CHAPTER 18 Wren
CHAPTER 18
Wren
‘A dram of extract from the root of brown laurel dissolved in liquor can cause hallucinations that please the senses’
– Elixirs and Toxins: A Comprehensive Guide
W REN HARDLY REGISTERED disembarking from the Sea Serpent’s Destiny and finding their carriage. All she knew was that suddenly, she, Torj, Cal, Kipp and Farissa were rattling through the Naarvian countryside, the verdant fields a blur as the driver spurred the horses into a gallop.
The Drevenor welcome gala awaited, and she had no idea what to expect. Wren had never been to a ball. It was something she, Sam and Ida had joked about when they practised a game they called Dancing Alchemists in their rooms. The game had less to do with waltzes and gowns and more to do with being nimble enough to avoid the knives thrown at their feet, but still...A lump formed in Wren’s throat as a wave of grief hit, and she fought back tears. Once, they had talked of lavish dresses sweeping across marble floors, and music that made their hearts soar...She wondered if the gala would be something similar, and wished that Sam and Ida could be there to see it too.
Gathering herself, she looked out the window and tried to quell her nerves by observing the Kingdom of Gardens.
Naarva had fallen to the darkness years before the shadow war had broken out across the midrealms, but what wasn’t commonly known was that the Warsword Talemir Starling had rallied the surviving people to care for the lands and rebuild beneath the very noses of the monsters who sought to destroy it. As such, it was now flourishing, barely touched by the stain of battle.
The scent of rich pine filled Wren’s nostrils as the vast fields were swallowed by a dense forest, beams of golden sunlight breaking through the canopy. She craned her neck to peer out the window, where the towering trees seemed to whisper to one another, their branches quivering in the breeze as though greeting the party.
‘It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?’ Cal murmured beside her, peering over her shoulder.
‘It is,’ Wren agreed, equally awed.
It wasn’t long before she spotted the intricate wrought iron fence that bordered the grounds, with lush ivy curling around the bars. As the carriage rattled onwards, not even Cal and Kipp’s bickering could pull her focus from the glimpses of the academy beyond. Her heart quickened with anticipation as she spied the ancient stones between the trees.
‘Gods,’ she murmured as they reached a pair of imposing iron gates matching the ivy-covered fence, adorned with strange patterns and carvings of all manner of plant and creature.
She could feel the Bear Slayer’s eyes on her, but she didn’t tear her gaze from the entrance. The gates were now swinging inwards with a loud creak, not a sentry or watchman in sight. Their carriage entered the grounds alone as the gates opened before them, revealing the towering building that offered a solemn sense of grandeur, rising from the ground like a titan of knowledge.
They travelled down a gravel road, passing beneath the shadow of the impressive spires and towers. A small gasp left Wren’s lips as she took in the ornate stone carvings and the stained-glass windows reflecting a kaleidoscope of colour in the light of the setting sun.
At long last, the carriage came to a halt behind several others, and the party of five exited. Only Torj’s rigid presence beside her stopped Wren from wandering straight towards the pair of giant oak doors that stood open at the top of the white stone steps. The Warsword seemed tense, even hesitant.
‘What?’ she demanded. ‘What’s wrong?’
His deep-sea eyes slid to hers. ‘Nothing,’ he grunted.
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ She motioned to the stairs.
‘Am I holding you back by your skirts, Embervale? Or do you need me to carry you again?’
Wren let out a huff of frustration. ‘Prick,’ she muttered, and lifted the hem of her dress, starting the ascent to the doors.
‘Welcome, welcome!’ a voice sounded on the landing. Wren spotted a middle-aged woman wearing a colourful tapestry of robes and jangling trinkets, standing in a small alcove beside a table laden with documents. ‘Hello there,’ she said, smiling warmly as Wren and her companions approached. ‘Master Tremaine, how good to see you again. You’ll find the High Chancellor and the other masters in the staff lounge.’
Farissa gave her a nod of thanks before turning to Wren. ‘Good luck,’ she murmured. Wren didn’t have a chance to respond before her former mentor disappeared up a spiral staircase.
The robed woman was still beaming at her when she returned her attention to the table. ‘Welcome to Drevenor,’ she said. ‘I’m Celeste Blackmane, the Head of Admissions.’
The woman was too bright and bubbly for Wren, but she mumbled a return greeting, trying to peer over Celeste’s shoulder, her eyes drawn to an enormous tree taking up much of the foyer beyond—
‘If you could provide your offer letter, please? Then you can get inside and enjoy the gala.’
‘Of course,’ Wren said, fumbling with one of the pouches at her belt. She produced the crumpled letter Audra had given her back at Thezmarr.
‘Elwren Embervale!’ Celeste declared as she scanned the piece of parchment. ‘We’re thrilled to have you. Master Tremaine’s recommendation caused quite the stir.’
