CHAPTER 30 Wren
Wren
‘Herb lore teaches us that power resides not in what is loudly proclaimed, but in what is quietly understood’
– From Root to Petal: Understanding Plants and Their Properties
‘WHAT?’ WREN STARED at her sister, convinced she’d misheard her. The word echoed off the stone walls of the dining hall, bouncing between the towering monuments. But Thea was smiling, and there was a light in her eyes Wren hadn’t seen since before the world had grown dark again.
‘Wilder proposed,’ she repeated, her expression faltering. She rubbed the scars on the backs of her hands, a habit she’d had since childhood.
Wren felt fresh tears track down her cheeks as she hauled Thea into her arms, squeezing her hard. ‘He finally did it,’ she mumbled into Thea’s braid. ‘At long last.’
‘You knew?’ Thea exclaimed.
Wren pulled back from the embrace, grinning like a lunatic. ‘Of course I knew. He’s been telling anyone who will listen for half a decade that you’d be his wife one day.’ She hugged her sister again. ‘I’m so happy for you, Thea. Congratulations.’
‘I’m sorry it’s come at such a shit time—’
‘Don’t you dare be sorry for this. It’s wonderful. It’s a light in the dark. It’s a promise of a future. Something to fight for.’ The words tumbled from her lips uncontrollably, but Wren meant every single one.
‘But everything is so up in the air. And you’ve got your stupid charade with Darian, and—’
‘Don’t ever be sorry. Don’t let anything stand in the way of the happiness that you deserve, sister.’
Wren hugged her again, and when she drew back, silver lined Thea’s eyes.
Nudging her with an elbow to lighten the mood, Wren asked, ‘What about the whole Warswords don’t have wives thing?’
The sisters ambled to where the rest of their company was gathered around a buffet spread.
‘Fuck it.’ Thea grinned, grabbing a plate. ‘Who’s gonna stop us?’
Wren had been convinced that Thezmarr would never be home to a happy memory again, but Thea and Wilder’s news swept through the fortress like wildfire, and with it came an infectious energy that Wren hadn’t experienced since before the shadow war.
The marriage of two Warswords, two heroes of the midrealms, was all anyone could talk about.
Even though the days were taken up with council meetings, correspondence and managing weaponry supplies and rations, Wren felt lighter than she had in a long time, and the quiet moments in between battle planning were beautiful.
Thea was happy. And if nothing else, that was something good in the world.
‘We want to get married here,’ Thea declared over breakfast one morning.
Wren wasn’t surprised. Thezmarr had always been special to her sister. ‘When?’ she asked, bringing her cup to her lips.
‘The day after next—’
Wren spat her tea across her plate, choking. ‘What? Are you mad?’
Thea gave her a sheepish smile. ‘You’re not the first person to ask that, but no. I want to be his wife, Wren. I don’t want to waste any more time. Another war is upon us . . . This might be the only chance we get.’
‘Thea—’ Wren started to protest.
But Thea shook her head. ‘Don’t deny it. Besides, it’s very us, isn’t it? Getting married at a warrior fortress before a battle?’
A laugh bubbled from Wren’s lips. ‘That’s true . . .’
‘You haven’t heard the best part,’ Kipp interjected, turning from his conversation with Cal on the opposite side of the table. He put a hand on his chest proudly. ‘I get to perform the ceremony.’
‘You what?’ Wilder barked from the far end.
Thea grimaced, shooting her husband-to-be an apologetic look. ‘I may have lost a bet with him a few years ago . . .’
Wilder stared at her in disbelief, shaking his head, but Wren burst out laughing. Her sister and the Hand of Death were getting married. And Kipp would be the one to do it. It was perfect.
The ludicrous joyful feeling lasted for most of the day, even as Wren sat in meeting after meeting with Darian, discussing Silas’s supposed inner circle of influence.
‘It’s made up of alchemists and military commanders he brought with him from beyond the former Veil border.
That is where his warfare tactics stem from, and it is these men, of whom there are fifty or so, who organize the rest of his forces,’ the nobleman told her, reading from a letter stamped with the Devereux sigil.
But when Darian suggested yet another gathering in the war room, Wren finally lost her patience, and instead of justifying her decisions, she found herself retracing an old, familiar path to the herb garden in the Bloodwoods.
