Page 15 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Nine

It was hard for Tyr to know what was usual and what was unusual in a new kingdom.

He’d mistakenly followed a few people up and down the castle’s corridors, certain that they didn’t belong in the innermost walls.

He’d discovered, instead, that Gwydir’s culture of informality created both a curious lack of security and an environment of implied trust. Unfortunately for them, trust was easy to exploit for someone hiding in the shadows.

Tyr spotted a curious person with a bright yellow scarf wrapped tightly around their head.

The individual wore a flowing floral shawl—one that he would have described as a kimono if they’d been in Sulgrave rather than Raascot.

Tyr would have merely marked the person as peculiar, had the individual not been walking directly for the king’s personal bedchambers.

With nothing to do and all the time to do it, Tyr walked silently behind the stranger, barely slipping into Ceneth’s room before the door shut behind him.

One of these days, he’d surely get caught in the door and give himself away. It hadn’t happened in centuries of sleuthing, so he was long overdue for a slipup.

Instead, he snuck along the far wall and eyed the setup with heavy skepticism. Ceneth sat at an empty table, curtains drawn, with only the fireplace to light the room despite the happy midday sun. The one in the yellow scarf slid into the chair and immediately extended their hands.

Ceneth reached across the table with eagerness, but the person snatched their hands away.

“Every time we meet, you tell me she’s begged you not to call on her again. You are my king, and I will answer when you summon me. We can meet every day for five centuries. However, I must ask: Are you sure violating your late bride’s wishes is what you want?”

Tyr’s pulse skipped. Were they truly summoning the dead? No, that couldn’t be. Consorting with spirits was forbidden across the kingdoms, wasn’t it?

Ceneth withdrew his hands, burying his head in his palms. “I can’t do any of this without her. Maybe if I could just dream of her again…”

The person frowned. “Your Majesty, do you still dream?”

Ceneth nodded, though his head remained buried in his hands.

Their frown deepened. “King Ceneth… Have you considered that you were never dreaming of Caris?”

The king’s face rearranged in a painted mask of confused displeasure.

The scarfed stranger pursed their lips. “Your Majesty, aside from your wings and perfect sight in the blackest of nights, what abilities have you demonstrated?”

He waved away the question. “I have the power to steer a nation and the ability to soar through the sky. The All Mother was perfectly generous with her hand.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. However, I suspect you may have been…visiting Caris.”

Ceneth leaned back in his seat. “Say your piece, Medium.”

Tyr eyed the exchange from the space between things. It was true. The king of Raascot was summoning the dead.

“If you’ve never spoken to anyone about your dreams,” the medium continued, “you’d have no reason to suspect them as anything but dreams. It’s not uncommon for dream walkers to spend their lives without realizing they’re predisposed to such a gift.

It may be why you feel most connected with your beloved here near the bed.

It would explain why you no longer dream of her. ”

Ceneth looked like he’d been slapped. “One doesn’t simply discover powers at my age. It’s not possible.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, no fae would be expected to understand the well of their gifts unless forced into trials of demonstration, which simply aren’t done.”

He sighed. “Maybe they should be.”

But Ceneth had lost his steam. His anger had waned before it had even had the chance to swell. He extended his hands again.

“Are you sure?”

“Please,” said the king.

The word was so desperate. Tyr had heard that sound only in the voices of those lost to addiction in Aubade’s alleys. He had never imagined such a broken word on the lips of Raascot’s monarch.

Ceneth’s fingers twitched, and the medium sighed.

They slipped their hands into Ceneth’s, held them for a moment, then frowned.

The pair’s faces were mirrors of displeasure.

The medium tilted their head to the side, eyebrows bunching against their confusion.

Finally, they sighed and released Ceneth’s hands.

“What?” Ceneth demanded.

The medium shook their head. “There’s something impure about the connection. Something isn’t aligned. I won’t be able to channel her.”

Shit .

Tyr was certain his presence was to blame. If he could have slipped out of the room undetected, he would have done it. As it stood, he was grateful the medium had been unsuccessful. For all he knew, a ghost would have been able to see him in the space between things.

“Is it because of Ophir? I’ve seen Caris once since her sister arrived, I—”

The medium stood.

“Please don’t go,” Ceneth said sadly.

“Your Majesty, I have no control over the spirits. I’m a conduit. When the door is shut, it’s shut. We cannot force it open, no matter how badly we want to.”

“Just tell me.” The king’s voice was miserable. “Did Caris shut it? Is she unwilling to see me? Is this her?”

The medium made a pitying sound. “No,” they said, “she has told you time and time again not to visit. If she could close the door, I believe she would have long ago. She has not, because she cannot. Something is amiss in your castle, Your Majesty. If you’d like, we can try again tomorrow.”

Ceneth balled his hands into his fists, then relaxed them. He stood, rubbing his temple as if he were battling a blooming headache. He escorted the medium to the door and ushered them out with a curt nod. Tyr made a dash for the door, but it closed before he could slip out.

Shit, shit, shit .

He relaxed against the wall. This was a situation he’d been in plenty of times.

Entering places you didn’t belong often meant remaining in those places for longer than you intended.

He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to tell Ophir that a medium was in Ceneth’s employ.

He trusted her with information, but he didn’t want her to risk carving open a wound that had taken so long to knit its scarred, jagged patches over her heart.

Perhaps he’d add it to the list of secrets that would damn him to hell.

So, there he stood, in the shadows, pondering the fate of his immortal soul and his relationship to Ophir.

Instead of escaping to the kitchens or spying on the princess and her witch, he was left watching Raascot’s king as the man paced in tight circles at the foot of his bed.

He continued to rub his temple, adding pressure until it looked as though he might injure himself.

Ceneth stopped mid-stride. He sucked in a shaky breath before sinking to the bed. And, much to Tyr’s surprise, alone in the dark of his room with the curtains drawn, the King of Raascot wept.