A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Forty

Forty

9:00 PM

Ophir stood on Midnah soil for seventeen minutes and thirty-seven seconds according to her pocket watch before she was intercepted by a cloud of thundering guards on horseback.

It was probably for the best.

A miserable anxiety had filled her while she approached the city. Not only was she alone, but she’d told Sedit to stay outside of city limits so that he wasn’t harmed. She could call on another beast to aid her at a moment’s notice in her time of need, but every step bringing her closer to the orange, vibrant glow of life in the midst of a night-darkened desert made her nerves swell.

She’d barely had time to take in her unfamiliar surroundings before the clattering of hooves greeted her with a universal truth: trouble was approaching. She couldn’t read the signs, she didn’t know the language, and she’d drawn more than a few stares for looking like a phantom. She’d been an ignorant fool to barrel southward without thinking twice about how different one kingdom would be from the next. Perhaps the late hour and the moonless night aided in her aura of mystery, but she wasn’t sure if it was helping or hurting her cause.

Four men sat atop glossy mounts in lightweight, leather armor. It was probably more appropriate for the climate than the metallic breastplates common to Farehold. They peered down at where she stood, an unaccompanied foreigner on foot.

The first thing the guard said to her had Ophir blinking up at him in helpless bewilderment. He waited expectantly for an answer, but none came. The guard looked around, perhaps wondering if his words had been in any way unclear. An idea struck her and she held up a finger—a known signal for him to wait for just a moment. She put her hands into her bag as if she were fetching something, but instead she closed her eyes and focused her intention. The cool weight of a metallic cuff settled in her hands and she closed her fingers around it, lifting it from the bag as if she’d intended to find it all along. She slipped the cuff over her ear. Its curve and points fit perfectly, though it was quite flowery and more ornamental than she’d intended, which was a nice change from the terrors of the night she so often created. The cuff ended with a small, metallic curl that looped into her ear.

She smiled, dipping her head in a nod.

He repeated his question, and to her delight, her device worked. He’d asked her to speak her name and business. The ornamental cuff translated his words, funneling his message directly into her ear.

Shit . How was she supposed to respond?

She offered her most apologetic frown. “My name is Ophir—Princess Ophir, from Farehold.”

The man looked over his shoulder at a second guard, who stepped forward. His brows were low and heavy, as if weighed down with their suspicion, as he inspected her. The night was dark enough that she wasn’t sure how much they could discern from her expression, but from the torches they held, she could see their skepticism.

“You’re a princess?” He responded in the common tongue, his words curving as curiously as her ornamental device, the lilting, unfamiliar accent compared to the flat sounds of the citizens of Aubade.

Surprise and relief colored her cheeks in return. “Yes, I am. I’m the daughter of King Eero and Queen Darya of Farehold. I’m looking for someone who I think is taking refuge in your city.”

He turned to the first guard and translated her message, which, thanks to her device, she received with perfect clarity.

“Another one?” The first guard’s tone was more unnerved than surprised.

“Two is hardly an invasion,” the translator replied in his native tongue.

The four exchanged uncomfortable looks, their horses shifting with impatience.

“Two too many,” the first guard muttered. “Will this one also go to the dungeons?”

The dungeons. They’d already stumbled upon another foreigner in the city. Berinth. It had to be. Her heart raced at the picture of Berinth caught behind bars like a rat in a cage.

“No, no,” the second replied, “this one claims to be royalty. A princess.”

She hung on every word, ascertaining that she was to be taken to the palace so that their king might decide what to do with her—they hadn’t used the word “king,” but she gathered his position of power from the context.

To her surprise, the one who’d translated dismounted from his horse and offered it to her. She expected him to swing back into the saddle, but instead he led the horse while remaining on foot. It may have only taken seventeen minutes for the guards to find her, but it was another hour of escorting her through the city before the first otherworldly firefly dance of fae lights illuminated the world surrounding the enormous, vase-shaped tops of the palace. The gates were opened, and they were ushered in, but Ophir had little attention to spare on the minutiae of city life while her eyes were busy drinking in the golden palace—at least, the tops seemed to be made of gold. The body of the palace was made of an unfamiliar light-colored stone, not quite marble, but not the cream or custards of Aubade. The same tall, branchless trees she’d noticed in the city grew in rows here, their leaves gathered at the top like a feathered plume on a hat. The greatest display of wealth and opulence in the desert was the wastefulness of water that flowed freely from decorative fountains and reflective pools before the palace doors.

