Page 87 of A Frozen Pyre
“Firi,” she said, doing little to hide the panic in her throat.
“Goddess, Dwyn,” Ophir said, returning the hug. The fur fell from the princess’s shoulders. “I was only gone for a little while. I just needed to see Zita and confirm plans for the wedding. Then I ran into Harland—”
“Harland is still here?” Dwyn pulled away to search Ophir’s face.
Her expression was nearly one of irritation, but she shook the signs of emotion as she said, “I sent him home to Aubade.” Ophir rolled her shoulders until Dwyn’s arms dropped, dangling at her sides.
“I thought Farehold’s party left?”
Ophir nodded, the remnants of annoyance still playing on her face. “They scattered on the wind. Samael is off on some mission to which I’m not privy. My father”—she spit the word—“left the first chance he was able, taking Cybele with him. Harland stayed behind to petition to remain my personal guard. Ceneth said it was my decision.”
“And?” Dwyn attempted to keep the desperation from her question.
“I already told you, didn’t I? I’ve sent him home to Aubade.”
Relief poured over her. Harland was the final lynchpin to her undoing, and now, he was gone. Suley and Zita were the only two remaining in Gwydir who knew enough about her to destroy her reputation. The rest of Raascot believed her to be little more than Ophir’s irreverent companion who quelled her fire and allowed her ease of travel. The first was true. The second was able to be true if she were given a few minutes to prepare. Though she wasn’t foolish enough to believe Ceneth liked her, she was quite certain that her ability to ensure that Ophir didn’t burn down the castle earned her enough favor to remain in the princess’s bed.
For whatever it was worth, she liked Ceneth. At least, she liked him as much as someone could like a man betrothed to the woman she loved. There was a certain level of disinterest she might have expected, from Raascot’s king and perhaps that apathy may have extended to not caring who Ophir fucked or whether the princess adhered to a single one of Gwydir’s norms. His character extended beyond that, however.
The choice he offered Ophir wasn’t for lack of care. In fact, if Dwyn had to guess, she suspected it was the exact opposite. It was his love for Caris that forced him to see Ophir’s humanity, to value her choices, and to respect her free will. For now, it was enough to keep the king of Raascot in her good graces.
She suppressed a smile at the power she held, knowing it was a rare person who could quietly choose whether a king lived or died. Though she’d originally planned to bide her time until after the wedding before she disposed of him, she’d begun to think perhaps the man had earned the breath he drew.
Then again, she’d been wrong before. She’d even begun to think of Tyr as a friend. For a moment, they’d been alliesunited by their love for Ophir and the vulnerability she’d allowed in sharing the ability to drain. And then he’d done what people did. Once he’d taken what he’d needed, their deal had been void. He’d rather see Ophir in pain, suffering under betrayal, loss, and the trauma of memories as he triggered the gory viscera of Caris’s death with his words. With a few careless sentences, he’d hurled Ophir’s progress into ashes. Along with it, he’d destroyed Dwyn’s faith in him. Tyr was little but another mistake in a long string of disappointments.
Ophir was sad, of course. Dwyn understood loss. She knew grief, and absence, and the raw, terrible road to healing. But the sorrow Ophir felt over a perceived abandonment was nothing compared to the pain from which Dwyn had spared her. Tyr would have broken her, and he would have done it in the ignorant, shortsighted name of affection and honesty. It wasn’t the first time a man would prove that he knew nothing of how to keep a woman happy, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“Dwyn?” Ophir pulled away fully and crossed the room. Dwyn marked the way she created space, each intentional step drafting a barrier between them. Ophir could create monsters from air. Dwyn could kill with the flick of a finger. They were both infinitely safe and terribly in danger. She wished Ophir felt comfortable with her, but perhaps the princess’s cautious wisdom was just another thing to love. Still, she frowned at the way her name hung on her tongue.
“Yes,” Dwyn said, voice airy. She brushed her hand through the air as she breezed across the room, jumping onto the bed with all the levity in the world. She tilted her head, flashing a brilliant smile, ever the picture of ease. “Call to me again, Firi. It sounds so good on your lips.”
Dwyn flopped backward against the pillows and let her eyes flutter to a close. She kept the smile playing on her lips, corners tugged upward while her heart thundered. Anxiety, worry, fear, and caution were all feelings that never left someone who lived in fight or flight. Her heart remained open, aching, andbeating, despite the stony facade. The only things she could change were her actions and her outward expression.
“You said some things in the forest,” Ophir said slowly.
Dwyn propped herself up on her elbows and quirked a single brow. “About?”
“About being a siren,” Ophir said. She looked at Sedit as if hoping the vageth would step in and vouch for her. The hound, of course, remained silent. Dwyn watched the princess fight with her words before saying, “About…notbeing a siren, that is. You were explaining that everything you do is blood magic, just like the Reds, except…notlike the Reds. That it…” She took a few sharp breaths as she tested her words before speaking them. “You said it was something that could be taught without killing its user. That it was something you studied, and a skill Tyr learned from you.”
Dwyn watched her for a while, waiting to see if there would be another question, another breath. Ophir stayed perfectly still while she waited.
“It is,” Dwyn said at last.
Ophir swallowed loudly. Dwyn suspected that her expression of uncertainty was intentional. There was an admirable honesty to it. She communicated as much with her nonverbal fidgets, with the way she scrunched her brows, with the tilt of her shoulders and twist of her mouth, as she might with her words. Dwyn took the time to consider all of the reasons the princess might ask, and all the outcomes she might supply, before Ophir spoke again.
“Will you show me?”
Dwyn worked to control her face. She kept her staple, calm amusement as she said, “Why? People you need to kill? Powers you need to borrow?”
Ophir chewed on the inside of her cheek. She twisted the skirt of her dress in her hands for a minute, watching her thumb and forefinger before looking at Dwyn once more. “No,” she said. “I just want to know how it’s done. I don’t need the ability. I have more than enough.”
This wasn’t what Dwyn had expected. She pushed herself up onto her palms until they were at eye level. “You just want to see the process?”
“No,” Ophir corrected, “I’ve seen the process. I’ve seen your life as a siren. I’ve seen you drain farmers and homesteaders and unsuspecting citizens. It’s not about witnessing or about practicing it for myself. But when you had me conjure the snake in Aubade, you knew something I didn’t. And the fact that you can not only be a siren but can teach others… You know things, Dwyn. I don’t want to do it, but I do want to know what you know.”
Dwyn swayed in surprise. She blinked as she continued to fight emotions from breaking through to the surface. Ophir of Aubade, Princess of Farehold, manifester, felt that Dwyn was her magical superior. Ophir could create from little more than thought and intent, and yet she still didn’t see herself as the goddess she was.
“Yes,” Dwyn said, slipping her fingers over Ophir’s hand. “I’ll teach you. Use it or don’t, I’ll teach you.”
