Page 29 of A Frozen Pyre
Zita looked to Harland and Samael. “And you? Did you tell your king?”
Harland nodded mutely.
Zita had complete control of the room.
“So, since we’re all on the same page: A new beast is upon the land. A serpent the size of a legion of horses with four legs and black wings to match arrived at our palace, devoured our people, and wreaked havoc on our capital. It had a terrible companion of sorts—a demonic creature that was nearly a fae, but not quite. Our people are calling the large beast the ag’drurath—”
“Winged death,” Samael translated for the room.
Zita made a small, satisfied sound before adding, “And its familiar, the ag’imni. Now, this is the state of Tarkhany.”
Ophir could barely make sense of what had happened.
She’d known Zita to be friendly, to be controlled, to be diplomatic. The woman had seemed so amicable when she’d greeted her at the door. Instead, she’d come into the meeting with razor-sharp talons and shredded any hope of amicable relations. Ophir’s very grip on the continent and its reality spun like a seedpod fluttering to the ground in late fall. It was chaotic, disorienting, and ushering in the sign of a new season.
The room sat in crackling silence.
Turmoil raged behind every pair of eyes in the room. Anguish, confusion, and fury flickered and burned in various stages on the faces of the respective monarchs of the continent. If energies could get up and flip tables, then every oneof them would have been yelling, smashing goblets, and flinging any number of ungodly powers at the other. Instead, they let the taut quiet fester.
Finally, with the friendly ease of someone who’d merely come to chat, Zita said, “And this is why I proposed a three-day recess. Now, why don’t we call our meeting adjourned for the day? Meet with your advisors, discuss your events, and in three days’ time, let’s come together again and see if we can’t find a solution.” Zita pushed back from the table. She stood, and Hassain and Suley joined her.
Eero and Ceneth stood at the opposite ends of the table in knee-jerk respect while Tarkhany’s monarch left the room.
The second the door closed behind them, all eyes were on Eero.
Ophir had no trouble breaking the silence. She was horrified. “What the fuck, Father? Are you going to explain what she’s talking about?”
“Ophir, it’s not your burden to bear. It’s not your responsibility—”
“Why don’t you tell me and then let me decide if it is or isn’t my responsibility?”
“Because!” he burst. “It wasn’t my burden, either! We are not responsible for the sins of our forefathers!”
“Aren’t we?” she seethed. “If our presents are all that matter, how can I be held responsible for the kingdom’s future if I have no obligation to its past?”
Dwyn plucked at the piles of untouched fruit. She crunched loudly on an apple and spoke through a mouthful of food, saying, “Ophir’s right. She shouldn’t be responsible for either. I think this is a good time to let her out of the marriage.”
Ophir stepped on Dwyn’s foot. Dwyn grunted lightly but took her cue to be silent. Ophir often found her irreverence charming. This was not one of those times.
“Ophir, would you give Ceneth and I the room, please?” said Eero.
She shot to her feet, flame licking her palms as she planted them against the table. Her nostrils flared as she said, “Of course! Why would I need to be present for this oranyconversation!” She turned on her heel, yanking Dwyn roughly to her feet. The siren made a sad, pouting noise as she dropped her apple. They stormed from the room and slammed the door behind them only to find Zita and Hassain waiting patiently outside the room.
“Princess Ophir.” Zita smiled. “I was hoping you’d join me.”
Eleven
Ophir plucked the apple from Dwyn’s hand. “I’ll see yousoon.”
“Are you sure you don’t…” Dwyn attempted to argue. Her sentence drifted at Ophir’s serious look.
Dwyn folded her arms across her chest as Ophir disappeared around the corner. She shrugged into the soft wool shawl offered to her as Zita interlaced their elbows and led her down the corridor and out the hall to what remained of the late-season gardens. Ophir was glad she’d stolen the apple, if only for something to do with her nervous energy. She sank her teeth into the crisp flesh, but nerves made the fruit taste like acid. Despite the intense display in the summit, Zita seemed as unperturbed and graceful as ever, which only heightened Ophir’s tension.
The air should have been laced with ice, with the river, with the brisk, impending scent of early winter. Instead, the smell of oranges wafted gently from Zita. Hassain trailed several paces behind them. Perhaps if Ophir hadn’t known that Tyr was nearby, she would have been afraid.
“So, what did you think of the meeting?” Zita asked coolly.
Ophir sounded a bit like a whinnying horse as she exhaledwith honest, thorough confusion.