They left the horses behind as she stepped into the surreal, out-of-body experience of having lived decades of life, been to so many parties, seen countless things, and yet had the hubris to assume she’d seen most of what the world had to offer. Meeting Dwyn and Tyr had made her starkly aware of how little she knew of Sulgrave. Arriving in Tarkhany was a wakeup call to her narrow exposure to the world. She thought of all of this, and none of it as her eyes scanned the tall pillars that held up unfathomably high ceilings—doubtlessly for the heat, allowing it to rise while the humans and fae below remained comfortable.

Ophir kept an eye on the bodies around her as she entered the palace, trying to see if there were any mannerisms or practices she could perceive and adopt before making a fool out of herself. Instead, she was too distracted by the loveliness of the intricately designed fabrics in the flowing swaths of clothes, much of it loosely draped and leaving little to the imagination. A curious bird nearly the height of a fae wandered about the castle on two thin legs. Its body was an interesting combination of white, black, and gray, but its face was the vibrant orange and yellow of sunset. Elaborate tufts of black feathers looked like a spectacular halo, almost as if the bird was wearing a crown. It turned to look at her, cocking its head curiously to the side.

She turned to inquire about the unusual bird, but the guards were whispering to one another. She kept her mouth quiet as she listened.

“Let’s take her to the king.”

“No, we’ll let her decide what to do with the princess.”

“Is that wise? Should she—”

“She’ll want to see the girl.”

Ophir’s earpiece translated each message rapidly as her eyes darted from person to person. The man who’d given her his horse knocked on a door and whispered to the answering servant. Ophir stood stoically behind the guards, wondering who she would meet and what might unfold.

I’m a snake .

She repeated Dwyn’s affirmation until she believed it. She had nothing to fear. She had power. She could strike. Ophir’s fingernails bit into the flesh of her palms nervously, wishing Dwyn were here now. It was a foolish wish—no different from wishing there had been poison in her wine or hoping a storm might capsize your ship. Wanting Tyr or Dwyn was no different from desiring your own demise.

She knew it to be true. And yet.

The servant returned and exchanged a few more whispered words to the guard. Their voices were too low for her to discern what was being said, though she tried. The guard gestured for Ophir to follow the servant as he took a step backward, ushering her into the long, pillar-lined palatial space beyond.

Aubade’s castle was huge by all measures of the imagination, but the vaulted ceilings of the palace made it seem larger than life itself. Rooms in Aubade were half of the size of the halls and foyers in Tarkhany, and she assumed it was by design. Her bedchambers at home needed to be small enough to capture the heat from the fireplace. Similarly, these rooms needed to be large enough to allow the heat to dissipate, rather than suffocate the resident. Ophir attempted to ask the servant where she was going, then her name, then what they were going to do with her, but the woman did not respond. Either she didn’t speak the common tongue, or she did and preferred not to answer.

No matter where Ophir looked, a new, vibrantly colored, brightly scented object, flower-filled vase, incense-laden pendulum, or elegant bust decorated the large, open rooms.

“Here you are,” said the servant with flawless command of the common tongue.

Ophir’s eyes became unappreciative slits. How rude.

They led her to a fae woman with close-cropped black hair in a loose gown that would have matched the burned- orange desert sands in daylight, contrasting beautifully against the rich depth of her skin. It wrapped around her neck, covering her chest, but with a daringly low cut in the back. When she turned to lead the group farther into the room, Ophir could see the entire divot of her spine as it ran from her neck all the way to the small of her back where the dress scooped, fabric gathering once more just below the dimples of her hip bones.

Ophir wondered if this was the “she” the soldiers had referred to.

10:00 PM

“I assume you haven’t learned our language before coming to our lands?” The Tarkhany woman spoke the common tongue with the same melodic accent Ophir had heard with the guards. It was technically a question, but it was clear she knew the answer.

“I’m sorry,” Ophir apologized, “though I am grateful you possess more skill and education for language than I do. I’m not here on a diplomatic mission, I’m afraid. I’m looking for someone. My name is Ophir.”

