Page 64 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Thirty-Seven

One Hour Following the Wedding

Priory

Galena hadn’t hesitated.

Her vision twitched. She was in the forest. She was outside of Priory.

She was safe. Yet her heart still thundered as if she were in Aubade’s coliseum.

The screams of tens of thousands clanged in a dissonant cacophony.

Their shouts of excitement became cries of fury and pain.

Ripples of horror turned into gooseflesh running up and down her arms.

Everything had gone precisely as the others had assured her it would. Injustice had reigned for hundreds of years, and at long last, she had brought hell to them.

“Galena, are you okay?”

Her king was speaking. She looked into his eyes. His face was so kind. His wings flared around her, blocking the trees, the Queen of Tarkhany, the All Mother herself from looking upon Galena’s face to see what she’d done.

She opened her mouth to reply before she reeled, the earth tipping on its axis.

The bishop was talking again. She was back in the coliseum.

The man had scarcely inhaled to begin his speech when Ceneth flashed the signal.

Galena leaped for her king, and Zita spoke the single word that would be the world’s undoing.

The only humans or fae spared from her frenzy would be those neutralized.

With a flick of her fingers, man became monster.

Pupils all around them dilated as the animals within took over, no sentience or sanity remaining in the madness that engulfed them.

Shielding was the queen’s gift. Frenzy was her curse.

And as she was a good, fair queen, the threat of her power was plenty.

No one pushed her, nor did they possess the desire.

She wasn’t evil. She wouldn’t have called upon her dark ability of her own accord.

But then it had come from the princess’s own mouth: She didn’t just want to burn her kingdom to the ground.

She wanted to salt the earth when she was done.

Zita hadn’t had time to soak in the animalistic cries tearing through the throats as citizens and nobles clawed each other to shreds.

Galena had saved them from Zita’s power, but it wouldn’t protect them from the bishop as he bared his teeth and lunged for them.

Zita cast her shield with one hand, maintaining her frenzy with the other.

An unseen bubble engulfed Ceneth, Galena, and her.

Tempus, still wearing Ophir’s face, clutched Galena’s arm, sparing himself from the madness of Zita’s frenzy.

Galena knew he’d lived in fear of her power for years.

The day had come for his fear to be vindicated at long last.

From the distance, Ceneth was shouting at her. “Galena, hey, look at me. Open your eyes.”

She wanted to see him. She wanted to be back in the forest.

But she was still in the coliseum.

The bishop glanced off the shield and howled with bloodthirsty rage.

He tore at the invisible wall, desperate to dig his fingers and teeth into feathered Raascot wings.

Galena cowered at his first downward plunge but then straightened her spine and steeled herself as she faced the madness around her.

Ceneth wrapped his arms protectively around her, sheltering her from the gore as chaos unfolded.

A man’s voice cut through the memory.

Her king was speaking.

“She needs help,” Ceneth called.

“She may not be ready for help,” the queen replied.

Perhaps she wasn’t. Perhaps she would never be.

***

Thirty Minutes Following the Wedding

Zita couldn’t tell if she was in a dark room or if she was still battling for consciousness.

The world rocked beneath her as if she were at sea.

She didn’t understand her surroundings at all until the impact of landing and the flutter of wings informed her that the blackness had been that of feathers.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“We just needed to get out of the city,” Ceneth said quietly. “It’s finished.”

He set her gently to the ground.

She was alive, which surprised her. An immense display of secondary powers often cost the user their life. She’d entered the wedding unsure if she’d make it out. Yet, here she was, opening her eyes in the arms of Raascot’s king.

Thirty minutes prior, she’d stood beside him in the coliseum’s center, prepared to upend the world.

She’d looked into the eyes of King Eero and Queen Darya, knowing it was the last time she’d see them. She’d gazed at their citizens, at the dignitaries, at the throngs who sat in a stolen stadium in a stolen capitol on stolen ground.

Ophir had been about to destroy the world, yet she hadn’t even been there to watch it happen.

The bishop had barely begun the ceremony when Ceneth’s signal had set the plan into motion.

