CHAPTER 75 Wren
CHAPTER 75
Wren
‘An alchemist’s experiments can shape the world around them’
– Transformative Arts of Alchemy
‘W HO ARE THE masters at Drevenor?’ the second man demanded, just inches from her face. ‘Name them!’
Wren hated that she flinched, knowing that neither of her sisters would ever let a bastard like this see fear. She didn’t know how long they’d been at it now. Her entire body ached, both from their blows and from the chains. The attacks to her ribs were particularly vicious and her breath whistled between her teeth at the pain. But every strike loosened the chains around her middle, and behind her back, she could move her hands.
So, she welcomed their violence.
It would be their downfall before the end.
Wren’s mind raced through the inventory of potions, powders, and tinctures she’d stocked in her belt the day before. If she could escape the chains and get to her supplies, there were plenty of potions that could fell a man where he stood...She thought of the keys at the belt of one of her interrogators. Maybe – just maybe—
Her chair was suddenly dragged backwards, the scraping noise making her wince.
‘Get the branding iron,’ the closest one drawled. ‘That’ll loosen her tongue. It always does...’
The scrape of metal sounded. Wren thrashed against the chains.
‘You hear that?’ the taller one asked as he approached.
They all fell quiet, listening.
Then Wren’s stomach turned to lead. In the near distance, she could hear screams. High-pitched, broken screams for mercy. She knew the sound intimately, like an old song. Flashes of Thezmarr came back to her: the fortress wrapped in shadow, onyx power lashing through the air, screams echoing in their wake—
‘You see? You’re all the fucking same. You all break in the end.’
Wren’s breaths came hard and fast as she tried to wriggle without being noticed in her restraints. You all break in the end... Something about his words snagged, but a flurry of movements across the crypt had her heart hammering, threatening to burst through her chest.
‘Last chance before we heat this beauty up,’ the man warned, brandishing the poker at her. ‘Let’s try a new one...Tell us about the memory weave. What does it look like? How does it work?’
Wren struggled to swallow, fought to remain calm in the face of that white-hot piece of metal.
Behold the price of betrayal, novices... Hardim’s words echoed in her mind, followed by those of the High Chancellor, ringing out through the fog of pain and fear: The teachings and inner workings of this academy must remain confidential. When you take your pledge, you will make an oath of secrecy. This will be tested at some point during your time here. Do not take it lightly.
The realization hit her as hard and fast as the blows did.
It was a test.
This had nothing to do with rulers and royal magic. This was not the work of the People’s Vanguard or some other conspiracy group.
It was the test the High Chancellor had promised.
At last, she understood why she was there. Wren braced herself and tried to meet her captors’ eyes, or as close as possible with their masks.
‘Greenhouses. Masters. Memories. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you want from me.’
The men laughed cruelly. ‘That so?’ one said.
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck the branding iron,’ said the other. ‘Use the rats.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know nothing.’ Wren repeated it like a chant, unable to stop the shudder of fear washing over her as one of them went to the cage.
‘They haven’t been fed in a week,’ the other man told her.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Just imagine them burrowing into your innards, tasting that flesh—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Get her on her back. Let’s see what these rats make of alchemist flesh. We can start with her feet. Work our way up—’
The world tilted, and Wren was slammed backwards onto the ground, still in her chair. She cried out in pain as her hands were nearly crushed behind her.
‘I know nothing,’ she sobbed. ‘ I know nothing. ’
The heat of a flame singed her skirts.
‘What weapons do they have?’ her interrogator demanded. ‘What magical artefacts?’
‘Vasen...’ the one holding down her chair warned.
‘No names,’ Vasen snapped.
‘It’s time,’ the other said.
‘What?’
‘It’s time ,’ he repeated.
The heat vanished from Wren’s feet. A whimper of relief escaped her, however temporary.
She was still on her back when she felt the chains loosen. She didn’t dare move as they gave way around her body, falling to the cobbles in a heap. Wren slid from the chair, curling on her side on the cold stone.
‘You passed,’ Vasen’s voice sounded from the door. ‘Six hours and not a word of Drevenor’s secrets...’
Wren coughed violently, spitting blood onto the ground, not looking up as the door swung closed. She allowed herself a minute, just one, to process what had just happened. She had been tested, tortured, and her oath of secrecy remained intact.
Steeling herself against the pain of her bruised body and aching wrists, Wren dragged herself upright. Sweat beaded at her brow and dampened the armpits of her dress, not that it mattered. She’d be burning it the second she was out of this cesspit.
Grimacing at the blood and filth on the cobbles, she pushed the last of the heavy chains away and shoved down the restraints around her legs, standing with a ragged gasp. Her wrists were rubbed raw, and blood dotted her clothes. A wave of queasiness washed over her. Breathing deeply through her nose, she staggered towards the far wall, where her belt of potions and tools still hung.
Fastening it around her waist, she clawed back a piece of herself.
Some of her supplies were missing, but she chewed a piece of dried iruseed to help her stay present, and braced herself against the wall, waiting for the alertness to take effect. As it kicked in, she shook her head, wincing at the ache that had blossomed, and surveyed the crypt one final time.
You passed. It seemed like a shallow victory in light of her injuries, in light of the terror that still simmered beneath the surface.
Taking another deep breath, Wren rolled her aching shoulders and palmed her dagger, which she found among the tools. She opened the door.
A cold voice rang out in the darkness.
‘Welcome to the Gauntlet, Elwren Embervale.’