CHAPTER 26 Wren
Wren
‘Of an alchemist’s prized tools, the finest magnifying lens is crafted not from glass, but from study that dissolves the barrier between what we perceive and what truly is’
– Drevenor Academy Handbook
IT WAS NIGHTFALL by the time they finished talking and Torj slipped from the compartment to find the captain, but Wren was more alert, more alive than she’d been in a long time, when she reached for her quill.
Now she knew exactly what to write.
She stayed in the chain locker for as long as she could bear it before she staged a visit to Darian in front of Lucian and then returned to her cabin to continue scribbling away.
She only paused to push the parchment into Kipp’s hands and take whatever food he brought her.
All concept of time was lost to her as she poured herself into the pages before her, her hand cramping from the endless hours of use.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the sun on her face.
Cracking her knuckles and rubbing her bleary eyes, she retrieved a new leaf of parchment with a sigh—
‘We’re dropping anchor,’ Kipp’s voice sounded from the door. ‘Time to go. Tal’s flown back to Naarva to speak with the shadow-touched.’
Surprised, Wren rolled her aching shoulders and dropped her head into her hands, instantly regretting that she hadn’t slept ahead of the hard ride to Thezmarr. ‘Surely it’ll be hours before we can actually disembark—’
‘No, we’re first off. I called in a favour.’
Wren gave a tired laugh. ‘Of course you did. No doubt you want to use the newfound time to stop by the Fox?’
‘Not this time,’ Kipp replied, his expression unreadable.
A chill ran down her spine. ‘What is it? It’s not like you to—’
‘I can’t be sure yet,’ Kipp told her quietly. ‘But the sooner we leave, the better.’
Seeing Kipp serious was unnerving to say the least, and so Wren got to her feet, quickly packing away her things in her oilskin satchel and securing her belt of potions around her waist.
Up on deck, several members of the crew were releasing the mechanisms and controlling the drop of the anchor into the dark waters below, feeding the rope through the hawsehole.
A loud scraping noise filled the air as the thick hemp scraped against the wooden hull, followed by a tremendous splash as the iron hit the water.
Kipp fidgeted beside Wren. She had travelled by ship with him enough times by now to know that he was not usually a nervous voyager, and yet he peered beyond the docks with narrowed eyes, shifting from foot to foot.
‘What is it?’ Thea asked as she joined them, noting the same anxious movements in their friend.
‘Settler’s Port is quiet,’ Kipp replied, not taking his eyes off the docks below.
Wren followed his gaze. The markets, usually buzzing with activity, were empty of patrons and vendors alike. There were no stalls, no traders hawking their wares . . .
She risked a glance across the deck to where Torj stood rigid beside Wilder, surveying the quiet port below, his brow furrowed, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble of his jaw.
‘Must be something going on in the capital,’ Lord Lucian offered as the crew began securing the remaining rope to the bollards. ‘Regent Liora is known to love her festivals.’
Wren shot Thea a look of disbelief, only to find her sister’s expression mirroring her own.
It wasn’t long before they disembarked, and were met with an unnatural silence looming like a heavy cloud. No gulls squawking, no insects buzzing around the market scraps, and certainly not the hum of a prosperous city beyond . . .
With their horses being led out from the hold, Darian sent scouts ahead while the Warswords and a skeleton company followed in their wake.
Wren refused to be left behind, as did Dessa, Zavier and Kipp, who all trailed after the warriors.
Unease settled over Wren as they moved into the outskirts of the capital, her nape prickling, her palms growing clammy.
This was an outlying residential area, she realized, taking in the withered plants in the windowsills, the lines of laundry hanging above.
Ahead of her, Torj took his war hammer in his hands, and beside him Thea and Wilder unsheathed their swords. The telltale creak of Cal’s bow sounded from nearby as well.
Torj’s voice came to her. Stay close, Embers.
But she didn’t need to be a Warsword to sense the danger ahead. Wren gnawed on her lip, a faint yet familiar floral scent tickling her nostrils.
‘My lord!’ one of Darian’s scouts cried, running towards them.
‘What is it?’ Darian demanded.
‘You have to see it for yourself,’ the scout said, his voice wavering.
But the nobleman didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he surveyed his man critically. ‘We have royals among us. Is it safe for them to enter the town?’
‘Everyone’s dead.’
Darian blinked, his only tell the tightening of his grip on the pommel of his sword. ‘Very well. Lead on.’
Their company moved forwards, and no one said a word. Wren’s heart was in her throat as they walked into the outer town square, that strange sense of wrongness still humming around them.
She gasped.
Not at the prominent gallows erected in the heart of the place, but at the dozens of bodies littered across the ground. Men, women and children of all ages lay lifeless in the dirt.
‘Furies save us . . .’ Dessa breathed nearby.
Wren darted to the closest body.
‘Wren, no—’ Thea called out. But she was already there, searching for a pulse.
She found none. Not on the first body, or the second, or the rest that came after.
The scout was right – everyone was dead.
Wren had seen bodies piled like this before, during the shadow war, but it had always been after a battle, where blood had raged as hot as the fires that burst from her potions, and weapons had clashed with the song of violence. This was different.
These deaths were quiet, calculated.
It had been a mass execution.
Wren sought Darian. The nobleman was walking around the bodies like she was, staring at them in disbelief.
‘This town was governed by one of Lord Briar’s relatives,’ he said, glancing back towards the port, where the lord remained oblivious to the slaughter.
Wren’s gaze fell to the well before the gallows.
Stepping over the dead, she approached it.
Its bucket was raised and swaying in the gentle breeze as though someone had paused mid-task.
She reached for the ladle and peered into the water.
There was nothing to be seen; the water was clear, but that faint scent nagged at her.
‘Is it some form of dark alchemy?’ Dessa asked, staring into the bucket beside her.
‘There are no signs of struggle,’ Cal called out as he searched the corpses for clues. ‘No injuries that I can see . . .’
Wren looked at the devastation before her, recognizing the subtle sweet fragrance at last. Oleander.
‘Because they weren’t slain by blades,’ she ventured slowly. ‘They were poisoned.’