CHAPTER 90 Wren
CHAPTER 90
Wren
‘Understanding people is akin to mastering poisons and antidotes. One must discern between cure and affliction’
– Elwren Embervale’s notes and observations
12 years ago
T HE EARTH WAS damp beneath Wren’s knees, staining her skirts as she took her harvesting knife to the stems of a yarrow plant. Careful to keep the densely packed petals intact, she took what she needed, laying several bundles down in her basket, along with the hollyhock she had already collected.
Not many knew that some of the best medicinal flowers grew along the edges of the Mourner’s Trail, the only way in and out of Thezmarr. She liked to keep it that way, for her foraging hours were the only ones that were truly her own. Humming to herself, she dusted off the dirt and made for her final stop: a patch of lemon balm by the foot of a great weeping oak. There was a fever making its way through the fortress, and Farissa had asked her to gather ample supplies—
A twig snapped on the trail. Wren whirled on her heel, brandishing her harvesting knife, her heart pounding.
A riderless horse was on the Mourner’s Trail, an arrow protruding from its flank.
‘What in the midrealms...’ Wren sheathed her knife in her belt and approached the poor beast cautiously. She wasn’t the best with horses, but she hated to see any creature in pain. ‘What happened to you?’ she asked, stroking its neck.
The horse groaned, and Wren spotted more dried blood across its dusty coat.
‘It’s alright.’ She kept her voice low and soft as she reached for the reins. But the horse – a stallion, she realized – gave a whinny of protest and darted forwards, taking off at a gallop towards the fortress.
Frowning, Wren ignored the unease that had settled over her and turned back to where she’d left her basket – only to find an enormous figure now braced against the tree.
She started, her hand flying to her chest. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘I usually don’t need an introduction,’ he said roughly, pain lacing his words.
Even hunched over, with his forearm resting against the oak, the man was huge – imposing. His golden hair had fallen across his brow, matted with blood, and his features were drawn taut with discomfort. Despite his injuries, there was no mistaking the hardened physique of a seasoned warrior, perhaps nearly a decade past her eighteen years.
‘Someone thinks highly of himself.’ Wren stepped forwards, noting the warrior’s chest rising and falling with short, laboured breaths. ‘Sit down before you fall down,’ she ordered, reaching for the kit she kept at her belt.
He glanced up at the sharpness in her tone. ‘You know, most people wouldn’t dare talk to me like that.’
Wren laid her medical supplies atop the leaves and took hold of the warrior’s arm, forcing him down to the ground. ‘Most people don’t know their head from their arse.’
The man huffed a laugh, which was followed by a wince and a groan of pain as she settled him on the forest floor.
‘Did you fall off your horse?’ Wren asked.
‘Fall?’ He made a noise of indignation. ‘Of course not. I didn’t want to aggravate Tucker’s wound. Sent him ahead to find the stable master. Figured I’d manage the rest of the way on my own.’
Wren snorted. ‘How’s that working out for you?’
The man scowled. ‘Just fine until the bossy likes of you came along.’
‘Not what it looked like to me.’ Wren peeled back the top of the man’s shirt, revealing a broad, blood-slicked chest—
‘What are you doing?’ he protested.
‘You warriors are all brawn and no brain. What’s it look like?’ she muttered, swatting his hands away so she could get a better look at the wound. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Arrow,’ he grunted.
Wren shook her head as she located her vial of rubbing alcohol. She needed to cleanse the wound before she could stitch it. ‘And you pulled it out?’
‘It was in the way.’
‘You didn’t think to keep it in to stop the bleeding? You could have at least just snapped the fletching off—’
Abruptly, the warrior made to stand. ‘I’m heading back to the fortress.’
But Wren pushed him down by the shoulder and he grunted as his backside hit the ground once again.
‘You’ll stay there until I’ve tended to that gaping hole in your chest,’ she told him firmly. She tore away the collar of his shirt, revealing more of the damage at the juncture of his pectoral and shoulder. ‘Absolute fools, the lot of you. Don’t they teach you how to care for injuries during your Guardian training?’
‘I’m not a Guardian.’ His husky voice sent a wave of goosebumps across her skin, just as her fingers brushed against something around his bicep.
Slowly, she took in the symbol on the armband fastened there. Not the two crossed blades indicating the rank of a Guardian, but three...
‘You’re a Warsword,’ she breathed, her heart stuttering. The man before her was one of only three elite warriors left in the midrealms. A man who had passed the Great Rite. A man who had been gifted with strength from the gods themselves.
‘Did the giant war hammer not give it away?’ he quipped, thrusting his chin towards a massive weapon discarded in the leaves a few feet away.
‘The arrogance should have,’ Wren replied, trying to school her shocked features into something more neutral while she busied herself wiping the grime away from the injury.
He laughed, the sound warm and rich. ‘I suppose we deserve that reputation.’
‘Among others.’ She scanned his golden hair and the aforementioned hammer on the ground. ‘You’re the one they call the Bear Slayer.’
