CHAPTER 41 Wren
Wren
‘Transformation requires precision, not abundance’
– Alchemy Unbound
LORD LUCIAN’S EYES tracked Wren as she entered the makeshift command tent that afternoon with Kipp at her side. Her stomach churned with unease, but she told herself that there was no way anyone had seen her slip from Torj’s tent in the dark before dawn.
‘This tent is far too small for so many egos,’ she muttered to her friend.
Kipp chuckled beside her. ‘You’re not wrong there.’
Along with Lord Briar and Lord Pendelton, there were at least half a dozen noblemen that Wren didn’t recognize.
She took in their fancy doublets, the weapons that had likely never seen a day’s combat gleaming at their hips and the familiar exchanges between them all.
Every chair around the table was full but for the one next to Darian.
In addition to his allies, there were Zavier and Thea, while Wilder and Cal stood behind them.
‘Where’s Elderbrock?’ the latter asked, adjusting his bow over his shoulder.
‘He’s indisposed,’ Wren replied in a tone that invited no further questioning. If her friends were surprised that Audra’s own appointed Warsword wasn’t present, they didn’t show it.
‘And Dessa?’ Thea said.
‘In the cottage. She agreed to watch over the potions brewing,’ Wren told her sister quickly before returning her attention to the gathered company.
‘There she is!’ Darian rose from his chair, a charming grin plastered on his face. ‘My future wife, as radiant as ever.’
Wren didn’t know how, but she managed not to grimace at the greeting. She forced herself to return Darian’s enthusiasm and took his offered hand with a smile. ‘I hope I’m not late. I was tending to some of the warriors in the healer’s station.’
‘That’s my Elwren,’ Darian said fondly, showing her to her seat at the table. ‘A heart of gold. Always putting others before herself. You’re right on time, my love.’
‘An honourable trait in a woman,’ someone said from the far end.
Schooling her features into an impenetrable mask, Wren silently relished the crackle of storm magic in her veins and the clinking vials of poison at her belt.
Let them think you’re demure and unambitious.
Let them believe you are just another pawn in their games.
It will make what lies ahead all the more satisfying.
Thea met her gaze from across the table, a similar glint in her celadon eyes. If there was one thing the Embervale sisters agreed on, it was that old men had no place telling women what traits made them honourable.
Speaking of which . . . The nape of Wren’s neck prickled, and her eyes were drawn to Lord Briar, who was staring daggers at her.
His hand rested on a crumpled letter atop the table, his knuckles whitening as his fingers curled around the parchment.
The tension hung thick in the air, palpable enough that Kipp shifted closer behind her chair.
‘I see the ravens have been busy,’ Wren remarked coolly, taking note of the identical letters before several of the noblemen.
Lord Pendelton cleared his throat. ‘Your Highness, there are . . . concerning rumours circulating.’ He gestured to the letter before him. ‘Rumours that you’re responsible for certain . . . incidents.’
Wren tried not to visibly stiffen in her seat. She had known news of her letters to the common folk would travel fast, but she had underestimated the speed of the reports back to the nobles, who usually had little concern for those beneath their station.
‘Rumours are just that – rumours, Lord Pendelton,’ Darian interjected smoothly. ‘You know that well enough, being the victim of so many yourself.’
The nobleman flushed a deep crimson. ‘That’s not what we’re discussing.’
‘No, we’re discussing the incidents attached to the Princess of Delmira,’ Lord Briar said sharply, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
‘This letter’ – he tapped the parchment with a ringed finger—’claims you are the assassin known as the Poisoner.
That half a dozen noble houses lost their patriarchs to your . . . handiwork. My own included.’
A flutter of whispers swept through the tent. Wren watched their faces, cataloguing each reaction carefully. Lord Lucian’s expression was unreadable and he was uncharacteristically quiet.
‘Consider who benefits from such rumours, my lords. Who would seek to destabilize our already precarious alliance as we begin our campaign?’ She let her gaze drift meaningfully towards the tent flap. ‘Our enemy has spies everywhere, as we all know too well.’
‘The correspondence in question bears your seal, according to our sources,’ Lord Briar insisted.
‘Seals can be forged,’ Darian cut in, reaching for Wren’s hand. ‘My father’s has been in the past. Yours too, Lord Pendelton, if you’ll recall those dreadful accusations from that maid of yours.’
Lord Pendelton flushed again.
‘It seems that you yourself have been a victim of similar schemes,’ Wren said, her voice deliberately gentle. ‘What matters now is reclaiming Delmira. Unless you believe these rumours more important than defeating Silas and his dark alchemy?’