The woman’s eyes grazed slowly from the top of Ophir’s head down to her toes. While all fae had irises larger than that of a human, the coal-dark depths of her eyes almost made it appear as though they were composed entirely of pupil, with only the barest hints of white at the outer corners. It was almost owl-like. A slow smile spread across her mouth, revealing her pronounced canines. “Are you really? Do I look upon the Princess of Flame?”

Ophir straightened her shoulders, though it was shame that made her do so. “Please, accept my apologies. You know my name, my title, and my power. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Ophir waited for a name. She fidgeted uncomfortably, reminding herself that she could call hounds into existence at any moment. She thought of Sedit, wishing he were with her. Hell, she wished Tyr and Dwyn were beside her. Alas, she was alone. She’d come alone by design and would have to live with such consequences.

“Leave us.” The woman waved to the servant. Once she exited the room, the woman crossed to a long, thin table covered in foods and drinks. She’d brushed past Ophir in her pursuit of the table, and a citrus scent radiated from her. “Are you hungry from your travels? Of course, I’ll set you up to have you bathed, but please, Princess Ophir of the Middle Kingdom, share a meal with me.”

“Farehold,” Ophir corrected. “I’m from Aubade.”

“The Middle Kingdom,” she said with feigned gravity. “The kingdom that sees itself at the center of the world.”

Ophir wasn’t sure if she’d been insulted or if this was merely a show of geography. She stood uncertainly for a moment, scanning the room. She was confident she’d been brought to the stranger’s private quarters, though she wasn’t sure why she’d be escorted to a bedroom. After an uncomfortable silence, Ophir walked tentatively to the table and eyed the unfamiliar fruits. Many were brightly colored, fragrant, and utterly foreign to her. She selected a magenta fruit that looked to be covered in soft, green needles, frowning at it. “How do I eat this?” she asked.

The woman’s smile broadened, teeth brilliantly white. She plucked one for herself and demonstrated how to peel it, sucking out the sweet, white fruit inside.

“You don’t look filthy enough for someone who’s crossed our desert and wandered into my kingdom alone and on foot. Your hair is tangled, but your presence is…curious.”

Ophir’s hand flew self-consciously to her hair. She scanned her clothes, knowing exactly what the woman meant. She should have been caked in orange-red dust from the sand. She should have been coated in dirt, drenched in sweat, and half-mad with heat stroke. Instead, thanks to her winged mount, her hair had only twisted into snarls in the wind after a day and a half of flight. She could use a hairbrush, but she did not look fresh off the trail.

“Will you tell me your name?” Ophir asked finally.

“I suppose it’s only fair, though I find it insulting that you’ve entered my palace without knowing of my existence. I’m Zita.” She extended her hand.

Ophir clasped it, and Zita chuckled.

“You’re meant to kiss it.”

“But, I’m…”

“A princess? Yes, I’m aware. And I am queen of this land. These kisses are born of neither fealty nor subservience. They’re merely polite. You’ve made no effort to educate yourself beyond your bubble, have you? Such a pity.” Zita relaxed onto a lounging chaise and pulled a small bowl of fruits to her. “Princess of Flame, sit with me, Queen of the Desert, and rest beneath my shield. Tell me why you’ve come, and if I find your story worthy, I’ll tell you who I am. Is that a fair trade?”

“And by shield—”

Zita’s amusement colored her face. “I know one of your abilities, do I not? You know one of mine.”

The queen spoke in riddles steeped with consequence. Despite her grime and exhaustion, Ophir did her best to reorient herself as she would before royalty. She pitched her voice for due reverence.

“All right, then. I suppose I don’t know what you might consider worthy, but yes,” Ophir agreed, “I’m looking for someone who I believe to be hiding in your city. He goes by Lord Berinth. Do you know of anyone by that name?”

“That name? No. A pale fae in Tarkhany who doesn’t belong, however—that I do. Such a man resides in my dungeons as we speak.”

It didn’t surprise her that he’d used an alternate name. What did surprise her was how easy it had been to confirm his whereabouts.

“Did he commit a crime?” Ophir nearly gagged on her question. Aside from slaughtering Farehold’s firstborn heir, robbing Raascot of a queen, and gouging out royal organs , she amended within the acidity of her heart. “I mean to ask: why did the man I’m pursing travel to Midnah only to be thrown behind bars?”

