CHAPTER 13 Wren
Wren
‘The most impressive alchemist mind is that which stays curious’
– Drevenor Academy Handbook
‘SOME OF THESE rose bushes are over a thousand years old,’ the horticulturist, Braxton, told Wren as they wandered across the breathtaking grounds of the Pendelton manor.
‘I didn’t realize they could live so long,’ Wren replied, reaching out to touch a silken red petal.
Braxton nodded. ‘There’s a lot people don’t know about roses. They’re such a common bloom they’re often overlooked.’
‘Do you have any silvertide in these gardens?’ she asked.
‘Only that which grows wild on the estate boundary. It’s much too ordinary for Lady Pendelton’s prized garden beds.’
‘Can you take me to them?’
‘The silvertide roses?’ Braxton frowned.
‘Yes. They’re an interest of mine.’
‘An alchemist, aren’t you?’
‘I was,’ Wren replied quietly. ‘Not any more, though.’
‘I imagine it’s like being a gardener, though, eh? Once an alchemist, always an alchemist? This way, then.’
Wren followed the horticulturist to the far edge of the property, which was quite some distance from the manor itself.
She very much doubted that even Lucian’s keen eyes could spy her out here.
Against the stone wall climbed a dainty rose bush, its leaves dark green and its few flowers that familiar pearly white.
It wasn’t half as robust as the one by her cottage in Delmira, but it was certainly of the silvertide variety.
She knew just from looking at these flowers that they wouldn’t be as potent as the strain she needed for her cure, but they could help with comparisons and tests.
‘Do you mind if I take some cuttings?’ Wren asked her companion.
Braxton shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. They’re nought but weeds to Her Ladyship. I’ll get my pruning shears—’
‘No need.’ Wren produced her own secateurs from her belt.
‘You came prepared,’ he observed.
She leaned down to clip the first bloom for her supplies. ‘I always do, Master Braxton.’
‘If I’d known you were interested in getting samples, I would have brought you out at first light. Early morning is best for cuttings, when the plant is most hydrated. The flowers last longer then.’
Wren blinked up at the horticulturist, stunned. ‘You know, in all my years of study, no Master Alchemist has ever told me that . . .’
Braxton shrugged again. ‘Lady Pendelton likes her flowers fresh. They keep for longer if I cut them in the morning for her vases.’
Wren nodded, taking care of the thorns as she harvested another rose. ‘Well, thank you for sharing that. I’ll keep it in mind.’ She raised a brow at him. ‘Any other gems of wisdom?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On why you want to know.’
‘Well, I’m not selling your trade secrets to the competition, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she told him, wrapping her samples in fresh silkspore.
Braxton huffed a laugh. ‘What are you trying to do? Propagate? Make perfume? Garnish your drinks?’
Wren smiled. ‘I’ll take any and all insights.’
‘Well, in that case, I’d tell you that sometimes hardwood cuttings taken in late autumn or winter have a higher rate of success than spring softwood cuttings, particularly with this variety .
. . And in terms of more creative pursuits, the fruit that forms after flowering is often overlooked and underestimated. ’
‘You mean rose hip?’ Wren asked. ‘It has lots of medicinal purposes.’
‘Exactly,’ he said with a wink. ‘You may want to take a few samples of that too, eh?’
Wren found herself grinning. ‘You don’t happen to have a greenhouse, do you, Braxton?’
‘Vernich the Bloodletter is dead,’ Torj announced to the gathered nobility and bannermen.
Shocked whispers broke out across the Pendelton dining hall, and Wren herself sucked in a sharp breath from where she sat at the head of the table.
She had spent much of the morning in Braxton’s greenhouse, testing her silvertide cuttings from Delmira against those grown at the estate border.
She had lost hours dissecting the rose hip from each and adding it to her experiments, testing its response to Torj’s blood samples only to be dragged away from her work to the debriefing happening around her now.
‘Vernich? You think Vernich is dead?’ Thea repeated from behind her, flinching at the news.
Darian sat to Wren’s right, his expression unreadable, and on her left Kipp said nothing, but she saw a muscle feather in his jaw.
Wren hadn’t known the Bloodletter well, only that he’d had a bloody history with Thea, Cal and Kipp from when they were shieldbearers.
The eldest Warsword of the original cohort had some unorthodox methods that had often left his trainees in the infirmary.
And yet, during the shadow war, Vernich Warner had shown them a different side of himself, and in the end, he had been celebrated as a hero alongside the rest. Which was why the news was so shocking.
‘What else, Torj?’ Thea called.
‘Another Warsword, Ashlyn Graves, is also believed to be dead. Parts of her were found along with Vernich’s mace.
The amount of blood spilled there suggests none survived,’ Torj replied, bowing his head for a moment.
‘But it’s with worse tidings than these that Hawthorne, Whitlock and I rejoin you .
. . Our orders took us to villages of the Broken Isles, where a new kind of devastation has impacted the people there.
Silas is creating an army of followers similar to the monsters called howlers in the shadow war, if not a less developed form of the very same thing.
They crave violence and are willing to join any cause in order to gain access to a bloodbath.
That is who makes up much of his army. People who were once normal citizens of the midrealms, who are now lusting after violence of any kind and flocking to Silas’s ranks. ’
Wren watched him, devastation washing over her in waves.
It was just like the shadow war. The only difference was that she now knew the man who stood before them was her soul-bonded, and that he was dying.
Even from where she sat, she could see the tremor he was trying to hide in his fingers – a symptom that was presenting far too early given what Lord Lucian had claimed about the poison being slow to release . . .