There she fell into old habits, crouching down in the dirt and gathering supplies.
The familiar scents of rosemary and sage filled her nostrils, mingling with the aroma of fresh sap from the trees that gave the Bloodwoods their name.
Her fingers remembered the patterns – which stems to pinch, which leaves to pluck, what foliage needed the keen blade of her harvesting knife.
Healing herbs, fighting herbs, herbs for sleep and strength and clarity of mind. They would need them all before long.
All the alchemists were gone from Thezmarr, and so the garden was wilder now, far less tended than in her memories.
Chamomile had spread beyond its beds, tiny white flowers dotting the path like stars fallen to earth.
Nightshade and wolfsbane twisted together in dark corners – beautiful and deadly, just like the women who had once cared for this place. Sam and Ida, even Thea for a time.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Torj called out as he strode into the clearing.
The late afternoon light caught his silver hair and the iron of his hammer, and for a moment Wren was reliving the first time they’d met in these very woods.
Her heart lifted at the sight of him. It felt like an age since they’d shared a private moment together, even just a quiet aside.
Gods, she missed him. She missed his sturdy presence, his gentle words, his lightning-kissed touch.
The garden seemed to hold its breath, remembering other meetings, other touches.
But he wasn’t on his own. Zavier and Dessa followed close behind him, their boots crushing herbs and releasing bursts of fragrance into the air.
When Torj reached her, he didn’t touch her – though everything in her ached for it. Instead, he simply said quietly, ‘Even if I can’t be with you, I didn’t want you to be alone.’
Zavier dropped to his knees beside her, immediately identifying some of the herbs she’d gathered. ‘Bloodroot and feverfew,’ he said, examining her pile. ‘Planning for the worst?’
‘Always.’ Wren managed a wry smile. ‘Though I was thinking we might need something more festive first . . .’ She held up a sprig of rosemary.
‘Isn’t that rosemary?’ Torj interjected with a frown.
Wren fought the smile tempting her lips. ‘Someone’s been studying.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve spent the better part of a year at an alchemy academy,’ Torj replied dryly. ‘Not that I’m complaining,’ he added.
Wren did smile then. ‘Long ago, rosemary was often woven into bridal crowns . . . A symbol of fidelity and remembrance.’
Dessa nodded enthusiastically. ‘My mother sewed it into her veil . . .’ She paused. ‘I don’t think Thea will have a veil, do you?’
Wren snorted. ‘No, I don’t think that’s likely, Dess.’
‘What about this?’ Torj held out a stem of lavender, its purple floret bright and aromatic. ‘Does this have a meaning?’
‘Some say it signifies love and devotion,’ she told him quietly.
His throat bobbed. ‘Right.’
‘A warrior’s wedding needs a warrior’s garland,’ Dessa declared, settling on Wren’s other side.
She pulled a leatherbound book from her satchel – one Wren recognized from Thezmarr’s library; one she had studied as a girl.
It made her heart seize. She’d thought everything in the library had been destroyed in the final battle.
It was oddly moving to her that this, of all things, had been the item to survive.
Dessa forged on. ‘Your sister should have all of it – protection, strength, victory . . .’
‘And love,’ Torj added softly, offering the alchemists the lavender he had gathered. ‘She should have that too.’
Wren took it, her gaze falling to where the Warsword had placed a single sprig in the laces of his jerkin.
He watched them for a moment, his expression softening. ‘I’ll leave you to your gardening, then.’ He turned to go, then paused. ‘Just . . . try not to poison anyone before the ceremony?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Wren retorted, but Torj was already striding away.
As Wren returned to her harvesting, Dessa spread the book open between them. The pages were covered in flowing script, recipes and warnings intermingled with personal observations. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing to a particular entry. ‘A blessing wreath. We could adapt it . . .’
They worked in comfortable silence for a while, gathering, sorting and weaving. It felt good to lose herself in the familiar rhythms, to let her hands remember what her mind sometimes wanted to forget.
‘You know,’ Zavier said eventually, ‘there’s something fitting about this. Collecting healing supplies and making a bridal crown in the same breath.’
Wren looked up at the darkening sky, where the first stars were beginning to appear. ‘That’s what we fought for last time,’ she replied softly. ‘Not just survival. The right to have moments like this, even in the dark.’