Page 12 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Six

Valor Mast, Tarkhany

The men were not unique in hating the crossing.

Most would happily live their days within the capital and never set foot in the desert.

Four days on horseback of sweat, misery, shimmering heat, and baking sand were spent in silence if only to conserve energy.

When the first distant, silvery glint of the sea shimmered into view, one of them cried out with joy, but the oceanside was every bit as unforgiving.

The men and horses alike were not seafaring, and the day’s voyage to Valor Mast was, for most of them, a fate worse than death.

Canteens refilled and foods replenished, they finished the last leg on horseback.

Within hours, they’d crested the final hill to the coastal village that had been famously carved into the burned-red cliffs of Tarkhany’s only inhabited island.

They knew they were getting close when the empty skies gave way to the presence of large seabirds.

They urged their horses over the final dune and their smiles quivered at what they saw.

“Sir?” asked one, voice shaking.

The lead waved a hand as he nudged his horse forward.

They’d expected to see the ocean, the plummeting cliffs, and the telltale canvas tents perched above ledges for markets, exchanges, and the milling village folk to interact.

One fallen tent shuddered against the sea breeze, its ripped canvas dancing in the wind as it tried to escape the tether that remained sandbagged to the stone.

Beside the tent was the bloated top half of a man, flies buzzing around the entrails that had dehydrated against the burning stone.

The lead realized he was seeing not seabirds but vultures.

The smell of baked, rotting flesh hit him on the next sea breeze.

He dismounted his horse on shaky legs. It took a moment for him to understand the arms, the bones, the long brown smears of dried blood, and the single foot, still in its shoe.

The high, single note of dizziness joined the crashing of the waves and the throaty growls that had always seemed too mammalian to belong to the ugly, scavenging birds, but he knew enough of death to recognize their sounds.

His men dismounted behind him. The sounds of their feet scraping against the rocks joined the ringing threat of unconsciousness.

The man approached the cliff on uneasy legs, knees wobbling. He hadn’t thought it could get any worse.

He had been wrong.

The waves carried the bloated, bobbing forms of scores of villagers as the tide pushed their bodies lazily against the rocks, jostling the corpses together.

The long hair of women mixed with the kelp.

His eye caught on a shape no larger than a peanut from where he stood on the cliff’s edge, staring at it until he realized that the still form of an infant rested on the wet sand below, never to wail against its mother’s breast again.

He opened his mouth to cry out for any survivors but found his breath stolen on the wind.

His eyes dragged along the squares of windows and rectangles of doors that had been carved into the crimson stones, searching for any sign of life.

Sun-baked smears of red-brown blood marked the cliff.

A single body dangled out of an open doorway, arms moving gently in each strong gust from the sea.

“Sir?” the man asked again.

He nodded swiftly. He needed to get his wits together. If there were survivors, he had to know. He calmed himself before calling out a single word. “Hello?”

The men joined him on either side, all slack-jawed as they stared at the unspeakable carnage.

He jumped so suddenly he nearly tumbled off the cliff when he caught movement from the bottom of his eye.

His breath caught in his throat as an enormous lump, as if he were trying to swallow a lemon, rind and all.

He stared straight down with wide, startled eyes as a hand emerged from the cliff directly below him.

A woman’s head peered out slowly, then disappeared again.

A few moments later, she wordlessly mounted the ladder that led from her cliffside home to the landing directly at his feet.

A fae woman stood before him, a full head and shoulders shorter. Her black, braided hair was nearly an arm’s length longer than it had been a decade prior when she’d left the city. He wasn’t sure if she remembered him, but he certainly remembered her.

She threw a big bag off her shoulder first, then hoisted the rest of her body onto the cliff. The woman rose to her feet as she looked at each of them intently.

“Yes, I remember you,” she said, breaking the silence. The other men shifted nervously on horseback. “No, I have not done well. It was not remote enough. Thank you for wondering. Yes, my hair is longer. No, there are no survivors.”

This was Suley. Her gold-brown face was dotted with jewels, chains, and piercings in a way that no conservative cliffside villager would have dared. Speaking around her was of no use.

“Is this my horse?” she asked, gesturing to one of the two mounts without a rider.

He opened his mouth to tell her that the horses needed water, but he didn’t have the time to say a word before she responded that it hadn’t rained, and they’d have to wait until they reached the port that would take them back to the mainland—nearly one day’s ride.

“Ma’am, the—” one of his riders attempted to argue.

She looked at the men dismissively as she swung up onto the creature.

It huffed beneath the weight of a new rider, but she seemed unbothered.

She looked at him and answered his unfinished question.

“The horses will make it because they don’t have a choice.

Valor Mast has no water. No provisions. There is nothing here for any of us.

What happened here? Yes, excellent question, and one that I can answer, even if I do not understand.

No. Yes, I am always like this. What can you do?

” She looked at the leader, cocking her head to the side.

She didn’t wait for a response as she said, “Stone, is it? That may prove to be a useful ability if we reach the oasis and it’s dry. Don’t bother me until then.”

The girl was so peculiar. He’d never gotten used to it. He tried again to ask what had happened. “And—”

“And the rest, I will tell only to the queen.”

***

Midnah, Tarkhany

“Suley.” Zita opened her arms wide.

The queen had given her the chance to rest, eat, and bathe from her travels before she forced the young fae woman into a hug.

It had given the men a chance to describe the gruesome graveyard at the cliffside village to the queen in excruciating detail.