Was he somehow increasing Torj’s rate of decline in order to force her hand with Darian sooner?
Or had he lied? At Wren’s request, Darian had attempted on several occasions to obtain the information from his father without raising suspicion, but to no avail.
Either the senior Lord of Larkwood Valley kept his cards incredibly close to his chest, or he didn’t trust his own son. Or both.
Wren stiffened as the veins in Torj’s neck momentarily darkened, a glimpse of the poison surging within. Darian squeezed her hand in warning and she averted her gaze from the Bear Slayer, turning instead to Lord Lucian, who had taken the floor.
‘And what of the fact that you bring the Prince of Naarva with you?’ the nobleman said, the edge in his voice clear for all to hear. ‘When the matter of his abdication remains unresolved and he was to remain confined in his residence at Drevenor?’
Zavier stood. ‘The Guild Master herself charged the Warswords with my protection. Not only did she have cause to fear for my life, but she also expected my expertise as an alchemist may be useful on the road. Which it has been. It was I who identified the dark alchemy and shadow magic being used to weaponize those poor souls into bloodthirsty creatures.’
‘So we have one wayward prince who garners the protection of not one, but three Warswords?’ Lucian scoffed. ‘That doesn’t support Silas’s arguments at all.’
‘I didn’t say I—’
But Lord Lucian didn’t let the Prince of Naarva finish. ‘We thank you and the Warswords for the information.’ He turned to his fellow noblemen. ‘Lord Pendelton, Lord Briar, perhaps we should continue our discussion somewhere more private?’
Darian squeezed Wren’s hand again. ‘That’s my cue, my love.’
‘And mine,’ she replied, rising to her feet.
‘Darling.’ Darian’s voice dropped slightly, a practised skill to appear to whisper but to do so loud enough for others to still hear.
‘You know you can trust me to handle our military affairs. Go and catch up with the prince – I’m sure there’s much to talk about.
’ He dropped his voice to a true whisper then.
‘You know we’re more likely to gain the numbers you require if it looks like a man is at the helm. ’
Wren stifled a cry of frustration, masking her rage with a pliant smile. ‘Take Kipp with you,’ she said calmly. ‘He knows the terrain of Delmira better than most.’
Darian nodded and dropped her hand, walking ahead of his father.
As Lord Lucian rose, he brushed past Wren and murmured, ‘Remember what I said about making us look the fool . . .’ His words were light, but the threat between them was anything but.
For a moment, Wren could feel the heat of Torj’s gaze lingering on her as Lucian moved away. She could feel the Bear Slayer in the air around her, but she didn’t so much as glance his way, not when Lord Lucian’s menacing remark was still fresh in her ear.
Thankfully, Zavier approached. ‘It’s good to see you, Wren,’ he said, sounding as tired as she felt.
‘You too, Zave,’ she replied. ‘Was everything alright on the road?’
‘You mean besides the madness of fury-inducing dark alchemy?’
‘Yes, besides that.’
‘Then it was just grand,’ he told her dryly. ‘You want to show me what you’ve been working on?’
Wren had been heartened to see her friend with Torj and the others, though she found herself worrying for Dessa, who’d been left at the academy to guard her potions alone.
It was Dessa who’d scarcely left her side since they’d met as novices, who had travelled with her to Delmira and seen the flourishing lands with her.
Wren’s stomach churned with unease. It felt wrong for them all to be here without her.
But she showed Zavier to her quarters anyway, eager to talk with another alchemist. If the shadow war had taught her anything, it was that there was no such thing as too many medical supplies.
With an extra pair of hands, she could start that afternoon.
There was no doubt in her mind that they would need them all: fever reducers, pain relievers, sleeping drafts . . .
‘I’ve been limited to what I could take on the road,’ she explained as Zavier surveyed her rudimentary set-up. ‘But along with some healing basics, I’ve been able to brew several doses of the cure I used on Queen Reyna during my opus.’
‘Can it be used as a preventative, or only an antidote?’ Zavier asked.
‘In its current form, only an antidote, but with more silvertide roses, I’ll be able to adjust the formula so that it can be used to neutralize Silas’s attacks. Finding more roses is crucial to our victory.’
‘Dessa was working on the same thing when I left,’ Zavier told her.
Wren sighed with relief. ‘Good. The more of us working on it the better.’
Zavier went to wash his hands in the nearby basin. ‘If you show me what to do, I can start right now.’
Wren desperately wanted to see Torj, to talk to him after they’d been interrupted the night before, but there was no way she could risk seeking him out so soon.
She tried calling out to him with her mind, but all that came back to her was the echo of her own voice.
And so she chose to distract herself with work, showing Zavier the first part of her method for creating the cure, noting that her remaining supplies of silvertide were dwindling.
It wasn’t until Wren’s vision blurred with exhaustion that she thought to retire to her bedroom.
When she closed the door behind her and turned to face the canopy bed, she stopped in her tracks.
There was a small, black box atop the silk sheets.
Frowning, she stepped towards it. Thea had done the usual security sweep of her rooms before she and Zavier had entered, so whatever it was, her sister had deemed it safe to leave behind.
Wren tore open the box and lifted its rather intimate contents from the wrappings within, her mouth agape.
‘Are these . . .’ She dropped the box and examined the black lace with a shocked expression, the item hanging off her finger.
A note fluttered down from the fabric. And for the first time in weeks, Wren laughed. She laughed until her belly ached and tears tracked down her cheeks.
Wear some damn undergarments, Embers, the note read.