Page 36 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Twenty-Two

The battle of wills was obnoxious, but Ophir had nothing but time.

To her right, Dwyn seemed agitated, which was unusual.

She cast a sidelong glance at the siren, but Dwyn wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Dwyn’s hummingbird gaze flitted from Zita to Harland to Eero and everyone in between as if they were little more than flowers in her pursuit of nectar.

Under any other circumstances, Ophir would have asked what was wrong.

On her left, Tyr’s tension was separate but equal.

She wanted to find relief in his visible presence, but this constricting strain didn’t allow for small pleasures.

Rather than glance amid the surrounding kingdoms’ ambassadors, Tyr’s jaw was set, teeth gritted against nothing in particular.

Ophir leaned forward and looked expectantly to the end of the table at her husband-to-be.

Evander sat stoically on one side, and on the other sat a rather pretty winged woman Ophir had never seen.

Between her father and her fiancé, she absently wondered how many men in her life would show up at important meetings with unfamiliar women before it became a problematic pattern.

Ceneth met her eyes for a moment. There was no hostility in his face as he regarded her, nor was there kindness.

He was a true neutral. The king of Raascot exhaled and stood.

His well-tailored clothes hug a bit too loosely on his frame.

It was not the first time she’d noticed his weight loss.

In a sick way, it was something she liked about him.

Their shared grief held a purity that no one else could truly understand.

She watched the way the collar of the shirt gaped slightly against what had been the thick column of his neck, the cuffs around his wrists showing slightly too much space around his once-broad forearms as he spoke.

“I’m honored that the rulers of Farehold and Tarkhany have graced my castle with their presence.

It’s with a heavy heart that I draw our summit to its final day.

Our three mighty kingdoms deserve a joyous union, but we must live within the world and its realities. Queen Zita, would you like the floor?”

Ceneth didn’t wait for an answer as he sank back into his chair.

He remained on the far end of the table, Eero taking its opposite end, as he had before.

Ophir sat nearest to the door, while the party from Tarkhany remained backlit against a row of arched windows.

Perhaps under mundane circumstances, Ophir would have been grateful for the distraction to look out the window at the dark river beyond, picking apart the violet mountains, counting the stones on the distant cathedrals. These were not mundane circumstances.

The Queen of Tarkhany had once again blended the fashions of the desert with the warmth required of the north. Though her pale gown suggested she might have awoken in her desert palace, the snow-creature fur that ran down her arms worked overtime to bundle her against the climate.

Zita looked at Ceneth curiously before leaning in her chair toward King Eero.

She remained seated as she said, “I don’t think I need the floor.

Not only has Tarkhany done nothing wrong, but it shielded your daughter, Eero, and apparently kept the secret of the blood on your hands.

I believe it’s your turn to state your case. ”

Rather than meet her eyes, Eero stared into the middle of the table as if looking into the core of the earth.

The room held its collective breath while everyone waited for Eero to speak.

Eventually, the King of Farehold said, “After days of deliberation, Farehold has come to the conclusion that Tarkhany’s request for accountability has long since passed any acceptable statute of limitations.

Your quarrel was with my father, Queen Zita.

It has nothing to do with me, and certainly nothing to do with my daughter or her heirs. ”

Tension thrummed through the table.

“Disappointing but not surprising,” was all Zita said. After a beat, she said, “Perhaps the past is the past, but what of the present?”

“What of it?” Eero’s throat bobbed.

“Before we make plans for our future, I’d like a promise today, sealed in magic. I move for Tarkhany’s cities to be expunged from your maps.”

His brow furrowed.

“Speak to your future, Eero. How can I know that the past will not repeat itself, unless it is not an option? I move for one thousand years of silence. Tarkhany may come and go from your lands, but you are not to cross into the desert.”

“That’s absurd! That’s—”

“Please, King Eero,” Ceneth said through his teeth. “Is it ridiculous for her to request that her homelands not be stolen a second time? After all, the north has yet to forget that these snowcapped mountains were not our ancestral lands. Your people have a habit of…migrating.”

“That’s one offense too many,” Eero seethed.

Ignoring him, Ceneth said to Zita, “Raascot will honor this request. We will sign a treaty and have your cities vanish from all papers and documents, and we will vow not to cross into your lands for one thousand years. Though let it be known, if you choose to cross of your own volition, you will always be welcome in the north.”