By the time they met, night had fallen, its hushing effect quieting the palace as everyone tumbled into sleep.

“I’d hoped we’d reunite under better circumstances,” Suley said.

Zita tightened her embrace. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and she meant it.

Her heart ached at the sight of the young fae before her.

“I’m sorry for the horrors you endured. I’m sorry for the nightmare you survived.

I’m sorry for forcing you back into the noise,” she said, cupping the young woman’s face in her hands.

Suley closed her eyes.

The fae was as lovely as Zita remembered. She brushed her fingertips against the complicated ink that ran from her temple to her cheekbone, covering an uneven scar. She was glad Suley had found something beautiful to decorate the pain.

“You need me to stay here at the palace in case Tempus returns in a different form?”

Zita nodded and didn’t bother to ask how she knew. Suley always knew.

She arched a brow. “And to the summit? I suppose that makes sense. Who’s more qualified, after all…?”

“I truly am sorry. Your gift—”

“My curse,” she emphasized.

Zita’s hands had remained cradling Suley’s face.

She ran a gentle finger along the horrible scar that Suley had covered with the black ink of a crescent moon tattoo.

If Suley’s mother hadn’t been a healer, the girl would have succeeded in ending the noise.

She’d been only nine when she’d tried to carve it out of her mind.

“I’ve already summoned a number of harpists, Suley. They’re meant to play outside of your room around the hour. When one tires, another will take over.”

Suley nodded slowly. “That might help with the worst of it, but you’ll need to do me a favor.”

“Anything,” Zita agreed.

“The palace is too loud. I’ll never be able to hear his voice unless you send the men away. Every male guard, attendant, noble, guest, eunuch, and courtesan will need to find somewhere else to stay while I reside in your walls. Can that be arranged?”

“Within the hour,” Zita promised. Irrespective of the time or their state of sleep, she’d have every fae and male human shaken awake and escorted into housing elsewhere in the city.

She clapped her hands, and a bright-eyed attendant rushed to her side.

Zita issued her command, and the attendant set to work.

Suley relaxed visibly as the servant disappeared into action. The thin lines of her frown dissipated as she said, “Yes, I’ll be okay. The travel was dreadful. No, the events were terrifying, and I’m shocked I survived them. You needn’t worry about me. I survived in the city for years.”

If Zita allowed herself to feel annoyed, Suley would hear the thought. She elected pity, instead.

Suley was a child by fae standards. She was scarcely in her third decade of life.

She’d barely made it out of infancy with her life intact, let alone to adulthood.

She’d moved to the arid wilds as soon as she was able, but the nomadic desert tribes had been every bit as miserable as the city.

As far as Zita knew, Suley had survived at the cliffside village longer than anywhere else. Until—

“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to hear about the incident here?”

Zita’s expression was one of guarded caution as she asked, “Are you sure you’re ready to talk about it?”

Suley fished in her satchel for a small, leather-bound book. The book, scarcely larger than the hand that held it, was tied shut with a soft leather cord. Suley unraveled the binding and opened to the first page, turning the book toward Zita.

A jolt went through the queen.

Her eyebrows perked in surprise. “You recognize it?”

Zita’s lips parted to speak.

“Here? Outside the palace? How many dead…oh my. Yes, that is a problem. I do suppose they stood more of a chance at escape than we did. They had alleys to dodge through, guards at the ready, shelter… Oh, of course you’re wondering how I escaped.

Did you encounter the winged, shadowed man—yes, you saw the one like a twisted fae as well.

I heard its noise. Yes, they have noise.

I spoke to it. I knew from its noise what it needed to hear, and it returned to its beast. Ag’drurath, you’re calling the beast?

Winged death? That’s appropriate. Ag’imni? Fitting.”

Zita’s lips became a line.

Suley’s face bunched. “I’m sorry, Zita. I mean, my queen. I’ll be better at it.”

“No, no, dear,” Zita sighed, “I’m not agitated in the least. And for you: It’s Zita. I know the gift is terribly frustrating for you. We’ll keep the speaking to a minimum throughout the palace until the summit. Between that and the harpists—”

“How many will be at the summit? Oh, you don’t know yet.

Eero, Ceneth, Ophir—oh, you’re bringing two men from the Farehold court?

They’ll also leave the palace grounds, correct?

Good. I’m sure they’ll find suitable accommodations.

A door directly to Raascot? How fascinating.

No, I’ve never encountered such a power. Into the forest?”

Suley went unnaturally still.

Zita pressed, “What is it, dear?”

Suley blinked rapidly before meeting Zita’s eye.

“Could I live in the Raasay Forest? Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

I’ve picked up a lot of the common tongue from the noise alone, even if I’ve never studied it formally.

I would have lived on the dunes if it was sustainable.

No, Zita, hear me. It doesn’t have to be the forest. There are entire empty mountains without another human or fae in sight, and with fresh water, and—”

Suley caught her frown, searched her face, and nodded.

“Yes, of course,” Suley agreed. “After the summit, we’ll ask Ceneth.

I’m sure he’d be willing to accommodate a single foreigner in the forest. Yes, I will be on my best behavior.

No, I’ll stay silent. No, I’ll speak to no one but you.

Yes. No. I understand. I won’t. Don’t worry.

Please, stop worrying. I’ll be fine. Yes.

Of course. Yes, I am tired now. Thank you for meeting with me, but I’d prefer to lie down while the other voices are removed from the palace if I’m to listen for Tempus. Yes, I’ll see you soon.”