CHAPTER 24 Wren
CHAPTER 24
Wren
‘May you walk into the maw of the beast with open eyes’
– Drevenor Academy Handbook
A DEATHLY SILENCE descended over the assembled novices as the horror took hold, not only at what they had witnessed, but what they’d agreed to.
Wren heard panicked hyperventilation from someone nearby, saw the white-knuckled grip of the man beside her. All around her, harrowing understanding was writ large on her peers’ expressions.
Here at Drevenor, it seemed, terrors were to be embraced without reservation, and oaths were eternal.
The eerie quiet stretched out torturously, broken only by the rasping, laboured breaths of Bertram, still strung up between the trees.
Regret flashed across Hardim’s face as he turned back and addressed the cohort. ‘Now, for today’s lesson. The parchment you just marked with your blood was treated with several toxins – which one, exactly, depends on where you blotted your mark. As I told you: this will be neither easy nor safe. Each time you study lifelore, or any discipline here, you put yourself on the line.’
Wren looked down at where she’d pierced the pad of her index finger, studying it for any signs of what the parchment had been doused in. But there was no redness, no swelling or itching, nothing besides the tiny prick she’d made with her knife.
She needed a moment to think, to run through her mind for poisons that had a delayed reaction time, like the mixture she’d used on Lord Briar—
‘For those who think lifelore is the weaker discipline, tell me: can you have life without death?’ Hardim continued. ‘They are two sides of the same coin, novices, and you will come to know both intimately over the course of your time here. Do not think this will be easy. Do not think this will be safe. Lifelore can test you in ways you couldn’t even dream. It is the foundation for all alchemy, no matter what discipline you choose to specialize in, should you make it that far.’
Hardim gestured to the knotted trees around them, where a piece of parchment had been pinned to a trunk.
‘You will find no chalkboards and apples in today’s lesson. You have been split into teams, as listed here. You will be in these teams for the duration of your novice training, and with these teams you will face the trials of the Gauntlet. You must pass the Gauntlet together or not at all. But today...today you will go into the forest and seek the antidote to the poison that has by now worked its way into your skin.’
The cohort was experiencing various reactions already: rashes and swelling, and someone was vomiting into a shrub.
Hardim’s voice rang out across the growing chaos. ‘Knowledge is the victor over fate. The mind is a blade, novices.’
Wren had seen those words scrawled across the gates upon their arrival, had seen them stitched into the tapestries hanging over the stone walls and stamped atop the coat of arms on every flag. But it was only here, in the eerie forest, on the lips of the Master Alchemist of Lifelore, that they sank deep into her bones.
The mind is a blade... and she would hone hers until it was sharp enough to cut the world.
All around her, the symptoms of poisoning were intensifying. She saw bleeding noses, clumps of hair falling out, and in one case, complete delirium.
Wren needed to find her team. They needed to get into the forest, and fast.
‘Beyond the laws of the midrealms and the single rule the High Chancellor already set, there are none.’ Hardim pinned them with a meaningful stare. ‘But as it’s your first day, first lesson...I’ll share a kernel of wisdom with you all.’
Wren leaned in with the rest, eager to absorb any knowledge the Master Alchemist was willing to give them.
His voice was completely deadpan as he said, ‘Don’t die.’
According to the slip of parchment, Wren’s teammates were Odessa Chamberlain, the redhead from Kipp’s fountain party, and Zavier Mortimer, a surly-faced young man who looked as though he might spit on the pair of them. Wren didn’t wait to enter the depths of the forest, and her two teammates trailed close behind her, the trees closing in around them.
Teams? Truly? She hated that her fate was now tied to two others whose skills were yet to be determined. What if they fucked everything up for her? What if she didn’t pass the Gauntlet because of them?
‘Slow down,’ Zavier called. ‘You’ll walk straight into a—’
Wren ducked just in time.
A flailing vine shot down from above, thrashing wildly.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, pushing her hair back off her face and surveying the bizarre plant.
Zavier pushed the thing aside with a long stick, wearing a haughty look. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ Wren replied.
He scoffed at that. ‘Not what it looked like.’