Lord Pendelton glanced at his companions, and then to Lord Briar in particular. The latter gave a stiff nod.
‘Very well,’ Lord Pendelton replied at last. ‘But this matter is not settled, Princess.’
‘Few matters ever are in times of war, my lord,’ Wren replied, her spine strong as steel. ‘Now, shall we continue our meeting?’
The noblemen exchanged glances, their disapproval evident, but their ambition stronger. None were willing to abandon their chance at influence in a restored Delmira.
Clearing his throat, Darian shifted his and Wren’s joined hands on the table for all to see, Wren’s engagement ring glinting in the candlelight. ‘I believe we need to talk of the coronation?’
It was by no means a question – it was a directive, one that his allies followed immediately.
‘Ancient law states that any coronation of a Delmirian royal must be performed inside the city of Dorinth,’ Lord Pendelton declared, peering over a large tome as he chewed on the end of a pipe.
‘But there is no city of Dorinth,’ Zavier countered, his dark brows knitting together. ‘The capital fell. It’s nothing but the ruins and rubble the enemy has built their fortress upon.’
‘I can’t change the law, Your Highness,’ the older nobleman replied. ‘In fact, it’s the very same one you adhered to when you were crowned in Ciraun, the capital of your kingdom.’
‘I don’t care if Wren gets crowned in the ruins or here in the army camp. She’s the rightful queen and deserves her crown,’ the prince told them boldly.
‘And as touching as that vote of confidence is for the princess, this is the kingdom of Delmira, not Naarva. Your vote does not carry much weight here,’ Lord Briar replied.
‘Watch your tongue, Lord Briar,’ Darian interjected. ‘Prince Zavier may be a guest here, but he is our guest. The guest of Princess Elwren and myself. He will be treated with respect.’
Lord Briar flushed and bowed his head. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Is a coronation truly a priority right now?’ Thea asked as she picked at her fingernails with her dagger. ‘What difference does it make if Wren has a crown or not until we win this war?’
‘While I agree with the sentiment,’ Darian said, ‘many noble houses of the midrealms will only answer to the summons of a king or queen. Without the proper title, oaths can remain unfulfilled, and people will be too unsure of the succession to pick a side.’
‘The side without the tyrant surely suffices,’ Thea retorted.
‘You’d think,’ Wilder snorted.
While Wren agreed with her sister and new brother-in-law, their observations were hardly helpful in this scenario. There was more than one reason this tactic was being pushed . . .
She turned to Kipp. ‘I’m guessing there is another reason for us taking back the capital?’
‘Naturally,’ Kipp replied. ‘The ruins of the capital are one of the most strategic military positions in all of Delmira. It’s one of Silas’s most advantageous strongholds.
The clifftops are an excellent vantage point for incoming attack, the ruins themselves provide ample coverage, and my personal favourite . . . the tavern—’
A unified groan from all who knew Kipp sounded across the tent.
‘Rude,’ he chastised them, before looking to the noblemen, likely spying their bulging coin purses in their pockets. ‘The tavern, the Flying Stag, is linked to an underground network, just like its sister locations throughout the midrealms, which means—’
‘We can smuggle supplies and reinforcements in, right under their noses,’ Cal said with a shake of his head. ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised.’
‘Nor do I,’ Kipp mused. ‘You’ve known me long enough by now, Callahan – I’m brilliant.’
‘That’s one word for it,’ Cal muttered, folding his arms over his chest.
‘And why weren’t these networks made known to us before?’ Lord Briar called. ‘We spent a week traipsing over enemy ground in full view, when we could have—’
‘Alerted them to the card up our sleeve?’ Kipp interjected. ‘I wasn’t going to risk that, my good man. And there are spies all over—’
The nobleman went red as he blustered, ‘Are you calling me a spy?’
Kipp raised a brow. ‘Are you a spy?’
‘Kipp!’ Wren snapped. ‘Not helping.’
But the strategist simply shrugged. ‘In my professional opinion—’
‘And what, exactly, qualifies you to give your so-called professional opinion?’ Lord Ethel, another nobleman, cut in aggressively. Clearly a nerve had been struck.
Kipp surveyed him with a cool, unaffected expression. ‘Only that I was the lead strategist in the shadow war. That as a result of my careful planning and input, countless lives were saved. Including yours.’ He glanced at Wren. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘That’s the gist of it,’ Wren agreed, trying to suppress the smug note in her voice. ‘Continue, please.’
She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man turn as red as Ethel.