Page 60 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Thirty-Five

Zita had been to sixteen weddings in her time, two of which had 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.

No, Zita had said. She wanted to wear red.

It was uncouth to pull eyes from the bride on a typical wedding day. Of course, she’d never be so rude. But today was not a typical wedding day, and Zita was dressed for blood.

She knew she’d escape the stadium unscathed. Her shield was her primary power, and as such, it would hold no matter what happened.

She’d raged through centuries of loss, betrayal, hope, despair, wishes, pain, and oppression, their culmination in today’s wedding taking the form of a high, ringing calm.

She was certain that some of the crowd’s chatter was about Ceneth and his great black wings.

She knew that some of the voices must have whispered and gasped about the fabled rich skin of the people who kept to the desert.

She was curious as to how she might feel about the mutterings from thousands of fair-skinned faces under other circumstances.

She was certain she’d pity them, but she didn’t know if Ceneth or Galena felt the same.

She was glad Suley was safely in the quiet of the Raasay Forest, far from the noise and thoughts and judgments of those who’d never been exposed to a world beyond the kingdom they believed to be their own.

Ceneth looked over his shoulder, and she dipped her head slowly in confirmation.

He struck a stunning figure at the end of the long velvet carpet that ran the length of the aisle.

The bride-to-be would walk the sandy length of the coliseum while rows of privileged guests rose to their feet on the ground.

In the stands, thousands of civilians from Aubade and the surrounding cities would stand in reverence as they watched the last fae princess of Farehold take the steps to merge the continent.

She was to stand in for Caris, unifying Raascot and Farehold until they’d melted into a homogenous kingdom.

Of course, Caris had sought reunification through peace, justice, and education.

She would have been an excellent source of healing, of forgiveness, of progress.

The world mourned Caris’s absence, but Zita had a taste for Ophir’s brand of retribution.

If she hadn’t trained herself for poise and serenity, she would have jumped when a booming voice cut over the crowd and orchestra alike.

She kept her face placid as she gazed up into the stands, beyond the milling bodies and sea of civilians, to the royal box.

The king wore a goddess-awful ruby necklace that had been spelled to amplify his voice.

She cooled her expression as she listened to him speak.

“My people!” His voice boomed, and the citizens responded in a roar of jubilation. “Today we gather to see the end of turmoil, the end of strife! For years, we’ve maintained our distance from Tarkhany. On this auspicious occasion, we welcome their queen, who will serve as King Ceneth’s witness!”

Gasps and cheers celebrated the victory of centuries of revelry. At long last, Tarkhany had dropped its grudge. The coastal city of Aubade was Farehold’s to possess, after all.

“The King of Raascot will bring an end to decades of strain as our peoples find their rightful place in the north and south,” Eero went on. “Today, as he marries my daughter, we will publicly declare our will as one.”

Zita’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Ceneth twitch. She only needed him to maintain composure for a few minutes longer.

She unclenched the moment she saw his wings relax behind him.

Fortunately, their place on the coliseum floor was too far away for the audience to perceive the tensions and expressions of their party.

The officiating bishop would have noticed had he not been glued to Eero’s every word.

She didn’t bother to turn to see what the lords, ladies, and wealthy parties of Farehold made of Ceneth’s flinch.

Soon, it wouldn’t matter.

“Rise, good people,” Eero continued, “as we bear witness to history.”

The rumble of thousands of bodies shifting their weight as everyone got to their feet accompanied the orchestral swell of string and woodwind instruments.

The tune was too solemn for a wedding, but perhaps an air of gravity was necessary for the melding of minds as Farehold became the continent’s only power.

Zita followed the turn of ten thousand heads as wooden doors on the far side of the stadium swung open.

The stadium was too large for her to see the exact details of Ophir’s lovely face, but even from the distant edge of the sands, she smirked at the bright white smile on the princess’s face.

Tempus was doing his best impression of what he suspected a woman might look like walking down the aisle to her beloved, of course.

He knew nothing of Ophir, of her reputation in the kingdom, of her complex emotions, or of how a woman might weep on her wedding day.

He’d stood at the far end once, beaming at Zita while she’d maintained a polite expression. Tempus couldn’t even master serenity as he grinned at the dignitaries on the sands below. She would have found his weak portrayal of women amusing if this day weren’t the end of the world.

She didn’t have to wait much longer.

Ceneth clasped both hands behind his lower back.

He was to flash a signal with his fingers when he was ready.

She supposed it really should be his call.

She’d be ready no matter what. She needed to know that her allies would survive the ordeal.

She looked at Galena’s still-fidgeting form, but she had long since given up on wishing the winged woman would stop.

Galena was right to feel disquieted. It was a respectable emotion in times such as these.

As Zita didn’t employ a neutralizer within her courts, she saw it as a sign from the All Mother that their plans had been kissed with blessings.

Perhaps one of Ceneth’s men had had to perish for her to understand the usefulness of Galena’s gift.

The woman had been instructed to cast her power over the room in the summit, and by the time the castle had collapsed around them, it had been too late to see the error of her ways.

Today would be different.

Zita knew Galena was no newborn fae. Now in her seventh decade, Galena could focus her power with intent, as could every fae who’d exercised their ability.

The seamstress had tailored a pretty gray dress for the Raascot witness, though she’d struggled to accommodate the woman’s wings.

Galena had been unable to keep her wings still since the start of the wedding.

She reminded Zita of the birds who would flit through the fountains in her courtyard, treating them like birdbaths.

Their wings would twitch and move as the water cascaded down their backs.

Galena’s flexed, flared, and tucked with the subtlest of movements as she struggled to control her emotions.