‘Come now,’ Odessa implored, coming to stand between them. ‘We’re a team, right? And we’re stuck with each other until at least after the Gauntlet. We need to work together.’ She threw her fiery red braid over her shoulder and held out her hand. ‘I’m Dessa. Pleased to meet you.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Zavier muttered, shaking his head. He was perhaps a few years older than Wren and stood straight-backed, his sable hair swept carelessly off his face, which might have been handsome but for his dour expression.
Dessa stuck out her hand in Wren’s direction. ‘You must be Elwren?’
‘Just Wren.’ Reluctantly, Wren shook Dessa’s hand before she turned to the other teammate. ‘And you’re Zavier?’ she asked, not because she wanted to play along but because she figured he wouldn’t appreciate her calling him a sour-faced prick.
‘Yes,’ he said finally, still ignoring Dessa’s outstretched hand. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Completely,’ Wren replied sardonically. ‘We can all pack up and go home now, job done.’
‘We may as well. You’re not going to last a week here,’ Zavier retorted. Wren registered a subtle lilt to his words, an accent that she didn’t recognize.
‘Please,’ Dessa implored, motioning to her swollen fingers. ‘We have to work out what we’ve been poisoned with—’
‘You’ve got an acute reaction to Naarvian dogbane,’ Zavier cut her off.
Wren’s gaze snapped to his. She hadn’t been expecting that . Naarvian dogbane wasn’t a commonly known substance, nor was its antidote...but one glance at Dessa’s hand, which was already twice its normal size and covered in red splotches, told her that Zavier was right.
‘Oh,’ Dessa said with a wince, as he motioned for her to rotate it. ‘I thought it was poison oak.’
‘The swelling wouldn’t be like that if it was,’ Wren told her, donning the pair of gloves at her belt and inspecting Dessa’s hand more closely.
‘She’ll be fine,’ Zavier snapped. ‘Find some bitter dock leaf, crush up the stalk, and—’
‘I know how to treat a reaction to dogbane,’ Wren retorted.
‘I should fucking hope so,’ Zavier muttered, rooting around by the trunk of a nearby tree before handing Odessa a handful of broad leaves. ‘Here. Chew it up, then apply it as a paste to the site of the wound.’
‘And you?’ Wren prompted, as a means of distracting herself from her own potential poisoning. ‘What did they get you with?’
‘Wolfsbane.’ He turned his palm up and showed her a small blister on the pad of his index finger.
Wren frowned. ‘That should be much worse.’
‘I’ve been working on my immunity for years.’
Wren blinked at him. ‘To wolfsbane? That would have taken—’
‘An extremely high dosage and prolonged exposure, yes.’ Zavier motioned to her hand. ‘Let’s see the damage to you, then.’
She didn’t want or need any help, especially not from him. His head seemed big enough already. Unfortunately for her, there were no outward signs of poisoning at the puncture site.
‘Well?’ he prompted.
‘No markings,’ she told him reluctantly, holding up her finger.
‘And how do you feel?’ he pressed. ‘Dizzy? Nauseous? Like you’re about to lift off and fly?’
She shot him an incredulous look.
Zavier shrugged. ‘The welcome gala showed us they’re not above drugging us with mind-altering substances. Both wolfsbane and ambrosia can create a sensation of—’
‘I know,’ Wren ground out. ‘You’re not the only one who knows about protecting yourself. It’s possible I’m immune to whatever I’ve come into contact with.’
‘Either that or you’ll die a few days from now,’ he said. ‘Did Hardim say if the death of a teammate impacts our ability to participate in the Gauntlet?’
Wren opened her mouth to tell him to piss off, but a high-pitched scream echoed through the trees.
The trio froze. More screaming followed, and Wren shared a worried glance with Dessa.
Soon after, Hardim’s voice carried through the forest. ‘I did warn you this wasn’t child’s play.’
That seemed to break whatever spell had fallen over them.
Zavier tapped his foot in the leaf litter, his eyes roaming from Wren’s face to the scar at her throat. ‘Time is ticking.’
Wren’s fingers itched to reach for her hairpin and press its poisoned tip to his skin. But to her immense frustration, he had a point. If it was a delayed reaction, there might not be a way of knowing until it was too late.
