Page 99 of A Frozen Pyre
No, Zita had said. She wanted to wear red.
It was uncouth to pull eyes from the bride on a typical wedding day. Of course, she’d never be so rude. But today was not a typical wedding day, and Zita was dressed for blood.
She knew she’d escape the stadium unscathed. Her shield was her primary power, and as such, it would hold no matterwhat happened.
She’d raged through centuries of loss, betrayal, hope, despair, wishes, pain, and oppression, their culmination in today’s wedding taking the form of a high, ringing calm. She was certain that some of the crowd’s chatter was about Ceneth and his great black wings. She knew that some of the voices must have whispered and gasped about the fabled rich skin of the people who kept to the desert. She was curious as to how she might feel about the mutterings from thousands of fair-skinned faces under other circumstances. She was certain she’d pity them, but she didn’t know if Ceneth or Galena felt the same. She was glad Suley was safely in the quiet of the Raasay Forest, far from the noise and thoughts and judgments of those who’d never been exposed to a world beyond the kingdom they believed to be their own.
Ceneth looked over his shoulder, and she dipped her head slowly in confirmation.
He struck a stunning figure at the end of the long velvet carpet that ran the length of the aisle. The bride-to-be would walk the sandy length of the coliseum while rows of privileged guests rose to their feet on the ground. In the stands, thousands of civilians from Aubade and the surrounding cities would stand in reverence as they watched the last fae princess of Farehold take the steps to merge the continent. She was to stand in for Caris, unifying Raascot and Farehold until they’d melted into a homogenous kingdom. Of course, Caris had sought reunification through peace, justice, and education. She would have been an excellent source of healing, of forgiveness, of progress.
The world mourned Caris’s absence, but Zita had a taste for Ophir’s brand of retribution.
If she hadn’t trained herself for poise and serenity, she would have jumped when a booming voice cut over the crowd and orchestra alike. She kept her face placid as she gazed up into the stands, beyond the milling bodies and sea of civilians, to the royal box. The king wore a goddess-awfulruby necklace that had been spelled to amplify his voice. She cooled her expression as she listened to him speak.
“My people!” His voice boomed, and the citizens responded in a roar of jubilation. “Today we gather to see the end of turmoil, the end of strife! For years, we’ve maintained our distance from Tarkhany. On this auspicious occasion, we welcome their queen, who will serve as King Ceneth’s witness!”
Gasps and cheers celebrated the victory of centuries of revelry. At long last, Tarkhany had dropped its grudge. The coastal city of Aubade was Farehold’s to possess, after all.
“The King of Raascot will bring an end to decades of strain as our peoples find their rightful place in the north and south,” Eero went on. “Today, as he marries my daughter, we will publicly declare our will as one.”
Zita’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Ceneth twitch. She only needed him to maintain composure for a few minutes longer.
She unclenched the moment she saw his wings relax behind him. Fortunately, their place on the coliseum floor was too far away for the audience to perceive the tensions and expressions of their party. The officiating bishop would have noticed had he not been glued to Eero’s every word. She didn’t bother to turn to see what the lords, ladies, and wealthy parties of Farehold made of Ceneth’s flinch.
Soon, it wouldn’t matter.
“Rise, good people,” Eero continued, “as we bear witness to history.”
The rumble of thousands of bodies shifting their weight as everyone got to their feet accompanied the orchestral swell of string and woodwind instruments. The tune was too solemn for a wedding, but perhaps an air of gravity was necessary for the melding of minds as Farehold became the continent’s only power.
Zita followed the turn of ten thousand heads as wooden doors on the far side of the stadium swung open. The stadiumwas too large for her to see the exact details of Ophir’s lovely face, but even from the distant edge of the sands, she smirked at the bright white smile on the princess’s face. Tempus was doing his best impression of what he suspected a woman might look like walking down the aisle to her beloved, of course. He knew nothing of Ophir, of her reputation in the kingdom, of her complex emotions, or of how a woman might weep on her wedding day.
He’d stood at the far end once, beaming at Zita while she’d maintained a polite expression. Tempus couldn’t even master serenity as he grinned at the dignitaries on the sands below. She would have found his weak portrayal of women amusing if this day weren’t the end of the world.
She didn’t have to wait much longer.
Ceneth clasped both hands behind his lower back. He was to flash a signal with his fingers when he was ready. She supposed it really should be his call. She’d be ready no matter what. She needed to know that her allies would survive the ordeal. She looked at Galena’s still-fidgeting form, but she had long since given up on wishing the winged woman would stop. Galena was right to feel disquieted. It was a respectable emotion in times such as these. As Zita didn’t employ a neutralizer within her courts, she saw it as a sign from the All Mother that their plans had been kissed with blessings. Perhaps one of Ceneth’s men had had to perish for her to understand the usefulness of Galena’s gift. The woman had been instructed to cast her power over the room in the summit, and by the time the castle had collapsed around them, it had been too late to see the error of her ways.
Today would be different.
Zita knew Galena was no newborn fae. Now in her seventh decade, Galena could focus her power with intent, as could every fae who’d exercised their ability. The seamstress had tailored a pretty gray dress for the Raascot witness, though she’d struggled to accommodate the woman’s wings. Galena had been unable to keep her wings still since the startof the wedding. She reminded Zita of the birds who would flit through the fountains in her courtyard, treating them like birdbaths. Their wings would twitch and move as the water cascaded down their backs. Galena’s flexed, flared, and tucked with the subtlest of movements as she struggled to control her emotions.
She only needed to hold it together for another minute or so. Tempus and his large, bright smile would be at the end of the aisle any moment. He’d stand across from Ceneth wearing Ophir’s lovely face while the bishop began the ceremony. There would be no dramatism of waiting for the vows. There’d be no lull of silence or shifting boredom before the man of the cloth delivered his speech. Everyone would sit, including King Eero and Queen Darya. Ceneth would flash the fingers clutched behind his back. Galena would lunge. And Zita would begin.
She began to count in her head.
The coliseum was roughly twelve stories tall, though several of those were a steep, blank wall. Ten rows. Twenty. Thirty rows surrounded the coliseum. It took the shape of an elongated circle, stretched into an imperfect oval. From the longest points, she estimated the stadium had to be shy of six hundred meters. The music swelled as the clock wound down. Violins, cellos, violas, double basses, and lutes thrummed enthusiastically beside the flutes, piccolos, bassoons and twisted golden horns of the brass and woodwinds.
She looked at the nearly thirty thousand citizens in the stands.
The music swelled, every hand moving in tandem as their bows, their fingers, their breathwork and lips and intensity matched the pace of the rapidly approaching bride. There had to be fifty musicians in the pit. Only a dozen or so royals sat securely in the box with Eero. On the floor, there were at least two hundred members of Farehold’s nobility. Wealthy families, smiling faces, judgmental eyebrows, glittering jewels, stoic merchants, and women filled with contemptfor a princess who lived a more blissful life than their own grinned and glared alike as the bride took her final beaming steps down the aisle.
The princess mounted the final steps, and Zita sucked in a breath.
Galena looked over her shoulder at Zita, panic clear in her wide, worried eyes.
Panic would do her no good now. Her only use was to grab Ceneth when the moment came.
