CHAPTER 30 Wren
CHAPTER 30
Wren
‘Bees that feed on the nectar of oleander and rhododendrons create wild honey thick with toxins’
– Toxic Tales: Chronicles of Lethal Elixirs
W REN LEFT THE Bear Slayer in the shadows of the alcove, unconscious. She’d known he’d try something like this sooner or later; the overprotective brute couldn’t help himself. He seemed to think he knew best about everything, which was nothing new. His overzealous notion of duty had been a point of contention between them for years.
But now, hot anger rippled through her, alongside something darker, deeper. How dare he try to overpower her? He underestimated her, just like the rest of them.
The Furies had played a cruel joke upon her when he’d been assigned as her protector. Wren didn’t want or need a shadow. Especially not the lightning-kissed Warsword of Thezmarr. Not only did he remind her of the war, and all her worst moments since, but she couldn’t seem to control her emotions around him – or her body, for that matter. The image of his gloriously naked torso was still seared in her memory, and it often came to the forefront of her mind when he was barking commands at her and constantly invading her privacy.
Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the crackle of power thrumming at her fingertips, begging to be unleashed. In the alcove, the press of the warrior’s body had unlocked something inside her, and it was now demanding to be freed from its cage.
With a huff of frustration, Wren left the academy grounds, the note she’d found beneath her scales clutched in her hand.
Poisoner .
The Happy Harpy. Old Town. Tenth bell.
She would have assumed it was a mere prank, but for later finding the vial of ingredients that had accompanied it: henbane, datura, and nightshade...The very same concoction she’d used to poison Lord Briar.
Someone at Drevenor knew who she was.
Not just the poisoner of the former Guild Master of Thezmarr, but the Poisoner responsible for ending the bastards who’d escaped official justice after the war.
Someone knew her secret, and Wren needed to find out who.
Checking her map and compass, she made her way towards the city. Though the shadow war had taken her across the five kingdoms of the midrealms, she’d never really travelled . Yes, she had been to Harenth, Delmira, Tver, Aveum, and Naarva, but only when they had either succumbed to darkness or were on the brink of destruction. She had never seen a thriving city, had never wandered the streets and drunk in the sights of her own accord. Growing up in Thezmarr’s fortress had left little opportunity for exploring the world and all it had to offer. And after the war, her ventures involving her ledger had hardly been the time for frivolity.
But upon walking through Highguard’s floral gates, Wren decided she already liked it best at night. The cobblestone streets were wide and framed by blooms – Naarva was the Kingdom of Gardens, after all. Golden light spilled from the windows of grand buildings, casting warmth across the lively marketplace beyond.
Thea had once told her about the stalls in Harenth’s capital city, Hailford, and how Wren would have loved their exotic spices and apothecaries. Wren was willing to wager that Highguard was better. As she made her way down the road, she was greeted by vibrant stalls brimming with countless species of plants, whirring gadgets, and swathes of fine silken fabrics. The air was richly scented with roasting game, and the hum of cheerful chatter enveloped the surroundings, while a lone fiddle played somewhere in the distance.
It was beautiful.
Wren wished Sam and Ida were here to see it with her. They would have loved this place, though they would have been far more interested in the carts selling spiced wine and cider than the pots of rare shrubs.
A wave of grief washed over her. It had been half a decade, and still the thought of never sharing a drink with them again stole her breath away, catching her off guard when she least expected it. She knew they were dead. And yet there was no unravelling the expectation that she might see them around the next corner, grinning madly at her.
Blinking back stinging tears, Wren ventured deeper into the heart of the city, wondering what sort of meeting she was about to stumble into. But as she kept walking, the golden glow of the markets began to fade, giving way to narrow, winding alleys, where the radiance of the upper city couldn’t penetrate. Down here, it was dark, and the mouth-watering aromas of the streets above were long gone. Instead, the scent of damp stone and smoke were thick in the air, and Wren stumbled over the uneven, gritty pathways.
She had never been to the Happy Harpy, so she checked her map by the feeble light of a streetlamp. She was no longer in Highguard proper, but the perimeter of the city’s fourth quarter, near the place known as Old Town. Turning the piece of parchment over in her hands, unease roiled in her gut.
Poisoner .
Perhaps she was being reckless; perhaps she was a fool.
But there was only one way to know.
Wren continued to follow the map, observing the weathered facades and neglected structures of the city’s underbelly. The hair on her arms stood up as the music from above was swallowed by silence and the occasional shuffle of unseen figures in the shadows.
Torj would kill me if he knew where I was now , she thought, rounding another sharp corner. The thought gave her a small measure of satisfaction.