‘Guilty,’ he replied with a note of amusement. ‘Or Torj, if we’re friendly.’
‘We’re not.’
His gaze met hers, more amusement gleaming there. ‘And what do they call you?’
‘Wren,’ she said simply, and applied the rubbing alcohol.
Torj swore, his breath hissing between his teeth at the pain. Wren knew the burn of application from her own cuts and scrapes over the years, but without proper cleaning, the wound would fester.
‘Hold still,’ she chastised as she readied the needle and thread.
‘So you’re not squeamish, then?’ he grunted.
‘No. Are you?’ But she didn’t wait for his answer. Instead, she pierced the skin and threaded the needle through, ignoring his cursing. ‘Here I was thinking someone called the Bear Slayer might have a higher pain tolerance.’
‘Here I was thinking healers were meant to be kind. Or at least have a decent bedside manner.’
‘I’m not at your bedside, and I’m not a healer,’ she told him, concentrating on the push and pull of the needle. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and she couldn’t stop her gaze from dipping to the whorls of dark ink adorning his muscular chest.
‘Then why in the midrealms am I letting you poke me with that damn torture device?’
‘You’re a bit dramatic, aren’t you?’ she mused, finding her rhythm.
The Bear Slayer shook his head in disbelief. ‘Again...no one talks to me like that.’
‘Perhaps it’s time someone did.’
Wren could feel the intensity of his stare on her, hot as a brand. Though she was confident her expression remained professional, she couldn’t stop her breath from catching as the warrior reached out, his large fingers brushing the bare skin of her neck—
She started, her stomach fluttering. ‘What are you—’
But between his fingers, he held a leaf. ‘This was in your hair.’
‘Oh.’
He let it fall between them. ‘If you’re not a healer, dare I ask what you are?’
Wren returned to finishing her sutures. There would be a scar, but it would be small and neat thanks to her steady hands. ‘I’m an alchemist.’
‘Is that so...’ Torj said thoughtfully.
‘Yes.’
The air between them felt charged, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Wren shifted closer to inspect her handiwork. She was increasingly aware of how close they were, of how he hadn’t looked away from her once. Beneath the metallic tang of blood, the scent of him was rich and warm – black cedar, perhaps, and a hint of oakmoss . She had to stop herself from leaning in.
‘And where might I find you?’ Torj’s chest vibrated beneath her touch with his words. ‘For...follow-up care?’
‘You won’t need any,’ Wren replied brusquely. ‘Just keep it clean and dry.’
‘What about removing the stitches?’
‘I’m sure someone of your...experience can figure out how to remove a few stitches.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Are you calling me old?’
She clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘I’m sure there are other things I could call you.’
‘No doubt...’ There was a playful note in his tone. ‘How old are you, anyway?’
‘None of your business.’ Tying off the thread, Wren cleared her throat. ‘There,’ she said, leaning back with a satisfied nod. ‘That should hold, as long as you don’t do anything stupid to tear the stitches.’
Torj raised an eyebrow. ‘And what qualifies as stupid, in your expert opinion?’
Wren shot him a look as she packed away her kit. ‘Anything that lands you back in my care, Bear Slayer. I’ve got better things to do than patch up reckless warriors who don’t know when to quit.’
‘Wren?’
Her name on his lips was like a song. She met his gaze, and his rugged handsomeness hit her like a blow.
‘Just so you know...’ The Bear Slayer grinned. ‘I never quit.’
Wren got to her feet, needing to put distance between them. ‘Good luck and good riddance, Bear Slayer,’ she told him, heading for the road.
‘You can’t get rid of me that easily,’ he called out.
‘Whatever you say, Warsword.’ But as she walked away, Wren felt his gaze on her back, warm as summer sun, and a strange spark, right in the centre of her chest.
Wren was falling.
First, through every moment she had shared with Torj Elderbrock. A labyrinth of their time together. His hand in hers. His tongue tracing her lips. The weight of his body braced over her own.
‘I’m so in love with you...So fucking in love with you, Embers.’
He was in her blood, in her magic – part of him living inside her, reverberating through the very marrow of her bones.
Then a torrent of agony blinded her. The pain was endless, electric, as though it were channelling right through the lightning in her veins.
‘You belong in my arms, in my bed, in my life. You belong with me, no matter what.’
Someone was screaming.
‘You promise?’
‘I swear it, Embers.’
Wren was made of fire. She’d forgotten what it felt like not to burn. All she knew was the searing of her insides, the tearing of her soul.
‘It’s me and you. Always.’
On and on it went. Seconds stretched into eternity as Wren relived those moments, and all those that had come before. Every nerve ending, every fibre of her being screamed for reprieve, for respite from the relentless onslaught that threatened to engulf her. The stripping of some unknown part of her; the endless fall through agonizing oblivion.
Until she was burned down to those final threads.
‘Even when I’m nothing but ash, I’ll still be yours.’