CHAPTER 9 Wren
Wren
‘A poisoner’s mastery often boils down to the simple skill of attention to detail’
– The Poisoner’s Handbook
WITH LORD brIAR’S bannermen secured, Wren rode with Darian and their guard to the Pendelton estate the next day. Thea kept close to her side, and Kipp did what Kipp did best: riding between the ranks and talking to the men, his stories often followed by loud bursts of laughter.
As they travelled, Wren was told a similar tale to the first – that Lord Pendelton originally hailed from Tver, but owned multiple properties across the midrealms and had been gracious enough to meet them at his manor in Naarva.
Darian stressed to her several times that they were lucky Lord Lucian’s allies were being so accommodating with their schedules.
‘I’m sure they’re doing so out of the goodness of their hearts,’ Thea muttered dryly.
It had been a long while since Wren had done so much riding, and she was dismayed to find her thighs burning and her tailbone aching after several hours in the saddle.
She missed riding with Torj at her back, the warmth of him surrounding her, the beat of his heart a steady rhythm against her spine while she breathed in his black-cedar-and-oakmoss scent.
She knew Audra had ordered him and Wilder to investigate Silas’s reach to the local villages, but she didn’t know where exactly.
It felt like half a world away, wherever he was.
They had spoken into each other’s minds before, but perhaps now the distance was too great to reach one another .
. . She could only hope that he wasn’t feeling the effects of the poison yet, and that Wilder was looking out for him.
Wren could still sense the storm on the horizon, though it hadn’t broken yet. A glance at her sister told her that Thea could feel it too. Neither Embervale called to it, but Wren felt her own magic dance at her fingertips as if in answer.
Her attention was snatched away as they turned a corner.
Wren gaped at the verdant land that stretched before them, a private road cutting through the expanse of pristine grass and a sea of vibrant roses.
It took an hour by carriage just to get to the front of the estate, which had been adorned with garlands of flowers in honour of their arrival.
A line of servants awaited, ready to take their luggage and offer them refreshments, but it was the elegant man and woman at the top of the stairs that caught Wren’s attention.
They were each beautifully dressed in coloured silks that complemented the other, and both wore expressions of utter delight on their faces.
‘Welcome, welcome!’ the woman who could only be Lady Pendelton declared, her skirts swishing as she came forwards to greet them.
Wren nearly recoiled as Lord Lucian took her hand and led her to their hosts. His fingers were cold and dry against hers, his grip harder than necessary, as though he were trying to bruise her bones.
‘Lady Pendelton, Lord Pendelton, may I present my future daughter-in-law, Elwren Embervale, Princess of Delmira.’
Wren kept her expression mild and pleasant as both nobles dipped into dignified bows.
‘A pleasure to meet you both,’ she heard herself say. ‘Thank you for hosting us in your beautiful home. The roses on the way in are particularly stunning.’
‘The pleasure is all ours, Your Highness,’ Lord Pendelton said. ‘Perhaps my wife can show you the rest of our gardens.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t have time for my silly interests,’ Wren replied lightly. ‘I’d be happy if your groundskeeper showed me the way later.’
Lord Pendelton gave her a strange look. ‘Braxton is hardly a common groundskeeper. He’s one of the most revered horticulturists in Naarva.’
Wren flashed a bland smile. ‘How wonderful.’
At last Lucian released her fingers, and she suppressed the urge to wipe them on her gown.
But the unwanted touch was soon replaced by another, with Darian swooping in and sliding an arm around her waist as they were led inside.
The crawling sensation along her skin told her that Lucian was close behind.
Wren longed for the quaint rooms of Drevenor, with dried herbs strung up across the windows and crucibles bubbling on the workstations, but instead she was greeted by yet another elaborate foyer, with enormous ceramic urns framing every doorway and half a dozen servants bustling through each room.
‘We have prepared a wonderful dinner in celebration of your engagement,’ Lady Pendelton gushed. ‘So perhaps if you’d like to change, you can meet us in the dining hall in an hour? Our staff will show you to your quarters.’
When Wren and Thea were escorted to their lavish guest chambers, Wren collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
‘I don’t know how much longer I can stomach this, Thee,’ she muttered, closing her eyes for a moment as she tried to summon her strength.
‘Tell me about it,’ her sister groaned. ‘Lord Briar was insufferable in the previous meetings. Loves to hear himself talk. Now we’re adding another nobleman to the fold, the meetings will be twice as long. Consider yourself lucky your time is spent doing more useful things.’
Wren huffed. ‘Like what? Planning a wedding I want nothing to do with?’
‘I meant your alchemy projects.’
‘I’ve hardly had a spare moment; they can’t seem to fathom that a woman might want some time alone to pursue her own ambitions. Not even if those ambitions affect the state of the midrealms. It’s all ceremony this, flowers that . . .’
‘Ah, yes,’ Thea said dryly. ‘True women’s work.’
Reluctantly, Wren hauled herself upright. ‘I suppose I’d better change for whatever games await . . .’
‘You can borrow my armour if you’d like,’ Thea ventured.
Wren snorted.
Later that night, with another bridesmaid secured in Lady Pendelton, and a second offer to host the Embervale–Devereux wedding under her belt, Wren turned her attention firmly to the true matters at hand.
