Page 56 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Thirty-Three

Long gone were the frosted evergreens, the sluggish river, and the blue-black stones of Gwydir.

Ophir missed the lavender mountains. She missed the continent she’d put between herself and her parents. She missed the kingdom and the people who were willing to see her as an adult, rather than an extension of their dynasty. She did not, however, miss the road. Travel did not become her.

She’d been in Aubade for less than a day before servants had cleaned her up and shoved her back into pinching corsets and impossible shoes.

She watched the clock with impending dread as she waited for her mother’s arrival.

The door opened and slammed against the wall with the woman’s entrance like a gavel sentencing her to death.

“My dear,” her mother cooed. Queen Darya opened her arms for Ophir.

The princess stood still while she allowed the embrace to happen, a victim of it rather than a participant.

The queen stepped away with an exaggerated frown.

“Come, now,” she chastised. “You’ve had months to come to terms with your royal obligations.

Do you think I wanted to marry your father?

But we had two beautiful daughters, and I get to serve as this kingdom’s queen, just as you will in the north.

You’re finally back in our castle one last time before Gwydir becomes your home.

Is this really the glum face you want to wear on your final visit to Aubade as an unmarried woman? ”

“At least pour me a strong drink before you begin the verbal assaults,” Ophir grumbled. When the servants did nothing, she crossed to the bar cart and plucked the cork out of a green bottle. “Would you like a glass?”

“Truly, Ophir, why are you like this? You’re about to be a bride!”

Ophir had nothing to say. The woman she called Mother hadn’t breathed a word about manifestation, about the castle, about the summit.

Darya had expressed neither concern nor interest, either because it was unsavory to discuss such things or because denial was her most effective coping mechanism.

Ophir glanced about the round tower room, bitterly remembering the last time she’d been called to this particular chamber.

Her parents had sat on the far side of the table as they’d informed her that she was to stand in Caris’s stead and be wed to the king of Gwydir.

The light filtered in from the far window now just as it had then, months prior.

The seasons had changed, and the world had grown cold, but she’d grown colder.

They had been right about one thing. She was safe with Ceneth.

Her mother breezed to the table at the center of the room.

“Now, we did have the Raascot party bring magnificent cuts of fresh pine boughs. Your father and Ceneth exchanged a few letters to have it orchestrated. It will be a glorious winter wedding, and the people of Aubade so love to see Yule celebrated in the northern way. We’re inviting the kingdom. ”

Ophir looked dully at her mother. She was tired from travel, even if she and Dwyn had awoken in Gwydir only that morning.

She’d created six doors in the thicket behind Castle Gwydir before she’d succeeded in making one that opened to reveal Castle Aubade perched on the cliffs.

Her gift for flame had proven useful as she’d destroyed each of her failed portals before stepping through the door to the seaside kingdom.

She’d sent it up in ashes behind her as they entered the pleasantly warm weather.

She supposed it was winter here, too, but it would be another month before anyone noticed a change in the temperate weather.

“I miss Sedit,” Ophir had muttered glumly as she and Dwyn had started for the castle.

“We’ll fetch him after the wedding,” Dwyn had promised. She’d grunted as her shoe slipped on a loose beige stone and cursed traveling on foot.

“And if we don’t? If the plan fails?”

“Then we’ll make you a new Sedit.”

Ophir had glared unappreciatively but hadn’t had much time to wallow. The steady sounds of hooves on compact ground had filled the air as a traveler approached.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Dwyn had asked.

“Absolutely not,” Ophir had hissed.

Dwyn had sighed. “I’ll do it, just like I do everything. I expect a nice gift for Yule.”

Three hours later, the women had been ushered hastily into the castle by confused servants.

The Gwydir party had arrived the day prior, and it seemed as though no one had known of Dwyn’s gift for travel before Ceneth had informed them.

Fortunately, the castle was in upheaval attempting to accommodate the winged fae and attendants sprinting to and fro in preparation for the royal wedding, meaning that Dwyn and Ophir had been able to slip back into the room they’d once shared while answering remarkably few questions.

