Chapter 30 Wren
My leg heals. Cassiel and I continue to spar, developing our whistling system, integrating it when we’re out and about.
Sometimes I try to guide him through obstacle courses with nothing but our signals, or lead him towards a goal.
We invite others into our space, having them act as allies or enemies.
Runara sometimes joins us, which she adores, although her patience needs work and she’ll often leap out before she’s supposed to and jump on Cassiel’s back.
He learns to fight weighted down by her, to keep her safe from imaginary foes even when he can’t see her.
I revel in the new clothes he purchased for me, and try not to take too much joy in the thigh-high boots.
I think about guiding his hands to them so that he can paint a picture in his head, but then realise where his hands would have to go and think the better of it. I don’t want to torture the poor boy.
Or me.
On my next day off, I head back to The Rosey Duckling. Zephyr is supposed to meet me there, but he’s nowhere to be seen when I step inside. The innkeeper—a broad, smiling woman named Magda—hands me a small bundle instead. “Your cousin left this for you, dear,” she says, sliding it across the bar.
There’s a note on the top.
Sorry. Business to attend to. Brought you these. Enjoy a taste of home.
I peel open the parcel. White-dusted berries stare back at me.
Moonberries. A sugar-sweet fruit that grows only in the depths of the Duskfen Forest.
The scent alone stirs something deep in me, an ache for the fey side of my blood. I can’t eat them here—not without drawing attention—so I tuck them away, already thinking of where I might find privacy later.
I’m about to retreat to my usual corner when I hear an all-too-familiar voice.
“Ser Thornvale, what a surprise.”
Prince Evander stands near the hearth, arms crossed, expression amused. He’s not in uniform today, but dressed plainly, in dark, well-fitted clothes that still somehow scream prince.
“You can probably call me Wren, you know,” I tell him, as he moves to join me at the bar.
He smiles. “Only if you call me Evander.”
“Evander,” I say swiftly.
“That… was an impressive adjustment period.”
“I’m an impressive person.”
His smirk reminds me of Cassiel’s. “That you are.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. “It’s quite far from the city.”
It’s an innocent enough question, but my reasoning isn’t.
There is no good reason for Evander to be so far from Caerthalen if it isn’t for business purposes…
and I’m all too aware that Evander’s business frequently involves hunting my kind.
I think back to Zephyr’s hurried note. Was he looking for him?
Has someone here noticed something, noticed me—
“Oh, um, I…”
Evander’s cheeks redden in the way that Cassiel’s do whenever he’s feeling flustered. It actually puts me strangely at ease. I can’t imagine Evander would get flustered over princely business.
His eyes dart away from me, towards a young bard setting up near the fire—golden curls, quick fingers plucking at the strings of a lute.
He looks young—eighteen, perhaps—and my first thought is that surely he’s too young for Evander, before remembering that the Crown Prince is only three years older than me.
He looks older. Wearier. It’s easy to forget he’s barely more than a boy either.
“Oh…” I say, smirking. “I see.”
“I said absolutely nothing.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“His name is Hyacinth,” Evander tells me, voice hushed like he’s discussing some huge secret. “He was playing at a tavern in Caerthalen a few weeks ago. I heard he would be playing here tonight and, well…”
“Have you spoken to him yet?” I ask.
Evander shakes his head. He looks more like Ru now, and I’ve just requested she perform an impossible task.
“You can ride into battle and not speak to the person you fancy?”
“Yes,” he says, as if this is obvious. “Feelings are a lot more terrifying than bloodshed.”
“That’s… that’s fair.” Stars, the things I would rather do than confront my own…
Evander orders us a couple of drinks. The first, we consume in silence, Evander watching the bard. He’s very talented, his voice high and clear. He begins with a rousing ballad, a tale of love and bravery, but when he slides into a love song, Evander looks like he might melt into his seat.
I roll my eyes.
“Not a romantic, Thornvale?”
“No.”
“Ever been in love?”
“No. You?”
“Not really,” he says. “There have been times when… when I was nearly there. When I just needed more time or a better set of circumstances, but my duties have always come first. There will be time for it one day, I’m sure.”
I take another swig of my drink. It’s deliciously sweet. “You and Cassiel are both so sentimental.”
“If you’d seen our parents together, you’d understand.”
