Page 94 of A Frozen Pyre
“We’ll fetch him after the wedding,” Dwyn had promised. She’d grunted as her shoe slipped on a loose beige stone and cursed traveling on foot.
“And if we don’t? If the plan fails?”
“Then we’ll make you a new Sedit.”
Ophir had glared unappreciatively but hadn’t had much time to wallow. The steady sounds of hooves on compact ground had filled the air as a traveler approached.
“Would you like to do the honors?” Dwyn had asked.
“Absolutely not,” Ophir had hissed.
Dwyn had sighed. “I’ll do it, just like I do everything. I expect a nice gift for Yule.”
Three hours later, the women had been ushered hastily into the castle by confused servants. The Gwydir party had arrived the day prior, and it seemed as though no one had known of Dwyn’s gift for travel before Ceneth had informed them. Fortunately, the castle was in upheaval attempting to accommodate the winged fae and attendants sprinting to and fro in preparation for the royal wedding, meaning that Dwyn and Ophir had been able to slip back into the room they’d once shared while answering remarkably few questions.
The one time they had been stopped by a curious guard, Ophir had simply told him that she was a princess and it was none of his business, which had earned her an appreciative pinch on her left ass cheek from Dwyn.
She thought enviously of Dwyn now, who’d remained napping when Ophir’s mother had summoned her.
“Come, come.” Darya waved her over. “I have all of the diagrams drawn up for the coliseum.”
“You can’t be serious. The coliseum?”
“Weren’t you listening? We’ve invited the kingdom! We’ve sent runners to all of the neighboring cities. Anyone who can get here in time is welcome. We’ve been arranging and decorating for a solid week prior to your arrival. Three days from now, you’ll be married at sundown. It’s the most exciting event in centuries, and surely there won’t be anything like it for hundreds of years more.”
With a low, bitter whisper, Ophir said, “You don’t know the half of it.”
“What was that?” Darya asked, not bothering to look up.
Ophir watched her mother curiously. She’d spent decades believing she was the lesser daughter only because Caris had received all the love that her mother was capable of giving. Now as she watched the queen busy herself with blueprints of tables, decorations, stands, banners, and makeshift rafts from which they might suspend festive conifer branches, she wondered at her perception of the woman. Perhaps she hadn’t received her mother’s love because the woman had none. She was a queen of obligation, a vessel to offspring, a warden of the southern kingdom. If Darya had always felt this way, then maybe Ophir had severely overestimated how much favoritism Caris had received.
She thought sadly of Caris running and jumping into Ceneth’s arms.
Their over-the-top love had a lot to swallow. It had seemed unfair that her perfect sister had everything. But if Darya had been as disengaged with her firstborn, then maybe Ceneth was the first person who truly had seen her. How terribly lonely it must have been for Caris to carry that burden alone, never telling Ophir that Ceneth’s arms were the first place she’d felt wanted.
It was easy to project upon the dead, unless, of course, one had access to a medium.
“Look at this,” Darya said breezily. “We’ll have the loveliest chamber set up as your bridal preparation room. You’llcome out from here,” she said, pointing to her diagram.
Ophir peered across the table. Her eyes narrowed into unamused slits. “I’m to emerge from the dungeon?”
Darya scoffed. “We’ve already moved the prisoners, and we’ve spent a week cleansing it. It will sparkle by the time you walk down the aisle. Now, Ceneth and his witnesses will come from the door on the far side. It will be deliciously dramatic. The crowd will love it. We’ll have the orchestra here. The guests of importance will be on the floor with the wedding party, of course, but we’ve even arranged for sweets to be distributed amid the stands! Isn’t that generous?”
“So generous,” Ophir mumbled. Several pieces of enormous parchment covered the table. One was a diagram of the arrangement. Other papers had been elaborately rendered by artists who hoped to capture an emotion. They depicted rows of excited faces as the people of Aubade peered down on the wondrous affair. Another picture displayed a faceless bride with a long, elaborate veil trailing behind her as she approached the groom and the officiating bishop. Sketches of tables, of nobility, of fresh-cut pine, of yule berries, wine glasses for toasting, and of a winged man with a fae wife littered the surface. Some had been painted with watercolor, the reds and creams and browns of Aubade decorating the coliseum in muted arrays as her white dress popped from the art. Her eyes caught on one image in particular. There was a rather detailed depiction of the exchanging of rings.
Ophir fought to keep contempt from her voice as she let her fingers drift down to the page.
“How curious that the artist would want to portray such a mundane moment,” Ophir said.
“Mmm.” Darya nodded stiffly. “Yes, well, we’re doing things a bit differently. After Ceneth says his vows, we’ll have the first exchange of rings. You must put on the ruby, then slip the sapphire band on his finger, just like the picture.”
Ophir tensed. She closed her eyes slowly, praying that her mother wasn’t implying what she believed. “I think I’d liketo go first,” Ophir said testily. “I like the custom of the bride being the first to don the ring.”
“No, no,” Darya said hastily. “You’ll put it on Ceneth’s hand first. The bishop will ensure it is so.”
Ophir kept her eyes closed as she did her best to look agreeable. When she opened them, she watched her mother prattle on through watering eyes. The dull hum of the day’s rituals, of vows, of duty and kingdom and rites filtered in through one ear and drifted out the other. Her mother knew. The bishop knew. Everyone intended for Ceneth to disappear on their wedding day, fused to Ophir and the will of Aubade with every complacent citizen cheering them on. Ophir nodded along, forcing a semblance of a smile on her lips while she fought to keep herself from crying.
She watched the Queen of Farehold chatter over plots and plans and papers, never once looking at her daughter’s face to gauge her reaction. Ophir’s presence was a byproduct of her being biologically tied to Darya and little more. She’d been wrong to assume that Darya would give more time, care, or affection if it weren’t going elsewhere. Her mother had nothing else now. She had no children, no responsibilities, nothing else to rule over or celebrate or plan or mourn or worship. And yet, Ophir still felt as if she were alone in the room.
