Chapter 23
The moment they stepped into the tunnels, Castien’s Gift had brought him a revelation about a piece of Heron’s journal.
The directions Wren’s brother had written were for the tunnels.
Castien merely had to figure out where Heron started, then he could follow the pattern until he got to what he predicted would be a yellow book with another clue in it.
Castien had been debating whether or not to tell Wren when she felt Calypsia and Soren’s presence.
Felt. Not heard. There was no way his storyteller had discovered them by sound.
Wren’s Gift was a boon she likely did not fully realize.
If she could home in on it, use the extra sense in battle …
he pushed away the thought. She would detest the notion.
Castien had to admit the idea didn’t suit Wren’s countenance, but at the same time, it could offer her protection she needed.
If only he could mention it to her without collapsing the house of cards that was her trust.
Wren settled into an armchair by the fire Heathford had recently stoked to life.
They were back in the room he had been Tidesick in not long ago.
Images of that night came to him in flashes.
Wren’s soft touch to his forehead. Her melodic voice reading him to sleep.
The way her curls had resembled spun gold in the firelight, as they did even now.
“Entrance into the Order is subjective, in a sense,” Castien said as he took the chair across from her.
There was much for them to discuss, and he still had not decided whether to share with her about the directions in the journal.
He knew she would be upset if he didn’t tell her, but the encounter with Calypsia and Soren had sobered him.
The risk of another Order member spotting Wren in the tunnels was too great.
It was one thing to hide away in a locked room, then sneak her out.
It was another to drag her through the cold halls as he combed them for the correct path.
If he told her, she’d insist on coming with him.
Wren looked at him in surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, Castien watched as Heathford left to go retrieve tea. There was a soft click of a lock, then the butler was gone.
“The High Inquisitor chooses who to invite, based on merit or Gifts or political prowess. Often some combination of the three,” he continued.
“And you are the High Inquisitor,” Wren filled in.
He nodded. “Recently appointed, yes.”
“You invited Calypsia and Soren?” Wren questioned, and Castien could hear the distaste in her voice.
Castien chuckled.
“I did not. The High Inquisitor before me did. Though I don’t disagree with the decision. She is vicious, but that is useful at times.”
Wren frowned at him. Castien hoped that she would not pull back the more he revealed. He was risking so much to tell her; it would kill him if he lost her in the process.
“You asked about Kierana.” He kept going before she could ruminate on Calypsia for too long. “It was in my plans to invite her. I was determining if she would fit in well, before …”
“Heron,” Wren whispered.
Castien gave a solemn nod.
“Since then, I have done very little besides search for the killers,” he explained.
Wren tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Castien’s fingers twitched.
“Before then, what did you do? You said you keep records, but of what? You told Calypsia that the tunnels were for business. What kind?”
Castien looked down at the signet ring on his finger.
“You do not realize what you are asking of me,” he said quietly.
Wren was quiet. He couldn’t bear to look at her. He’d promised to tell her what she needed to know, and this wasn’t necessary to the investigation, but she might disagree.
The Order was a key part of his legacy. His role had been filled by generations of Valengards before him. Before Castien left for the academy, his father sat him down and told him of the secret society and instructed him on how to catch the eye of the High Inquisitor.
“Every Valengard who has held this title has gone on to great things,” his father had said. “You will do the same. I am sure of it.”
He couldn’t give that up. Not without good reason. And Wren’s curiosity, while something he enjoyed about her, was not enough to convince him to disclose everything about the Order. He worried he’d already said too much. She had enough to bring disaster if she wished.
“You said you would tell me anything that pertained to the investigation,” Wren said.
Castien’s mind flashed to Heron’s directions. He grimaced.
“Yes, I did.”
“Then I won’t push you. I trust that you’ll keep your word.”
Castien lifted his head. Wren watched him, her gaze soft. He wished he could know what she was thinking. Whatever it was, he was grateful she didn’t push him in this area.
“I will,” he rasped.
He’d also promised to protect her, though. Could he do both if he brought her along to find the next clue?
Wren reached forward and grasped one of the tomes from Ambassador Westover’s office.
“Shall we go through these and see if there’s anything of note?” she suggested.
Castien let out a long breath.
“Yes, that is why we are here, after all.”
He reached for another tome. They settled into a quiet rhythm, the only sounds the turning of pages and crackling of the fire.
At some point in their searching, Heathford brought a steaming pot of peppermint tea as well as a tray of vanilla biscuits and a pot of honey.
Wren stirred a great deal of honey into her tea, Castien less so.
He didn’t usually take any in his, but he’d garnered a sweet tooth in recent days.
They each went through all three of the books to ensure nothing was missed. Wren was toward the end of the last tome. Castien hadn’t discovered anything, but perhaps she would, since she knew Heron best.
“Nothing,” Wren sighed as she closed the book. “He didn’t underline a single letter.”
“I’m sorry,” Castien said. “I wish we would have found something.”
Wren shrugged with a rueful smile.
“It is the theme of my investigation so far. Before your help, I had much less. I’d probably still be rereading the same lines without you.”
Castien hated how discouraged she sounded. Should he tell her? It would make her feel better, but was that worth the risk?
Wren stood from the armchair and stretched.