I swallow. I don’t want to think about King Leonitus. I don’t want to think about how Cassiel and Evander must have loved him, or hear that he was a person worth being loved. I don’t want to think about how I was there when my Grandmother killed him.
“You’ll find something like that one day, I’m sure,” I tell Evander, trying to pull the conversation away from his father.
“I hope so.”
“Cassiel did, from what I hear.”
Evander pulls a face. “Who? Sophia? No. That wasn’t anything like what our parents had.”
“No?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t misunderstand—she was lovely, and she did love him, but… it would never have lasted even without Cassiel’s accident.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No. Cassiel needs someone more like him.”
“Intelligent, educated, finely-dressed?” Kind, thoughtful, resilient, witty…
Evander laughs. “No. Stubborn. Resourceful. Persistent. As quick-witted and determined as he is.”
I look down at my tankard. I wonder if Evander realises that the person he’s described sounds a lot like me.
By the time we’re on our third round of drinks, Evander has quite forgotten how princes are supposed to act and has his arm around my shoulder like we’ve been friends our whole lives.
“You are so, so good for my brother,” he declares. “So, so good.”
“You’re good for your brother,” I tell him. I’m not good for Cassiel at all. I can’t remember exactly why, right now, but I’m not accepting any praise.
Magda is definitely getting some of her ingredients for her mead from the forest.
“I’m not,” Evander insists. “If I was…”
“What?” I prompt.
“It’s… it’s my fault,” he admits. “What happened to him.”
“How could that be your fault?”
“He was with me, when it happened,” he explains.
“We shared the same tent. Our enemies knew who I was, of course, but I always tried to keep Cass’ role in whatever we did a secret.
I don’t think he’s ever even hurt a fey, not directly.
I don’t know how fey curses work, but… I don’t think he was the target. I think they got the wrong prince.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s possible, of course, although most curses are tied to a person’s blood, and while Evander might share some with Cassiel, it isn’t the same.
It’s possible someone confused the two of them when gathering whatever they needed for the curse, though—blood, hair, spit. I have no way of knowing.
Neither does Evander.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “Whoever cursed him is to blame.”
“That’s what mother said. It isn’t all that helpful. I was supposed to protect him, and…” He takes another swig of his drink.
“He doesn’t see it that way,” I assure him.
“I know.” A ghost of a smile. “That’s the problem.
He continues to be the absolute best brother in the world.
You might not understand that—I know he was rather difficult when you first came to us—and yet, even when he shut himself up in his rooms, he still agreed to come down to entertain suitors.
All to please Mother, and to take some of the pressure off me… ”
A silence settles between us, not uncomfortable. I weigh my next words carefully.
“Do you think he’ll find anyone?”
Evander doesn’t answer right away. He watches the bard for a moment, something thoughtful in his expression.
“Eventually,” he says at last. “It’s only a matter of time before someone falls in love with him again, although he’ll take longer. He always has.” He pauses. “Even before the whole blindness thing, Cass has never loved anyone because of what they looked like.”
Something in me goes very still. “Good for him,” I say quietly. And I think I mean it. I do want him to find someone. Why wouldn’t I? I want him to be happy—
You shouldn’t want that.
I think of what Cassiel told me, about the one who has consumed your soul.
The fey have a term for those who fall in love not with beauty, but with the person beneath.
Soul-seer. Some claimed that they could even see the colour of a person’s inner light.
If Cass could see mine, I doubt he’d like it.
It’s probably black, coloured by my lies.
“Sire.”
We turn. A knight stands behind us. I recognise her from sight, but I can’t place her name. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, with silvery-blonde hair and an impressive scar through her right eyebrow.
The warmth of the candlelight, the hum of music, the easy banter—all of it shatters the moment her gaze settles on the prince.
“We’ve caught one,” she says.
Evander’s expression sharpens. “A fey?”
The knight nods. “Outside the borders of the forest.”
I stand before I realise I’ve moved. There’s a sick feeling coiling in my gut, cold and creeping.
Who? I want to ask. Not Zeph. Please, please, not him.
Not Grandma either, not Moira. But a dozen other names spring to mind, and I can’t think of everyone I need to protect. Not Willa or Twyllis or Fallon. Not the children. Not…
“We should go,” Evander says, already striding for the door.
I follow, the moonberries in my pocket suddenly feeling heavier, like weighted marbles. Tiny, heavy reminders that I am not like them.