Page 69 of A Frozen Pyre
Dwyn trembled against the cold as she lifted her hands to Ophir’s flame. Though her clenched jaw made it difficult for her to spit out the words, at long last, she said, “I’m not mad about the ag’drurath. I’m not mad at all.”
“Then what?” Ophir looked at her. She studied the slope of Dwyn’s nose, her large, dark eyes, the downturn of hermouth in the light of the flame she held in her hands. “You’ve never created space from me like this. You’ve never…”
But Dwyn didn’t meet her eyes.
“Is it the castle? Evander’s death?”
Dwyn scoffed softly before saying, “No, Firi. You know I’d support anyone whose life you wished to end. If you killed for sport, I’d be your favorite spectator.”
“That’s fucked up,” Ophir said, attempting levity. The moment passed, and nothing eased between them. Her face prickled with confusion. She flexed her fingers, urging her flame to burn brighter as it melted the tension from Dwyn’s frozen muscles. “Then what?”
“You have to pick one, Ophir.”
“What?”
Dwyn looked at her then. She offered the stern, unflinching gaze she’d once given on the cliffs of Aubade when Ophir had lost herself to nightmares and sorrow. She held Ophir’s questioning gaze as she said, “You wanted to leave Farehold, and we ran. We took down Tarkhany. Raascot was ours. I’ve abandoned Sulgrave, so we can tick that one off the list. The four corners of the known world have been in your hands. There’s nowhere left to run, Firi. There’s nowhere to turn.”
“We’ll find another house,” Ophir said.
“A house?” Dwyn repeated.
Ophir shuffled uncomfortably. She allowed her flame to swell, matching her intensity. It illuminated every corner in the humble shelter, filling the space with a cooking heat until she was certain any residual chill had thawed from Dwyn’s body. “A real one,” she promised. “Not one I manifested. We’ll get the next one we find. We’ll have proper beds and a nice fire, and I’m sure they’ll have a kitchen full of food. There’ll probably be some unsuspecting farmer you can murder. You love murder.”
Once again, the attempt at humor fell on unreceptive ears.
Dwyn’s spirit remained damp. She was no longer theteasing, goading person Ophir knew and loved. She closed her eyes, her fresh rosemary scent mingling with the flame as if she were a comforting spice in a homey kitchen rather than on the floor of a cold, empty shack. “And then what, Ophir? We live in the woods? We stay in Raasay Forest? Tyr chops logs and Sedit kills game and we learn to sew?”
Ophir chewed on her lip. “There’s always the Etal Isles. We could be the first from the continent to make it there. What do you say?”
Dwyn smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She lowered her thick, dark lashes as she gazed into the flame that hovered above Ophir’s palm. “If I thought you meant that, Firi, I’d be thrilled. You know I’d support you. We could walk across the continent, and I’d be with you every step of the way. But we both know we aren’t going to the Etal Isles.”
Ophir’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “What would you have me do?”
The windless silence following the storm was oppressive. Nothing interrupted the painful heartbeats as seconds stretched into an eternity. Finally, Dwyn said, “We have to go back.”
Ophir felt like she’d been slapped. “Back to Gwydir? To where my father and his rings and his fertility—”
“Eero will return to Aubade, and Ceneth isn’t your enemy.”
Ophir let her fire wink out. Sooty darkness engulfed them. Her eyes stung with an iridescent shimmer from where the flame had been only a second before. “You really want me to marry him, don’t you.”
She didn’t pause for long before saying, “I do.”
“How could you?” Ophir asked, betrayal leaching into her question. “From the moment I met you, you’ve told me to seize my independence. You’ve joked about letting me out of the marriage so many times. And now, what? Suddenly you want me to fall into line and become a good bride?”
“No, Firi. A marriage to him keeps you safe from Farehold’smanipulation. It secures your allies in Raascot. It may even cement an allegiance with Tarkhany. Eero is a bastard. He deserves whatever fate befalls him. Send a hundred years of beasts his way. But Zita likes you. Ceneth tolerates you, at the very least, and would protect you, even just to honor your sister’s memory. Returning gives you shelter, a castle, a title, and a kingdom. Go back to him. Though you may want to use different rings at your wedding.”
Ophir scoffed into the darkness. “What does it matter to you if I have a kingdom?”
She felt Dwyn’s now-warm fingers as they gripped her arms in a plea. “We’ll make it right.”
“I destroyed the castle. I created a dragon. I killed a man—”
“You’ll be their queen! And you’re a manifester, Ophir. You’re a goddess. You’rethegoddess for all I care. They will revere you as such. We’ll make gold statues in your likeness if that would make you happy. We will all worship at your gilded feet. And if they don’t, they’ll live in fear of you, which is just as good.”
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
Dwyn’s silhouette cast a long shadow as she turned to face the wall. “Feel whatever you want to feel. That’s your right.” A stretch of silence broken only by Sedit’s breathing pulsed between them. At long last, Dwyn was ready to meet Ophir’s prompting gaze once more. “But you are Ophir, Princess of Farehold, Creator of Flame, motherfuckingmanifester. You do not run.”
