Page 44 of A Frozen Pyre
Suley’s braids moved so quickly that they created an obscuring blur as she shook her head. “Zita knows how much I hate this curse. She wouldn’t—” But she was unable to finish her thoughts. She buried her head in her hands. “She wouldn’t have been able to hide her thoughts from me. Don’t say that about her. No, she wouldn’t use me. Even if she wanted to, I would have overheard such ploys. Stop that. Don’t think such things. She knows I’d rather die. I tried to die. I’ve lived with the nomadic tribes. I banished myself to a cliff. I’ve heard the noise of demons. No. Don’t think that, Dwyn. Stop it! Why are you…”
But by the time she met Dwyn’s steady face, she’d lost her fire.
Suley finally said, “You truly think the solution has been that easy? We can manufacture a neutralizing object? It would nullify my curse?”
The solution was like a balm, if only because it shut the fae up. Dwyn relaxed. “And you wouldn’t even have to become mortal. You can keep that long, healthy life of yours—silently. Won’t that be nice?”
Suley’s eyes drifted, unfocused. Her face remained pointed beyond the alcove, out the arched windows and intothe fading light beyond the garden. Clouds emerged from the west, shutting out any hope of the reds or oranges of sundown. Various shades of white, silver, and gray faded into the distant black of Gwydir’s stone buildings, its shops, its churches and trees, and the mountains that rimmed the city. After a long time, she nodded.
“Tell me what you need me to do.”
***
Corridors. Lanterns. Bedchamber. Dwyn.
“Firi! How was—”
Ophir slammed the door so hard that the framed painting of the violet Raasay mountain range rattled against the stones. She didn’t bother to meet Dwyn’s smile. Tyr stifled a noise as if his fingers had nearly gotten jammed in her haste to put as much space between herself and the hallway as possible. He stepped into sight the moment the door latched. Dwyn’s eyes widened as her concern darted between the two of them. She gripped uselessly for Ophir’s hand, but the princess shook her away.
Dwyn barely jumped out of her way in time to avoid the impact of shoulder against shoulder. She blinked. “What the hell happened?”
He held out his hand toward Ophir. “Our princess has become less tolerant of disrespect.”
Dwyn’s expression changed in an instant. “There’s our girl.”
Tyr’s outstretched hand became cautious. “You weren’t there, Dwyn. The things they were asking of her…”
Dwyn’s hair whipped around her face and shoulders in thin black lines with the speed of her turned head. She implored Ophir to speak, but the princess sank onto the bed and occupied herself with chucking her shoes across the room.
“She was presented with bonding rings,” Tyr said. “Cybele—the woman Eero brought with him—had weddingrings to strengthen their union. Her father wants to secure Farehold’s allyship with Raascot, should Tarkhany march in open war against Farehold. As it stands…”
Dwyn tapped her chin. “They don’t know if Ceneth would go to war for a bride he doesn’t appreciate like he should.”
“He wouldn’t go to war for Caris,” Ophir grumbled as she flailed against her buttons, “because Caris would never have condoned war. It’s part of what united them. Fucking humanitarians.”
Dwyn took a few careful steps toward Ophir and her attempts to disrobe. “Let me help you with your dress.”
“I’ve got it!” Ophir snapped. She yanked in opposite directions until the buttons strained and popped against their thread loops. Two broke free from the dress and clattered to the stones. With compounded fury, Ophir snarled as she ripped into her dress. She tore at the fabric, thrashing and kicking until the expensive gown was left in ruined, pretty tatters at her feet. She tugged the sheet up over her head as she turned toward the dimming gray of the window.
Dwyn shook with inaction. She gingerly raised her fingertips as if she was desperate to be helpful. “But can I…”
“Shut the goddess-damned curtain.”
“Sure thing,” Dwyn said quietly. She slipped the tassel free from its iron loop and allowed the thick fabric to block out what remained of the waning evening light. Dwyn shot confused brows up to Tyr before returning her frown to Ophir. She slid onto the bed but remain seated.
Dwyn dared to ask, “They want you to wear a bonding ring to Ceneth? Is there more?”
Ophir twisted away from Dwyn, facing where Tyr leaned against the door. Tyr’s frame offered little reprieve. She grunted as she threw the comforter over her frame and stormed off to the bathing room, slamming the door behind her.
Light from the bathing chambers filled the room, then disappeared with Ophir’s open and shut door. Tyr remained in the bedchamber, dreading being left alone with Dwyn.
“What happened in there?” Dwyn demanded, voice barely a hiss above the sound of running water.
“She had no patience for their bullshit.” He returned the whisper. “Eero wanted her to be a pawn, then a victim. She entertained none of it.”
“Shit.”
Tyr nearly flinched at her reaction, asking, “What?”