The one time they had been stopped by a curious guard, Ophir had simply told him that she was a princess and it was none of his business, which had earned her an appreciative pinch on her left ass cheek from Dwyn.

She thought enviously of Dwyn now, who’d remained napping when Ophir’s mother had summoned her.

“Come, come.” Darya waved her over. “I have all of the diagrams drawn up for the coliseum.”

“You can’t be serious. The coliseum?”

“Weren’t you listening? We’ve invited the kingdom!

We’ve sent runners to all of the neighboring cities.

Anyone who can get here in time is welcome.

We’ve been arranging and decorating for a solid week prior to your arrival.

Three days from now, you’ll be married at sundown.

It’s the most exciting event in centuries, and surely there won’t be anything like it for hundreds of years more. ”

With a low, bitter whisper, Ophir said, “You don’t know the half of it.”

“What was that?” Darya asked, not bothering to look up.

Ophir watched her mother curiously. She’d spent decades believing she was the lesser daughter only because Caris had received all the love that her mother was capable of giving.

Now as she watched the queen busy herself with blueprints of tables, decorations, stands, banners, and makeshift rafts from which they might suspend festive conifer branches, she wondered at her perception of the woman.

Perhaps she hadn’t received her mother’s love because the woman had none.

She was a queen of obligation, a vessel to offspring, a warden of the southern kingdom.

If Darya had always felt this way, then maybe Ophir had severely overestimated how much favoritism Caris had received.

She thought sadly of Caris running and jumping into Ceneth’s arms.

Their over-the-top love had a lot to swallow.

It had seemed unfair that her perfect sister had everything.

But if Darya had been as disengaged with her firstborn, then maybe Ceneth was the first person who truly had seen her.

How terribly lonely it must have been for Caris to carry that burden alone, never telling Ophir that Ceneth’s arms were the first place she’d felt wanted.

It was easy to project upon the dead, unless, of course, one had access to a medium.

“Look at this,” Darya said breezily. “We’ll have the loveliest chamber set up as your bridal preparation room. You’ll come out from here,” she said, pointing to her diagram.

Ophir peered across the table. Her eyes narrowed into unamused slits. “I’m to emerge from the dungeon?”

Darya scoffed. “We’ve already moved the prisoners, and we’ve spent a week cleansing it.

It will sparkle by the time you walk down the aisle.

Now, Ceneth and his witnesses will come from the door on the far side.

It will be deliciously dramatic. The crowd will love it.

We’ll have the orchestra here. The guests of importance will be on the floor with the wedding party, of course, but we’ve even arranged for sweets to be distributed amid the stands! Isn’t that generous?”

“So generous,” Ophir mumbled. Several pieces of enormous parchment covered the table.

One was a diagram of the arrangement. Other papers had been elaborately rendered by artists who hoped to capture an emotion.

They depicted rows of excited faces as the people of Aubade peered down on the wondrous affair.

Another picture displayed a faceless bride with a long, elaborate veil trailing behind her as she approached the groom and the officiating bishop.

Sketches of tables, of nobility, of fresh-cut pine, of yule berries, wine glasses for toasting, and of a winged man with a fae wife littered the surface.

Some had been painted with watercolor, the reds and creams and browns of Aubade decorating the coliseum in muted arrays as her white dress popped from the art.

Her eyes caught on one image in particular.

There was a rather detailed depiction of the exchanging of rings.

Ophir fought to keep contempt from her voice as she let her fingers drift down to the page.

“How curious that the artist would want to portray such a mundane moment,” Ophir said.

“Mmm.” Darya nodded stiffly. “Yes, well, we’re doing things a bit differently. After Ceneth says his vows, we’ll have the first exchange of rings. You must put on the ruby, then slip the sapphire band on his finger, just like the picture.”

Ophir tensed. She closed her eyes slowly, praying that her mother wasn’t implying what she believed. “I think I’d like to go first,” Ophir said testily. “I like the custom of the bride being the first to don the ring.”

“No, no,” Darya said hastily. “You’ll put it on Ceneth’s hand first. The bishop will ensure it is so.”