The neutralizer had grabbed King Ceneth, sparing him from Zita’s most terrible power as she had raised her hands and sent thousands of cheering spectators into a mindless throng of ripping, tearing maniacs. She had held her shield around their little party as the chaos descended.

The bishop had torn for their throats. When the once-holy man had failed to grab Ceneth or Galena, he’d slashed for Ophir.

Zita had seen the precise moment that Tempus had understood what she’d done.

Her shield had not extended to him.

She had sunk to one knee as her secondary power weighed heavily on her, but she had met her husband’s eyes.

“Zita!” he’d shrieked, still wearing Ophir’s face, holding on to Ceneth’s hands for dear life, desperate to be connected to the neutralizer. The moment Tempus released his vise grip on Ceneth, his mind would be lost.

“Zita, please! Zita!”

She had held his gaze in his final moments. He’d deserved to watch her cold difference as he realized she’d meant what she’d said when she’d banished him. He was a cockroach. The only thing that could kill him was a swarm of insects low enough to eat him alive.

“Zita,” he had gasped one last time. She had maintained her hold on the frenzy and shield alike as the bishop had succeeded in wrenching the bride from Galena.

The moment Tempus had lost his grip on the neutralizer, madness had claimed him.

They’d ripped into one another with instantaneous wrath, their bloodlust not stopping when nails bore into skin, when teeth bit into flesh, or as entrails were ripped from the abdomen of the other.

She’d watched the bride ripple into little more than an unloved man in a stolen dress as the life had dimmed from his eyes.

He and the bishop had collapsed into one another, soaking in the other’s blood as the world fell to pieces around them.

Bodies had toppled from on high. Chairs, dresses, instruments, decorations, jewels, wine, and festive pine boughs cut for a Yule wedding had smashed into splinters, floating on rivers of pulp and crimson viscera. The screams had begun to ebb as the numbers around them had dwindled.

Zita had blinked against crippling exhaustion as sickness had begun to claim her. She had looked up through foggy eyes to the royal box where the king and queen had stood only minutes prior and had spotted Eero’s bejeweled crown on a cracked-open skull.

Relief, sorrow, vindication, and remorse had roiled through her as she’d taken several ragged breaths.

Her second knee had dropped. Her arms had wavered as she’d struggled to maintain her hold on her gifts.

Before she’d realized what was happening, the King of Raascot had scooped her into his arms. With Galena on his heels, they’d launched into the sky, escaping the stadium just as the coliseum had fallen into an eerie, powerful silence.

It was the end of the usurper’s era.

The foliage beyond Priory was untouched by the early signs of winter. Yellow leaves and dense underbrush replaced the yellow hair and twisting bodies in her memory.

She was safe for the time being, though only beginning to feel the true consequences of her power as her heart weakened. Her knees buckled.

Galena landed beside her and rushed to help support her. “Goddess, Zita, are you okay? Is there anything you need?”

“I… I didn’t expect to awaken.” Zita shut her mouth before she said more.

She didn’t want to speak her truth before the others: She had wanted to die in that coliseum.

She refused to be like the line of Farehold’s kings who had profited off the suffering of civilians.

She’d secured one thousand years of her cities wiped off the maps, ensuring her people would not be further exploited by foreign dignitaries.

Anyone who’d want vengeance for what had happened in Aubade was dead now, and those who’d survived surely would have no idea what they’d seen or what had occurred.

Confusion and frenzy were allies, after all.

Ceneth seemed to understand her silence.

“This isn’t your fault,” he said.

She pursed her lips.

“You helped Aubade find its retribution. You saved your people. I became the sort of villain who could never look Caris in the eyes again. It’s good she’s dead. I wouldn’t want her to see what I’ve become.”

“Would either of you blame the victim for swinging the sword against her pursuer?” Galena asked. She appeared fully present as she waited for their reply.

“It’s a false comparison,” Ceneth exhaled. “Our kingdoms were at peace. They believed us to be their allies.”

“You’re not ignoble for breaking the rules that another exploited for your oppression. The rules were at fault, as was the one who crafted them for subjugation. Not you.”