‘If you die and it impacts my chances at the Gauntlet, Delmirian, I’ll bring you back and kill you myself,’ Zavier said flatly.
‘Ignore him,’ Dessa said quickly. ‘You’re not going to die—’
‘Not if I get a moment to think,’ Wren replied sharply.
Thankfully, Dessa quietened.
Wren closed her eyes and took a breath. She had no difficulty doing so, which ruled out any respiratory side effects and, as such, several poisons at the top of her mind. Pressing her fingers to her wrist and then to her neck, she checked her pulse: also steady, which ruled out another list of suspects. One by one, she went through the most common areas affected by poison with a keen familiarity. How many times had she watched one toxin or another take hold of a mark? Her hands were working just fine; there was no tingling or vibrating in her extremities. Her vision was clear.
Wren was still wracking her mind for answers when she tasted metal on her tongue.
Blood.
She lunged for her toolbelt.
A bleeding mouth meant a daphne plant, likely from the heart of Harenth if it had taken this long to affect her. Fighting to keep her panic at bay, Wren sifted through her assortment of vials. She needed a purgative, and quickly. Her own stores held nothing that would counter the effects now that her gums were bleeding.
Staggering through the forest, she scanned the shrubs and climbing vines, spitting that metallic taste onto the ground. Zavier was already waiting beside the bush she sought, and Wren fell to her knees before the rounded leaves, taking several cuttings with her secateurs.
Ignoring Dessa’s questions, she squeezed several drops of sap into her mouth, the insides of her cheeks burning at the contact.
Perspiration beaded at her brow, and within seconds she was on all fours, vomiting.
Dessa was there, holding her loose hair out of her face, rubbing gentle circles on her back. ‘You did it!’ she said. ‘Elwren, you solved it.’
Wren wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grimacing. ‘Just Wren.’
‘Well, “just Wren,”’ Zavier said wryly. ‘You’re not as awful as I thought. But you lose points for timing. You should have come to that conclusion much sooner.’
Wren spat onto the ground again, her heart still hammering. ‘No one asked you.’
Zavier was twirling a scalpel between his long, elegant fingers, looking smug. Wren’s stomach lurched, this time with unease. Zavier clearly knew his lifelore, perhaps even more so than she did. All her life she’d been the best at what she did, but now...Zavier might be good news for her chances at the Gauntlet, but he was bad news for her pride.
‘Those are a fine make,’ Dessa marvelled, eyeing the markings on Wren’s secateurs as she took several more cuttings of the purgative plant for her own supplies. ‘I’ve heard they never rust...And that the blades never dull? I didn’t think you could get that kind in the midrealms.’
Wren’s heart stuttered as the memory came rushing back.
‘It’s not my name day...’
‘No, but...’ Torj shifted awkwardly on his feet. ‘Just open it.’
Wren slowly reached for the parcel. ‘Some sort of weapon, I presume? Perhaps a—’
‘Just open it, Elwren.’
Wren unlaced the twine and peeled the fabric back, her mouth dropping open at what was inside: a little pair of silver scissors.
‘These are what you needed?’ the Warsword asked.
Wren blinked, slowly turning to lift her gaze to his. A powerful wave of gratitude washed over her. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, to kiss him completely senseless. She knew how hard it was to get a pair of secateurs of this make. She’d been trying – and failing – for years.
She realized she was staring. ‘I...’
Torj nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, before walking back towards his friends.
Moments later, Thea sidled up beside her and jutted her chin towards the gift. ‘What are those?’
Wren couldn’t help but stare after the Bear Slayer in awe. ‘They’re secateurs,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
‘What?’
‘Remember back in Naarva how I was saying my hand hurt from harvesting the orchids? That I do a lot of intricate work with my hands and they often ache from the repeated motions?’
‘It rings a bell.’
Wren shook her head, knowing her sister was full of shit. ‘In one of about ten thousand meetings, I suggested that all the harvesters be provided with secateurs, to help with the strain...They’re a design from distant lands, hard to find...I didn’t think anyone was listening.’
Thea grinned. ‘Someone clearly was.’