“I did not ask it of Raascot,” she said.

“And yet, you have it.”

The room’s silence had a soupy, drowning quality. Each breath was a struggle as monarchs and advisors sipped on spoonfuls of tension. Zita eyed the crowned men for a quiet while before turning to address Ophir.

“And you, Princess? How have you spent your three days of recess?” The queen watched her carefully.

The faces beside Ophir contorted with terse attention.

Their heightened emotions stirred the already-simmering cauldron within her.

Tyr’s silent plea seemed to will her not to lash out, while Dwyn emanated a different nameless energy entirely.

Neither breathed as they silently regarded her.

Raascot, Farehold, and Tarkhany’s attention remain trained on her as she held the floor.

“If you’ll allow me a detour, Queen Zita,” she said, waiting for Zita’s nod before she continued.

Ophir sucked on her teeth, allowing her anger to take root and grow into a magnificent, thorned weed before she spoke.

“Raascot has shown me protection and kindness. Though it was meant to be Caris’s kingdom through marriage, I’m grateful for my friends here.

I have no reason to mistrust anyone in Gwydir.

” She nodded at Ceneth. His face tensed with uncertainty at the edge that crept into her voice, but he cautiously returned the gesture.

She looked back to Zita, saying, “You not only sheltered me but aided in the pursuit of my enemies and my avenue for justice. No one holds you to blame for the actions of… What was the shapeshifter’s name? ”

Zita remained silent.

Ophir shrugged lightly before turning to her father. “I suppose he’s unimportant. Alas, now it’s time to address Farehold. Father?”

Eero stiffened visibly at the extreme rigidity with which she addressed him. Harland’s eyes flared in a plea, but she held no space in her heart for his silent prayers. To his side, Samael leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap as he observed.

“Farehold,” she said to the room, “married me off to Raascot as if Caris and I were interchangeable. When I was not amenable and I fled, I was pursued.” Ophir paused for effect, scanning the intense faces around the room before continuing.

“Farehold did not trust our bond. Did you know this? In fact, the king sitting upon the throne in Aubade was so distrustful of our treaty, he made other arrangements to ensure his will is done.” She looked at Ceneth, studying his face as she asked, “The woman he brought: Were you aware that her gift is one of fertility? Did you know that she’s forced my womb to prepare for your child? ”

Ceneth’s jaw dropped.

Eero rumbled with a threatening growl, “It would be wise to cease speaking, Ophir.”

The room bristled as if they were little more than a pack of dogs, teeth bared in their hostile standstill.

“No, I don’t think it would. Should we consummate our union, Ceneth? Good King Eero can’t risk missing his opportunity to have an heir sit upon both of our thrones. Yet, that wasn’t enough, was it, Father?”

Evander and the nameless woman at Ceneth’s side looked like they might back away from the table. The blatant evidence of revulsion rippled through their expressions like a stomach flu.

Ophir tore her gaze from Ceneth, looking to her father as she said, “Shall I tell Ceneth about your wedding present?”

Eero’s voice rang with firm anger as he growled his daughter’s name, chewing the syllables as if a hound snarling into a steak.

“Stop it, Ophir!” her father demanded.

Harland’s plea rang out at the same time, her name little more than a desperate whisper on his lips.

“That’s right.” She looked to Ceneth’s still-shocked face, then back to her father’s.

“The rings you offered as our wedding gift would not only bond us, but fuse us, so that we could not defy one another. You meant to make Ceneth a puppet. You mean to raise his armies against Tarkhany should they march. You meant to melt my mind—”

“Ophir!” Eero slammed his fist against the table. He was on his feet in one swift motion. His metallic eyes burned.

She was on her toes not a moment later. The fire within her burned beyond his. “You meant to meld us, Eero ! What am I to you? Not only am I not your child; I’m not even a person. I have no autonomy. I’m a pawn in the game of kingdoms and castles. Isn’t that right?”

He snapped, “Don’t speak of what you do not know.”

“What don’t I know?” she snarled in return. “What have I left out, Father?”

No one else existed. The room faded into black and white dots of distant clouds and static as father and daughter matched each other step for step.