The motion drew his eye to the soft curve of her waist. Castien recalled the way the dip had felt beneath his hand while they danced beneath the lanterns.
He forced himself to tear his gaze away.
Tides, he was desperate for her. In every way he was not allowed to be.
“Could we spar?” Wren asked while Castien attempted to gather his ever-fraying composure. “Thus far we have not accomplished anything worth abandoning class for. I can meet Kierana’s eyes better if I’ve done something.”
Castien let out a soft laugh. He was glad that Kierana was an influence in Wren’s life. The fierce warrior was a good friend for taking her beneath her wing. It made him feel a little better about Wren’s safety, too. If she had Kierana on her side, very few people would dare to cross her.
“I cannot imagine how losing to me would help you feel more productive,” Castien teased, enjoying the way her blue eyes lit up at the challenge.
“Your ego makes me want to take a dagger to your throat sometimes,” she huffed as she pulled out her blade.
Castien smirked. “Only sometimes?”
He stood and dragged his chair back to create space in front of the fire. Wren did the same before he could do it for her, then removed his coat and hung it on the chair. Castien brandished his dagger, spinning it in between his fingers for show.
Wren followed the movement with her eyes. Castien saw the admiration reflected in them, and it filled him with warm satisfaction. Over the course of his life he had impressed a great many people, from rulers to commanders to professors, but impressing Wren Kalyxi? That topped them all.
“It is not as productive as sparring, but I can teach you,” he said in a low voice.
Wren’s eyes jumped to his.
“I don’t think I could learn. I’m still afraid of how sharp the blade is,” she said with a frown.
“This exercise would help alleviate that.” Castien beckoned her closer, still spinning the blade. She took a step, eyes on the metal glinting in the firelight. “As Kierana said, it’s important to feel as though you are one with your weapon.”
“I know I am getting better—if only a little—with my technique, but I fear I will never understand what you both mean.”
Castien stopped the blade, gave it a little toss, then caught it and slid it back into his scabbard.
“Your quill, do you feel as though that is a part of you?” Castien asked her.
Wren tilted her head to the side.
“I … suppose so, yes. When I’m writing, I don’t think about what I’m doing. It just comes to me.”
A smile tugged at Castien’s lips. He could see that in their letters. In her journal, too.
“It is the same with a weapon. You have to let go and let the blade do what it was made to do. Technique comes with practice, but all great warriors know that the majority of battles take place in the mind. The will.”
Wren nodded slowly, as if she were beginning to understand. He closed the remaining distance between them and gestured to her blade.
“Hold it out toward the fire,” he instructed.
She did as he said, gripping the blade as if she were afraid to drop it. Castien brushed his fingers over hers.
“Remember our previous lessons. Don’t hold on too tight—you lose control that way.”
“I have to let go to gain control?” Wren questioned.
Castien let out a soft laugh.
“You sound just like me when I first started weapons training. It makes no sense, but yes, you must be fluid.”
Wren’s brow stayed furrowed in concentration, but she loosened her grip slightly. He grasped her wrist and turned it over, so the palm of her hand faced up. Castien traced the pale blue line of one of her veins, all the way to the pommel of the dagger. Wren’s breath hitched.
“See how it lines up perfectly?” he rasped. “It’s as much a part of you as you let it be. Now—” He walked around so his chest was against her back, then stretched out his arm and layered his hand on top of hers. The feel of her skin beneath his was maddening. “We will begin with a basic turn.”
Castien focused as much as he could on the blade and what he was to teach.
But her sweet scent clouded his senses, and he feared that she would be confronted with the intensity of his feelings toward her.
As with everything involving Wren though, he could not step away.
Just the touch of her hand had the power to erase all logic from his mind.
He lived for every breath she took. Treated her eyes like a guiding light.
Hung his hopes on the curve of her lips.
She was so close. Willingly, too. His body ached from holding back.
The tips of his fingers took on a slight tremble.
“Castien?” Wren murmured, a tinge of worry in her voice.
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to retreat into an equation. To build back up the walls he wished to cast into the Tides.
“Forgive me, dearest,” he murmured against her ear. She shivered, and the chasm of longing within him widened. “I have not ever taught this. I was considering the best method.”
“You didn’t teach Finn?” she asked, her voice tight as if it were difficult for her to speak.
“Finn taught me, actually.” Castien gently squeezed her hand. “We’re going to turn the blade to the left. This won’t be complicated like the one you saw me do before. Just a little turn, but the faster you do it, the more impressive it looks.”
He guided her hand, but as the edge of the blade came close to her, she froze.
“Here, let me show you first what we are doing so you can see how little threat it poses,” he said gently.
She let him take the dagger, and he demonstrated the spin more slowly than he had done since he first learned as a boy with Finn.
Then he increased the speed, so she could see the final goal.
He gave it back to her, and this time she didn’t tense when the blade came around.
They completed the move a few times before Castien withdrew his hand.
“Would you like to try on your own?”
Wren glanced over her shoulder at him. He gave her a soft smile.
“Whether you believe you can or you can’t, you’re right.”
He watched as emotions he wished he had her power to name flickered in her eyes. Then, she turned her attention back to the dagger. Her hand moved, and slowly, she spun it.