‘Wren?’ Dessa was peering into her face, brow furrowed with concern. ‘You’re alright now, aren’t you?’
‘Fine,’ she managed.
Zavier scrutinized her. ‘You sure? You’re looking pale still...Maybe you don’t belong here after all.’
Wren had half a mind to throttle him, but Dessa sighed. ‘We’re all on the same team—’
‘Can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect,’ Zavier said.
‘Something we agree on, then,’ Wren retorted with a glare.
With their poisons accounted for and treated, they made their way back through the forest in silence. Wren pocketed several wild blooms, hoping to use the plant press she’d brought with her from Thezmarr. She was thinking about blissful solitude when another scream echoed through the trees. This time, Wren couldn’t stop herself; she sprinted towards the sound, with Zavier and Dessa close behind.
There, in a small clearing, a young man was rolling around in the leaf litter, clawing wildly at his rash-covered arms, pained cries on his lips. His teammates were nowhere in sight.
‘What are you doing?’ Zavier hissed. ‘Leave him. Another team’s failure is a win for us.’
Ignoring him, Wren crouched down, examining the pale, sweating face of the young man sprawled on the forest floor. His shallow breathing and the zig-zag rash across his arms had her rifling through her belt.
Above her, Zavier cursed before dropping down beside her. ‘Dessa, find a flat rock,’ he commanded their other teammate.
Dessa did as he bid while Wren pulled out dried angelica and activated charcoal to absorb the toxin. When Dessa returned with several flat pieces of stone, Zavier snatched them away, along with the ingredients, and crushed the mixture deftly. Wren raised a brow at him.
‘What?’ he snapped, carefully tipping the antidote into their young charge’s mouth. ‘If you insist on making a nuisance of yourself, you may as well do it quickly.’ Several long seconds passed as Wren monitored the man’s breathing, his struggles subsiding.
‘Do you know what happened?’ she asked him as his brows knitted in confusion, the colour returning to his cheeks.
He blinked at her. ‘They gave me some sort of leaf...I had a bad reaction...’
Dessa looked around with a frown. ‘Who’s “they”?’
‘I was separated from my team. Another group said they wanted to help me...’
Zavier shook his head and scoffed. ‘Fool.’
Wren helped the man to his feet. ‘You’re alright now.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, a tremor in his voice.
Zavier made another noise of frustration. ‘ Now can we go? We’re wasting time.’
They made their way back to the grove. Poisoning, sabotage, backstabbing, and maiming , Wren mused. All in a day’s work. This place was more like Thezmarr than she’d realized.
Knowledge is the victor over fate , she told herself as they made their way back through the forest to where Hardim was waiting . The mind is a blade.
There was no sign of Bertram; the trees where he’d been strung up were bare. Their cohort was in various states. Some were covered in dirt, leaves stuck in their hair as though they had fought the trees themselves. Others were clutching injuries of varying degrees, and some were missing entirely.
Hardim examined the teams one by one, shaking his head or making inaudible comments as he went. When he reached Dessa, Zavier and Wren, his expression was unreadable. He surveyed them head to toe.
‘A solid counter to Odessa’s Naarvian dogbane poisoning,’ he murmured with a nod. His gaze fell to the spots of blood on Wren’s apron and his nose wrinkled. ‘Seems like you could have identified your daphne plant sooner...Timing is everything with that one.’ Then his scrutiny fell on Zavier. ‘An immunity to wolfsbane? Very impressive.’ He scanned the trio again. ‘Not a terrible first effort. Five points apiece.’
The Master of Lifelore turned away to count the cohort, and when he was done, he sighed heavily.
‘The points you have earned today will be reflected in the glass vessels in the foyer by the day’s end. In the meantime, I need to revive some of your fellow students. I suppose I shouldn’t let anyone die in the first lesson. You’re all dismissed.’
Somewhat dazed, Wren and her teammates turned back towards the grounds, but Hardim’s voice echoed after them.
‘Drevenor welcomes you with open arms,’ he called. ‘But beware the thorns of its embrace.’
A fleeting smile threatened to break across Wren’s lips. She could still taste a trace of blood there.
Zavier was wrong. This was exactly where she belonged.