Suddenly, the eerie quiet gave way to a cacophony of raucous laughter, bawdy tunes, and clinking glasses. The underbelly of Highguard opened up before Wren, a sprawling labyrinth of squalor and vices, a stark departure from the tapestry of golden revelry in the upper city.
The scent of cheap ale, stale smoke, and sickly perfume wafted across the alley, filling Wren’s nostrils, getting stuck in her throat. Vandalized walls closed in around her and she averted her gaze from prying eyes as she forced one foot in front of the other for the final leg of the journey. Her hands stayed poised by her belt in case she needed to dispense a tincture or two.
She stopped before a pair of crimson-tinted lanterns illuminating the uneven steps leading to a pair of wrought-iron doors. A worn sign hung overhead: a bare-breasted woman with bird wings and a wild grin.
The Happy Harpy.
‘You lost, love?’ said a croaky voice to her left.
Wren ignored them and pushed through the doors.
The Happy Harpy was a brothel. She should have realized. But she had been so intent on getting away from Torj that she hadn’t questioned the name, nor the location in Old Town.
‘Shit,’ she muttered to herself, surveying the tattered curtains leading to ‘private’ rooms. Coarse laughter spilled out into the main hall, along with an array of other sounds. There were several bars spotted about the space, as well as gambling tables that hummed with the frenetic pull of risk. The place smelled like old wine and coin, and flowed with an undercurrent of danger and debauchery.
Wren lifted her chin in defiance and headed for the bar on the far side that looked the least offensive. She had never been one to fold. Whoever had left her the note was likely watching in the wings, waiting for her to panic. If they wanted to see what she was made of, so be it. She’d fucking show them.
Wren slid onto a stool and flagged down the bartender. ‘I’ll have a pint of sour mead, please.’
She suspected the shocked look the man gave her was more to do with her manners than it was her general presence. Exchanging a piece of silver for a foaming tankard, Wren swivelled in her seat and surveyed the hall. Despite the smell, it felt good to be out in the world. She had no desire to play ward to the snarling Bear Slayer in the room next to hers, and here...here, she could be anyone.
Taking a long draught from her tankard, her eyes watering at the sour aspect of the sour mead, her gaze went to a group of people spilling out of one of the rooms, tangled in one another. One woman’s breasts were exposed, a man cupping them and lavishing her neck with kisses as they staggered towards the bar in the centre. She arched into him as they moved, cries of pleasure on her lips. Wren couldn’t tear her eyes away as another man joined them, his hands slipping down the front of the woman’s skirts, right out in the open for all to see. The noise that escaped her was nothing short of carnal.
Wren took a longer drink this time.
‘Lots of people come to watch,’ the bartender said mildly. ‘There’s no shame in it.’
Wren balked. ‘That’s not what—’ But she stopped herself. There was no need to explain herself here. Instead, she turned back to the hall, scanning for any sign as to who might have brought her here.
For a moment, she surveyed the gambling tables, watching as cards and coins slid across the smooth surfaces. Colourful curses echoed across the various games, winners beaming as they swept up their prizes, losers motioning for another round of drinks. There were dealings at the edges of the hall as well: the glint of a dagger here, the pocketing of illicit substances there. Wren drank it all in like a parched vagabond, the whole underworld before her, ripe for the taking.
It made her feel alive.
There was no ignoring the moans drifting out from the private rooms. Building cries of ecstasy and deep, guttural groans rang out; occasionally, the gamblers would cheer.
Wren felt her cheeks warm. She blamed it on the liquor and promptly ordered another tankard as she watched another woman swan into the main hall. Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen but tugged into a sated smirk.
Wren clenched her thighs together. She’d never had a man make her look or sound like that before. From what Sam and Ida, and even Thea, had said, it could be something incredible...It could justify those noises, that dazed expression. But that hadn’t been her experience. The handful of times she’d ventured into bed with someone, it had been laced with disappointment and regret. And so she’d deemed it not worth her time, refusing to lower her standards.
Sighing, she ran her finger through the condensation on her tankard before nearly jumping out of her skin at a sudden noise. A group of men passed by, arm in arm, singing a coarse verse about a tavern wench.
A younger man from the party paused upon seeing Wren, lingering near her stool. Without thinking, she put a hand to one of the vials at her belt. One flick of a cork and he’d be covered in a concentrated dose of Widow’s Ash, a fate she reserved for the most entitled of pricks.
But he didn’t seem to want to intimidate her. He merely gave her a friendly grin and motioned to the seat beside her. ‘That taken?’
Before she could answer, she froze, feeling the electricity before she saw him, his presence washing over her like a wave breaking on a shore.
‘Yes, it’s fucking taken,’ a deep voice growled.