The nape of Wren’s neck prickled. ‘Oh?’
‘According to her, you played a big role in the war. Thanks to you, many—’
‘Shouldn’t she be getting inside?’
A shadow cast over them both, and Torj brushed up against Wren’s side.
Celeste’s eyes bulged as she took in the war hammer peeking over Torj’s shoulder. ‘Oh – you must be her guard, the Bear Slayer?’
‘The one and only.’ He motioned to Cal and Kipp behind him. ‘And that’s Callahan Whitlock and Kristopher Snowden, here at the High Chancellor’s request.’
Celeste consulted a piece of parchment unfurled on the side table. ‘Yes, yes, I see that note here. You can leave your belongings with me, and a porter will see to it that they’re taken to your rooms at once.’
Torj dumped their packs unceremoniously on the mosaic-tiled floor. ‘There’s a trunk in the carriage as well,’ he told Celeste. ‘Apparently it’s fragile.’
‘We’ll take care of that, Warsword Elderbrock. We’re used to transporting delicate items here.’
‘Great,’ Torj replied dryly, before turning to Wren. ‘Shall we?’
Wren made to move past Celeste, but the woman stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. ‘I feel someone should help you with this,’ she said in a whisper, ‘and it likely won’t be one of your male companions. It’s rare they know anything about fashion.’
In one swift movement, she removed the pin from Wren’s bun, letting her bronze hair tumble down around her face.
Celeste hummed her approval. ‘Much better. It makes the angles look much less harsh. What’s the point of having such beauty if you don’t frame it with these gorgeous locks?’
Only Sam and Ida had ever commented on her appearance and touched her in such a way. Too stunned to move, Wren just stared as the older woman fussed over her, positioning the waves of her hair around her face.
‘One final touch, I think...’ Celeste’s hands were at her waist, which spurred Wren into action. She tried to bat the woman away from her belt of tools and potions. ‘Now, now,’ Celeste chided. ‘This just doesn’t work . The dress is perfect without this clunky thing. You need not worry. I’ll send everything right up to your rooms. You won’t miss it for a few hours.’
Wren’s irritation flared, but she didn’t want the academy’s first impression of her to be an argument with the Head of Admissions.
‘Perfect,’ Celeste declared when Wren had been relieved of her belt. She felt naked without it, but Celeste pushed her towards the entrance, and Wren’s feet moved of their own accord.
A pair of giant oak doors stood open, revealing a foyer beyond that stretched up into several levels above, where balconies draped in garlands of flowers looked down upon the bustling activity below. But most breathtaking of all was the enormous ancient tree that stood at the heart of it all, tall and proud, its gnarled branches reaching up towards the dome-capped ceiling. Overhead, the canopy spread wide, casting dappled patterns upon the guests mingling below. The tree’s incorporation into the design of the building reminded Wren of the stone monuments that had once graced the Great Hall back at Thezmarr, prompting her to wonder if the two sites had shared the same architect long ago.
Kipp appeared at her side. ‘Free drinks,’ he declared, handing her a flute of something gold and sparkling.
Wren made a point of ignoring the towering Warsword at her back as she accepted it gratefully and aimed her attention elsewhere. The melodic notes of lutes and lyres danced with the gentle rustle of leaves in the evening breeze while servers moved gracefully among the crowd, bearing trays laden with goblets of wine and dishes of exotic delicacies.
‘This is quite the gala,’ Kipp commented.
Wren huffed a laugh. ‘Been to many galas, have you, Kristopher?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
Rolling her eyes, Wren scanned the array of guests. There were people from all walks of life here, the number far greater than the cohort of alchemists she had expected to study alongside. ‘Who are all these people?’ she murmured to Kipp.
‘All the different ranks of alchemist, I presume, and the previous cohorts,’ the strategist replied. ‘Then I suppose there are the scribes, the researchers, the folks from admissions and administration, scholars, chroniclers, botanists, groundskeepers, and a fair few visiting from the University of Naarva, too...’
‘How do you know all this?’
Kipp gave her a sly grin. ‘As I’ve always told you, the Son of the Fox has his ways...’
Wren shot him a wry look. Kipp had been born in the Laughing Fox, one of the midrealms’ most famous taverns, and Kipp’s wide-reaching connections were seemingly endless as a result.
‘Now,’ he went on, ‘shouldn’t you be off making friends?’
Wren grimaced. The thought of stepping into the crowd and being forced to make polite conversation had her insides shrinking in on themselves. But Kipp was right, as much as she hated to admit it. If there were ever a place to find like-minded individuals to connect with, Drevenor was it.
She put the glass of sparkling wine to her lips, taking a much-needed long sip and relishing the sweet taste on her tongue. Liquid courage .
As the first delicious mouthful slid down her throat, Wren recognized the faintest hint of vanilla. For a moment, she savoured it.
Then she realized she’d made a terrible mistake.