Page 98 of A Frozen Pyre
She smiled a bit uncomfortably, which caused a resurgence of concern to shoot through him.
He did his best to assuage her nerves as he approached. The light scent of citrus danced through the air, presumably wafting off the treats and treasures decorating the space that had been dedicated to her honor.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got your back until it’s time to go out there.”
Ophir’s laugh was staccato and dismissive. She lookedaway from him and into the hall, as if wondering if the attendant would return.
He frowned, but he knew it was impolite to make the day any worse for her than it must already be. Harland attempted levity. “Seems like you need a drink on the wall. Need me to go get a bottle?”
“The wall?” she asked. She turned over her shoulder and looked through one of the small, round windows that had been embedded in the room. It offered a peek into the stands above as she scanned the walls that surrounded the coliseum and the people within them.
His frown deepened. “Is something wrong?”
She looked at him briefly but didn’t hold his gaze. Her sights returned to the small window as she said, “It’s my wedding day. It’s normal for a girl to be nervous.”
And though he couldn’t place why, he knew this was exactly the wrong thing to say.
Fear took hold as he looked at her. She was scarcely aware of his existence, lost to her view of the crowd. His heart picked up as adrenaline released into his blood.
Harland took a step closer. He kept his voice level as he asked, “Firi? Where’s Dwyn?”
She looked at him briefly and frowned. “With the others. Is the attendant coming back?”
He hadn’t even realized his hand had returned to the hilt of his sword. The metal warmed beneath his sweaty palm as that inexplicable fear thudded through him. He feigned a smile as he said, “I thought maybe you’d sayshewas on the wall, just like you and Caris used to do. Do you wish you could have gotten a drink with her like old times?”
Ophir nodded dismissively. “Of course.”
In three steps he was upon her. He encircled her arm in his hand and squeezed.
Ophir yelped in surprise, eyes flaring. Her pupils constricted until they were little more than pinpricks.
He bared his teeth as he tightened his hold. “Where isshe?”
Her lashes fluttered. She tried to shake herself loose. “You’re hurting me!”
“I asked you a question. Where is she!”
Ophir cursed, flashing her canines as her eyes blazed with infernal heat and she growled to herself. “For fuck’s sake, people never work out. I should have stuck to birds.”
“Who the hell are you, and where is Ophir?”
Thirty-Five
Zita had been to sixteen weddings in her time, two of whichhad been her own. She’d only been invited as a foreign dignitary to one other wedding in a distant kingdom, and it had been to see the union of the king and queen of a northern territory, ones who would masquerade as her friends, who would spend the winters in her seaside castle, who would steal her ancestral lands, and who would go on to father Eero—a man who would not only reign as if Aubade had always been his, but who would pursue the migration of humans and fae with melanin into Raascot while he claimed the warmer lands.
She’d spent time in Gwydir getting to know Eero, and she didn’t believe him to be evil. Yet, that was the most malignant of all tumors. The ones that didn’t see themselves for the cancer they were. His unwillingness to acknowledge the past or make the future right had been everything she’d dreaded, and at the same time, the confirmation she’d needed at long last.
Her mind flashed to other weddings. While some in Tarkhany wore white to reflect the fragrant magnolia blossoms and the heavenly purity affiliated with the clouds that spent their time with the sun, other brides had worn red, purple,yellow, or blue. These weddings had been relatively happy occasions of Tarkhany dignitaries, nobility, and even of her favorite handmaiden. While some events had been intimate gatherings with only elected family and friends, others had been balls and feasts and parties.
None had required a coliseum.
Aubade had never been truly cold even on the deepest of winter days. It was part of what had made it a desirable escape for their northern allies when others had searched for a reprieve from frost and chill, and Zita’s family had been magnanimous enough to extend an invite to their castle while they basked in the heat of the winter palace deep within Tarkhany. Their trip had been a biannual ritual every spring and every fall for as long as she could remember, both for Zita and for generations of ancestors before her. Aubade was best enjoyed in the summer, when the ocean moderated the climate and provided an escape from the baking sands.
Those who had fathered Eero’s bloodline were bred for the cold. The goddess had intended their colorless skin for the snow, soaking in every ray of sunlight in dark seasons, absorbing the heat in endless winters. His pale hair and yellow irises were a mockery of the climate he possessed.
Even in the depths of Aubade’s winter, furs were nonessential. She’d noted only a few tufts of animal skins, warm coats, and blankets here and there amid those who populated the stands. But it was chilly by desert standards, to be sure. She was in a thick, velvet dress.
The seamstress had asked if she’d wanted black, to match Ceneth as his witness.
