CHAPTER 48 Wren
Wren
‘The people of the Warren will abide by the laws of the midrealms’
– The Accords of the Warren
WREN WAS SO taken aback she almost lost her balance. Torj’s hand shot out to steady her before she tumbled from the makeshift seat.
But no one was more shocked than Kipp. ‘Daughter?’ he spluttered.
‘Yes,’ Vernich hissed. ‘Daughter.’
Kipp’s gaze darted to the door. ‘But it’s only been six years since the war, and she’s—’
Wren could see the tendons in Vernich’s neck straining as he answered, ‘Thirty-four years old . . . You think I was a virgin for the first thirty fucking years of my life, Snowden?’
‘Your own daughter calls you Bloodletter?’ Kipp managed. ‘Do you call her Graves?’
The vein in Vernich’s neck was about to pop—
A deep chuckle sounded. ‘Let him down, Vernich,’ Wilder said, rising to his feet and clapping the Bloodletter on the shoulder.
‘Would you want this menace drooling over your daughter?’ Vernich snapped.
Wren rolled her eyes and stood, dusting herself off. ‘Your daughter looks more than capable of looking after herself,’ she interjected. ‘And Kipp didn’t know.’
At last, Vernich released Kipp’s shirt. ‘He does now.’
Kipp backed away sheepishly. ‘Heard you loud and clear, Bloodletter. No hard feelings . . .’
Vernich’s face was still red. ‘If you so much as look in her direction—’
Torj nudged the older Warsword towards the door. ‘How come you never told us about her?’ he asked quietly.
‘Didn’t know she existed, did I?’ Vernich replied, sounding suddenly calmer. ‘Wasn’t until after she passed the Great Rite that she came to find me. It was only then that she told me who she was.’
‘And she’s a Warsword . . .’ Wilder murmured.
‘Course she is,’ Vernich retorted, the pride clear as day in his voice as he led them from the gathering space.
Kipp fell into step beside Wren, cheeks flushed, eyes bright while he rummaged for something in his pocket.
Wren recognized that expression all too well. ‘What?’
Kipp grinned, pulling out the jar. ‘Do you think she wants her fingers back?’
The piece of metal was distorted – warped by flames and alchemy, if the lingering scent was anything to go by. Wren used a pair of tongs to turn it over on the bench, drawing her lantern closer for better light.
‘It’s definitely part of a mask?’ she asked Vernich the Bloodletter, who stood just behind her, peering over her shoulder.
‘Pulled it off the bastard’s face myself,’ he grunted, pointing to a foul-looking clump on the inside. ‘That there’s part of his brow.’
Wren’s stomach rolled with a wave of nausea. Rotting flesh. That also accounted for the stench. ‘And how long have you had this?’
Vernich shrugged. ‘Few weeks? A month? I can’t exactly remember when we escaped that shithole.’
‘You haven’t done anything to it? Washed it? Tried to burn it?’
The gruff Warsword snorted. ‘Does it look like it’s been fucking washed? And no. We just took what we could. There are a few amateur alchemists among the people of the Warren – we figured they’d look into it.’
‘And?’ Zavier chimed in from the door, striding forwards to the bench to get a better look.
‘And they’re amateurs. They didn’t understand what they were looking at,’ Vernich replied flatly. ‘So what are we looking at?’
Wren stared at the scrap of metal, noting the obsidian colour of the front, before turning it over once more. At a guess, the piece was from the part of the mask that covered the top of the nose and brow, but there wasn’t enough of it to truly examine. However, one minor detail caught her eye.
‘See this pattern here?’ She pointed to the inside of the mask, where a series of dense grooves had been carved.
‘I see it,’ Zavier said, while Vernich grunted in confirmation.
‘In design, Master Mercer taught us that patterns like this are often used to create more adhesion between the piece and the alchemy. This wasn’t used on the manacles Silas adapted. This is a new element, used only on the masks . . .’
‘So what? The alchemy is more effective for longer?’ Zavier asked.
‘That would be my guess, but without a complete mask, we can’t really draw any definitive conclusions,’ Wren replied.
‘Well, I don’t know shit about alchemy,’ Vernich muttered from behind them, ‘but I’ll gladly rip another mask off an enemy’s face for you.’
Wren smiled. ‘That would be appreciated, thank you, Vernich.’
The Bloodletter nodded and strode off.
‘He’s growing on me,’ Zavier said with a note of amusement.
‘Same here,’ Wren agreed. ‘If he can get us a complete mask . . . I just have a feeling that it will help make sense of things.’
Zavier shrugged. ‘I meant what I said back at Drevenor. Silas looks like me – if we were to be recognized as brothers, it would bring his entire reason for this war into question. A royal fighting the power of other royals, because a former royal got too power-hungry? He’s protecting his identity, Wren. ’
‘It can’t hurt to investigate.’
‘Because you’ve got so much free time already,’ Zavier quipped.
Wren’s patience was wearing thin. ‘If you’re not going to help, get out. I need to focus.’
Zavier lifted his hands in surrender and went after Vernich.
Wren worked into the early hours of the morning in the Warren’s workroom.
At some point in the night, Dessa had joined her, and the pair had hunched over the benches, distilling as much of the dark alchemy cure as possible.
Wren even managed to amend her formula so that the liquid could be taken as a preventative rather than just an antidote.
The silvertide roses needed to be used in a higher concentration for that particular elixir, though, and so there was only so much they could create with the bulk of the supplies Torj had found with their forces somewhere beyond the stronghold.
She also had several dishes of Torj’s blood out for examination, testing them with various antidotes she had brewed. The difference between poison and cure is simply a matter of dose, she told herself as she worked. As soon as she dissected what the poison was, the cure would be within reach.
A knock sounded at the door, and Zavier peeked inside. ‘Need help?’
‘Always.’ Wren wiped the sweat from her brow and tended to the flames beneath one of the bubbling crucibles.
‘About time,’ Dessa quipped from her corner of the room.
‘Good,’ Zavier replied, stepping forwards to reveal a dozen other faces behind him. ‘I brought some . . .’
Wren’s brow furrowed. ‘Zave . . . are you going to explain?’
Zavier entered the room, his eyes brighter than she’d seen them in a long while.
‘Everyone here has a skill we can use,’ he told her.
‘They may not be alchemists trained at Drevenor, but . . . a former cook with extraordinary knife skills? A gardener with knowledge of herbs and poisonous plants? Oh, and there’s a man who brews beer somewhere back there . . .’
‘Don’t introduce him to Kipp, whatever you do,’ Wren replied with a wry smile.
‘Duly noted,’ Zavier said. ‘But what do you think? I can set them up with stations to prepare the different ingredients and tasks, and you and Dessa can do all the actual alchemy?’
Wren met her friend’s gaze, and then those of the eager faces behind him. They had come here to help her, to help Delmira.
And so she grinned. ‘Let’s do it.’