaller than a mountain. Has word of the demon slaughters reached Farehold or Raascot yet?”
Ceneth offered a strained motion of acknowledgment.