It was the sharpest Galena had appeared in some time. The winged neutralizer appeared to fall in and out of the present as her eyes unfocused once more.

Zita looked at the king, whose head was still bowed. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Gwydir,” Ceneth said. “You have a direct portal to Tarkhany just beyond the city. With Tempus gone and Suley beginning her new life, there won’t be much incentive to stay in Raascot.

Of course, you’re welcome in my kingdom as long as it pleases you.

Hassain is still with Samael, but he may very well wish to escort you home. ”

“Suley is gone.” Zita swallowed.

“She’s on my land,” Ceneth said. “She’s very safe among my people, and I’m certain she’s fine. I’ll send word and a tracker will find her within the hour of our arrival.”

She nearly protested, given Suley’s wishes for a solitary life, but was warmed by a thought.

The young fae had sought asylum to be free of the noise.

Now, thanks to the blood magic of the fae called Dwyn, Suley had gotten her wish.

Maybe between the two of them, Zita and Suley wouldn’t need to spend the rest of their days alone.

Perhaps they could share the years that remained, free from the curses that had plagued them.

For the first time in a long time, Zita felt an unfamiliar ember of hope.

Her happily ever after awaited her, and at last, it took the shape of peace.

Zita shivered against the chill that crept through her poisoned blood. “I would like that very much. I believe Suley would, too. But we won’t be able to fly all the way back to Raascot without provisions, and I’m too sick to contribute.”

“It’s all taken care of, Queen Zita. It’s over, and we’ve won.

The rest of my party is awaiting us,” Ceneth said.

“They were instructed not to attend the wedding. They’re waiting near Farehold’s Temple of the All Mother.

It seemed a safe rallying point away from prying eyes.

They have food, water, and the warm clothes we’ll need for travel. Are you well? We can carry on.”

She confirmed that she was fine but wasn’t certain it was true.

The chill she felt wasn’t solely the result of the weather.

Her blood cooled, cold sweat clinging to her forehead.

She’d sustained her frenzy for a long, long time.

She’d only used it twice in her life, and both times had nearly resulted in her demise.

The first time, her tutors and peers in the palace had been the ones to pay the price as she’d discovered her power for chaos.

After six days in bed carefully watched over by healers and a crying mother, two things had been determined.

The first was that her power was extremely dangerous to everyone around her.

The second was that she would also suffer the cost of its usage.

Perhaps it was fitting. All magic came at a price. If a kingdom toppled, so should she.

She began to relax onto the ground when a bolt of lightning shot through her. Her mouth dropped open in panic as she grabbed for Ceneth’s arm.

“The rings!” She gasped at their oversight.

She’d meant to swipe them from the bishop and his attendants, but she’d succumbed to her secondary power before she’d had the chance.

The rings had been the pivotal piece of information that had swayed Ophir’s decision.

The manufactured objects were far too dangerous to remain in the world.

“I grabbed them,” Galena said. “The moment you fell and dropped your frenzy, I dove for the box as Ceneth rushed for you.”

Relief washed over her.

“I’m so glad you’re with us now, child. I was worried we’d lost you. Now, give me the rings.”

The fae tucked her wings behind her back. Her body was present, but her mind still appeared absent, fighting her demons just like the fae who’d seen war and couldn’t leave the battle on the field. Eyes glazed, she began to hand Zita the box, then hesitated.

Ceneth nodded his approval, and the fae woman gave Zita the rings.

She would have been offended, but Galena was not her subject and had no fealty to her.

Zita took the box and allowed relief to soothe her, massaging the tension from her muscles and easing her worry as the final key to Farehold’s manipulative power was securely in her hands. She popped the box open…and frowned. Zita looked up at Ceneth, who matched her expression.

“This isn’t right.”

“What is it?” Galena asked.

Zita shook her head slowly, denial joining her exhaustion as the miserable sickness threatened to pull her under.

It was Ceneth who spoke, his whisper joining the rustling of branches around him as he said, “This isn’t right. These aren’t the rings.”