The wine flowed freely and had already loosened several tongues, but she refused to retire for tea with the wives before saying her piece.
‘I do not ask you to fight for a stranger’s ambition, but for the rightful order of the midrealms,’ she told Lord Pendelton and his men.
‘With each day the usurper comes closer to taking my throne, our laws lose meaning and your own rights grow weaker . . . Your ancestors did not bow to tyrants. The blood of the brave flows through your veins. Will you let it be said that in your generation, courage finally failed?’
Darian gave a charming chuckle, covering her hand with his own.
‘What my beloved fiancée is saying is that those who march with us now, when victory is uncertain, will not find us forgetful when it is achieved. Lord Pendelton, your bannermen have been loyal to my house for seven generations. Lord Briar has already pledged his allegiance.’ Darian raised his glass to the man in question, who toasted him back with a smug grin.
It was clever to play them off one another, encouraging what Thea would call a pissing contest. But Darian was not finished.
‘I did not choose to stand beside Wren for our love or her beauty – though both are formidable. I stand with her because she is the true heir of Delmira and I have seen how she treats her allies. That is the measure of a true ruler, and why you should pledge as many of your men to her cause as you can.’
Lord Pendelton exchanged a glance with Lord Lucian before looking back to the betrothed couple. ‘We’ll discuss it at length.’
For two more days the negotiations continued, and what little time Wren stole for herself and her alchemy was interrupted by wedding planning.
It seemed that more thoughts and funds were dedicated to her ‘big day’ than to the upcoming war itself, and if that didn’t showcase the values of Darian’s connections, she didn’t know what did.
That evening, their hosts had transformed a lady’s dressing chamber into a modiste’s workshop.
The spacious room featured three deep alcoves along one wall, each curtained with heavy velvet for privacy during fittings.
The opposite wall held floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the estate grounds, but the alcoves themselves remained well-shielded from outside view.
Ornate screens, dress stands and various furniture pieces cluttered the main space, creating natural dividers throughout the room.
Wren went to one of the window seats, cushioned with velvet so an onlooker might be comfortable as they surveyed the world beneath with a sense of surreal removal.
Removal she very much needed from the reality unfolding in the room behind her.
Wren was soon tugged back into the centre of the room, where racks upon racks of gowns had been brought in for her perusal. She was shoved in front of strangers in little more than a shift as they forced her into gowns of varying degrees of ridiculousness.
Lady Briar, Lady Pendelton, their friends and their team of dressmakers and seamstresses flocked to her, each clutching a flute of sparkling wine, exclaiming loudly about which fabrics suited Wren best and which jewels brought out the green in her eyes.
Thea looked on from her station at the doorway, barely containing her grimace whenever Wren glanced her way.
It was all too much: the noise, the touching, the concept of marrying Darian Devereux when her heart was with a Warsword half a world away.
Wren told herself to grin and bear it, to gush over the veils and lace with the same level of enthusiasm as the others, but a sadness leeched into her bones, and each effort left her increasingly drained.
She was tugged behind the modesty screen once more, her shift stripped away unceremoniously by Lady Pendelton’s servants.
They were careless with her body, with no thought for her privacy or vulnerability, her potions and dagger long since discovered and given to Thea for safekeeping.
Wren hated being without them more than she hated her nakedness in front of the strangers.
She was shoved into another gown; this one was fitted snugly, the bodice making it hard to breathe once its laces had been tightened.
Wren was paraded out by a seamstress, where the ladies, now thoroughly drunk, applauded and made suggestive comments as she was led towards the full-length mirror.
She nearly choked as she stared at her reflection.
The dress was a beautiful creation, far simpler than the other designs that had nearly swallowed her in layers of tulle and lace.
The silhouette suited her figure, hugging her curves and cinching her waist. But the pure white of the gown seemed to mock the darkness within . . .
Suddenly, her eyes stung with tears and panic burned up her throat as she struggled to get air into her lungs.
She gripped the rack of dresses beside her, her knuckles turning bone-white as she braced herself.
The longer she stared, the more the reflection before her became a stranger – a pristine lie.
The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls inching closer as her heartbeat quickened and a droplet of sweat traced down her spine.
The bodice tightened like a vice. Had it been this constricting during the fitting?
She tugged at the neckline, but the movement only seemed to make the fabric cling more desperately to her skin.
‘Get out,’ she whispered, her voice almost inaudible amid the chatter.
Her reflection blurred as her vision tunnelled, the edges darkening like parchment catching fire.
She yelled the words this time. ‘Get out!’
The women around her started, their gasps echoing across the gallery.
Thea swept in, ushering them out with gentle words. ‘The princess has been overcome with emotion. She needs a moment to gather herself.’
But when only her sister remained, Wren motioned to the door. ‘You too, Thee . . .’
She didn’t register the click of the door closing; she could only stare at the woman in the mirror.
Her reflection was surreal, fragmenting like shattered glass, each piece revealing something she didn’t recognize – or like.
So many different versions of herself blinked back, none of them the right one.
She looked at the hem of the bridal gown, following the subtle lace pattern up the hourglass shape of her hips and the curves of her breasts to the sorrow shining in her eyes—
And then she froze as her gaze met a sea-blue stare in the reflection.
Torj Elderbrock stood behind her.