“He wasn’t arrested for the crime of hailing from foreign lands, if that’s your question,” Zita said, sarcasm balanced on the razor’s edge of bitterness. “He was a raving lunatic, and I do mean that in the most dangerous way. Your—Berinth, was his name?—was screaming obscenities, hurling stolen objects, and violently attacking anyone who attempted to subdue him. Truly, I’m pleased to hear he’s a criminal. I refuse to punish the indigent, and madness is a consequence of a world without the food and shelter due to all mankind, human and fae alike. Midnah is an asylum with numerous shelters and support for those in need. We do not, however, tolerate violence and hatefulness by those who perceive themselves to be above the law.”

“He deserves to die,” Ophir said.

“So he shall.”

“And I need to be the one who does it.”

The queen tutted her tongue, propping her head up with an arm as she leaned more deeply into the elegantly turfed furniture. “You’re meant to be telling me a worthy story, are you not?”

Ophir looked for a place to sit, but the room was so spread out, it was hard to decide upon a location. Zita sensed as much and gestured lazily for Ophir to sit beside her on the chaise. She took a seat and made an honest expression of her discomfort. “Again, I extend my regrets. I don’t know if this is common practice in Tarkhany, but—”

“Common practice in Tarkhany?” The woman raised her eyebrows. “This is common practice amidst royalty! Tell me, Princess Ophir, if I were in your shoes: would you not be entitled to explanations from someone who wandered into your castle?”

She thought of how both Dwyn and Tyr had wandered quite confidently and disrespectfully into her room, setting up camp in her life. Her title and its entrapments hadn’t meant much to them.

“Do you want to know what I know of Farehold?”

“I…”

“I know that King Eero and Queen Darya have ruled for the last three hundred and forty-two years. I know that two daughters were born to them, one of whom claims to sit here beside me. I know your language, your seasons, the names of your cities, and of your religious expression. Do you know why I know these things?”

Ophir did not.

“Because I understand that the world is composed of more than one kingdom. Does Farehold know the same?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and she was.

Zita waved her hand. “Apologies are useless. Now, I’m owed a story. Please proceed.”

“My sister was murdered,” she said, spilling the venom that had sloshed behind her teeth until her anger filled the room. Caris’s death was common knowledge throughout Farehold, and not a secret she needed to grip with both hands. The second half of her rather brief story may have been a gamble to share, but she was a manifester—what did she possibly have to lose? “The man called Berinth—the one I believe is in your dungeon—must pay for what he’s done.”

From the expression on Zita’s face, it was clear this was delectable information, tasted and savored as if it were a rather decadent sweet. “You’ve crossed the desert alone, unaided, unguarded, for revenge? My, my.” She positively sparkled, sitting up and leaning in with true entertainment. “Well in that case, you are most welcome. I do love a strong woman, almost as much as I love a tale of vengeance. Let’s get you set up in a room, run a comb through your hair, and I’ll see about tracking down the location of your nemesis, shall I?”

“How soon?”

The queen’s head tilted to the side as if amused by the informality of the question.

“How soon can I kill him,” Ophir reiterated.

“You’re on Midnah’s soil. I expect you will not be so brazen as to disrespect Tarkhany law?”

Ophir’s fingers clenched into fists. Her flash of emotion was not anger with the queen but fear that justice may be slipping between her fingers like desert sand.

“Once you’ve confirmed his identity, I’ll confirm with my advisors regarding your testimony and his subsequent fate.”

“How long?” Ophir repeated, impatience bleeding into defiance.

“Assuming he’s found guilty? We’ll need a day to erect the scaffolding while the city’s criers proclaim his sentence.”

“ How long ?”

The queen had every reason to find her repetitive line of questions annoying. Instead, her lips flicked upward in a wicked smile. “After our meeting concludes? You will be shown to your chambers, and you will sleep. Then there will be one full day, and one full night,” Zita replied. “In scarcely more than thirty hours’ time, you’ll have your justice, Princess Ophir.”

Zita stood and called for her servant in their native tongue. Quick instructions were given, all of which Ophir was able to understand with perfect clarity. With her hair over her ears, they might not even be aware that she was in possession of such a device. A detailed sketch was sent to their chambers within the hour, each prisoner’s portrait strewn before them with excruciating accuracy. Ophir pointed to Berinth in no uncertain terms, identifying him amidst the array of artfully done profiles of humans and fae with Farehold features, ensuring that Ophir had indeed located Berinth. Everything was going better than Ophir could have hoped. Maybe everything would be okay, after all.