Page 93 of A Frozen Pyre
Suley’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You want the queen to fetch you? As if she’s a common attendant?”
“Yes,” she said, word clipped. Every passing moment grew colder between them.
They exchanged unblinking glares in challenge. Ophir took a half step backward into the room as she watched the incomprehensible standoff.
“Fine,” Suley said at last. She turned on her heel but only made it a few steps before Dwyn called out after her.
“Both Zita and whoever the hell you are.”
Suley’s shoulders jolted toward her ears. She tilted her head, cursing to herself quietly in their native tongue. When she relaxed her posture, she turned with slow, cool command. She rolled her shoulders, then her neck. Suley returned to the doorway and leaned against the door.
“What gave it away?”
Dwyn offered a single dark chuckle. “Aside from the piercings?”
“These fucking piercings,” Suley muttered to herself.
“Suley and I are a lot of things, but we’re not ladies. She would never have referred to me as such. Now, I’m not sure if I care who you are or what you want. But I’ll tell you that the next words out of your mouth will determine whether you live or die.”
Ophir’s eyes flared dramatically. Her heart caught in her throat as she took another backward step. “Are you saying…” She looked at Dwyn, but the siren did not look away from Suley. “Is this not Suley? What the hell is happening?”
Dwyn shrugged, eyes still trained on Suley. “I’m not sure, Ophir. Have you come across any shapeshifters other than during our dramatic sunrise in Tarkhany? Because I’d put my money on this being the same bastard.”
Adrenaline pumped through her. “Sedit,” she called. The vageth trotted up beside her and planted its feet, baring its fangs against the person wearing Suley’s face. She saw the whites of Suley’s eyes as the woman gasped at her demon.
“It’s like the dragon,” she said, voice thick with fear and disgust as she leaned away from the bedroom.
“You have until the count of three,” Dwyn said testily. “One, two—”
“Wait.” Suley lifted a hand. “It’s not just me, I swear it. Zita and Ceneth are already in the war room. It has no windows, and no chance of being overheard. Zita knows who and what I am, and it’s part of why we need all of us in the same room.”
“For what?” Dwyn demanded.
Suley looked down the corridor in either direction before saying, “For the wedding.”
Thirty-Three
Long gone were the frosted evergreens, the sluggish river,and the blue-black stones of Gwydir.
Ophir missed the lavender mountains. She missed the continent she’d put between herself and her parents. She missed the kingdom and the people who were willing to see her as an adult, rather than an extension of their dynasty. She did not, however, miss the road. Travel did not become her.
She’d been in Aubade for less than a day before servants had cleaned her up and shoved her back into pinching corsets and impossible shoes. She watched the clock with impending dread as she waited for her mother’s arrival. The door opened and slammed against the wall with the woman’s entrance like a gavel sentencing her to death.
“My dear,” her mother cooed. Queen Darya opened her arms for Ophir. The princess stood still while she allowed the embrace to happen, a victim of it rather than a participant. The queen stepped away with an exaggerated frown. “Come, now,” she chastised. “You’ve had months to come to terms with your royal obligations. Do you think I wanted to marry your father? But we had two beautiful daughters, and I get to serve as this kingdom’s queen, just as you will in the north. You’re finally back in our castle one last time before Gwydirbecomes your home. Is this really the glum face you want to wear on your final visit to Aubade as an unmarried woman?”
“At least pour me a strong drink before you begin the verbal assaults,” Ophir grumbled. When the servants did nothing, she crossed to the bar cart and plucked the cork out of a green bottle. “Would you like a glass?”
“Truly, Ophir, why are you like this? You’re about to be a bride!”
Ophir had nothing to say. The woman she called Mother hadn’t breathed a word about manifestation, about the castle, about the summit. Darya had expressed neither concern nor interest, either because it was unsavory to discuss such things or because denial was her most effective coping mechanism. Ophir glanced about the round tower room, bitterly remembering the last time she’d been called to this particular chamber. Her parents had sat on the far side of the table as they’d informed her that she was to stand in Caris’s stead and be wed to the king of Gwydir. The light filtered in from the far window now just as it had then, months prior. The seasons had changed, and the world had grown cold, but she’d grown colder.
They had been right about one thing. She was safe with Ceneth.
Her mother breezed to the table at the center of the room. “Now, we did have the Raascot party bring magnificent cuts of fresh pine boughs. Your father and Ceneth exchanged a few letters to have it orchestrated. It will be a glorious winter wedding, and the people of Aubade so love to see Yule celebrated in the northern way. We’re inviting the kingdom.”
Ophir looked dully at her mother. She was tired from travel, even if she and Dwyn had awoken in Gwydir only that morning. She’d created six doors in the thicket behind Castle Gwydir before she’d succeeded in making one that opened to reveal Castle Aubade perched on the cliffs. Her gift for flame had proven useful as she’d destroyed each of her failed portals before stepping through the door to the seaside kingdom.She’d sent it up in ashes behind her as they entered the pleasantly warm weather. She supposed it was winter here, too, but it would be another month before anyone noticed a change in the temperate weather.
“I miss Sedit,” Ophir had muttered glumly as she and Dwyn had started for the castle.
