Chapter 7 Wren
Wren pulled her cloak tighter as she trudged through the deep snow. Her fur collar feathered her cheeks as she blew a breath through her hands, desperately trying to warm her numb fingers. It was no use. The wind howled, sending a shiver rippling up her spine and chattering through her teeth.
Hissing hell.
All around her, the air was hazy and white. She squinted through the fog, pushing further into the unknown. She was lost in the damned mountains again, trying to outrun that terrible screeching laugh. It always came with the wind.
Oonagh Starcrest was taunting her.
Run, run, broken bird.
You cannot hide from me.
‘Hush!’ yelled Wren. ‘Leave me alone!’
She stumbled on, through snow so deep it reached her knees. The wind whipped her cheeks and stung her eyes, mocking her. Every breath was a struggle.
Dimly, Wren was aware that she must be dreaming but the cold was so real. The panic was, too.
The scar on her arm began to burn. She fumbled with the buttons on her sleeve, rolling it up to her elbow. Her wrist was a deep, bubbling red, the silver crescent brighter than she’d ever seen it.
She let out a hiss of pain.
Oonagh’s laugh grew shriller. It soared on the rising wind, echoing through the mountain pass.
Wren grabbed a fistful of snow and smeared it across her wrist. It helped, but now she was even more aware of the blistering cold. She couldn’t feel her toes any more. She stumbled on, desperately looking for a way out.
The blizzard roared as it grew.
A shadow appeared up ahead. Wren frowned. In all the times she had found herself trapped in this nightmare over the last three months, she had always been alone.
‘Who’s there?’ she called out.
The shadow lurched, falling forward.
Wren charged, spurred on by the appearance of the figure. ‘Oonagh? Show yourself!’
Instinctively, her hand went to her hip, reaching for her dagger. But she was always weaponless in this place. The snow parted as Wren pushed through it.
Up ahead, the figure was on its knees.
‘Speak!’ she called out. ‘Who are you?’
The figure groaned.
Wren saw it then, a glimpse of blond hair streaked with an ink-black line.
She froze. ‘Alarik?’
The king of Gevra groaned again. ‘Help me.’
Wren came to her knees before him. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
In my nightmare.
In my mind.
With great effort, Alarik Felsing raised his head. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot, his skin so white he looked ill. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing,’ he said, through his teeth. ‘This is my hell.’
‘This isn’t real,’ whispered Wren. ‘You’re not here.’
Alarik pitched forward. He fisted the snow, searching for breath. ‘It’s killing me,’ he heaved. ‘She’s killing me.’
The wind began to laugh again. The blizzard kicked up, spitting snow in Wren’s face. She reached for the king but the world was spinning, turning everything to bright blinding white. ‘Alarik?’
Far away, along the jagged mountaintops, there came a distant thud.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
An avalanche was brewing. Wren screamed but the sound died in her throat. The world blinked, from white to black, until only that sound remained.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Wren woke with a gasp. She shot upright in bed, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Slowly, mercifully, reality filtered in: the first wisps of dawn creeping through the window, the feather softness of her pillow and the canopy around her four-poster bed, gently rippling.
The nightmare was over. She was back in her bedroom in the west tower of Anadawn. Safe. Last night she had played the part of the joyful queen, welcoming spring with all the cheer she could muster. The act, and the entire evening, had so exhausted her that she’d fallen asleep in the carriage and couldn’t even remember climbing into her own bed.
She should have felt relieved that it was only a nightmare.
And yet her stomach was in knots. Her forehead was clammy, and the scar on her wrist was stinging. And that laugh was still echoing in her head. The same one that had rang out during the ceremony.
She reached for the pitcher on her nightstand and swallowed a mouthful of water in a bid to chase away the heat inside her.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
That sound again!
Wren whipped her head around. ‘What in hissing hell—’
There was a nighthawk tapping on her window. A Gevran messenger. Wren leaped out of bed and swung the pane open, reaching for the scroll tied to the bird’s foot. She unrolled it, her heart hitching as she glimpsed the signature at the bottom.
It was from Tor.
Dear Wren,
These past few months have felt longer and colder than most. I’ve thought of you often, on clear nights when the sky is bright with stars, at dawn when Elske and I walk along the frozen lake, and when the wind sings through the Fovarr Mountains.
I’ve tried to write to you a hundred times but I’ve been afraid to say the wrong thing. To expect anything after our goodbye. To imagine a future where we will see each other again. I don’t know how to tell you that I’ve missed you without making it worse. It feels selfish to share this pain with you, and to hope, deep down, that you might feel the same way.
And yet I find myself compelled to write. Not for myself, but for my kingdom, and for yours. There have been strange stirrings across Gevra. A shadow creeps across our land. The animals have grown dangerous and the king’s beasts have turned feral. They howl at the mountains, as if they can sense a badness there.
Over recent weeks, the fields south of Grinstad have been disturbed. The graves of our beasts lie empty, the barren earth cracked open. Could this be the work of the Starcrest witch, who wears your face? Is Eana suffering the same strangeness?
And there is worse news still. The king is not well. He has requested an urgent meeting with you, although he will not say why.
Can you come to us, Wren?
We have to get to the bottom of the curse that plagues our kingdom. I can only hope it has not yet breached the shores of Eana.
I await your answer.
Yours,
Tor
(and Elske)
Wren’s gaze lingered on the small inking of a paw scribbled beside Elske’s name. She smiled, fleetingly, before returning her attention to the words above it.
These were grim tidings indeed. Badness was stirring in the north. It stirred in Wren, too. She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Oonagh Starcrest was on the move. Her strength likely regained, their ancestor was finally coming out of hiding.
Wren looked to the tapestries that hung on her bedroom wall, finding among them the portrait of Ortha Starcrest, the brave-hearted witch queen who had ruled Eana alongside Oonagh a thousand years ago. The witch who had tried to stop her sister Oonagh, even as she cursed her on the banks of the Silvertongue, ruining their magic and destroying their reign. Ortha had died defending her kingdom, and even now, in the quiet dawn, her green eyes seemed to shine with that same unfailing loyalty.
Wren met that gaze – so like her own – and wished Ortha Starcrest could help her.
What is your sister up to, Ortha?
And more important, still: How can we stop her?
With a sigh, Wren returned her attention to Tor’s letter, worrying for Gevra and its king.
Seeing Alarik in her nightmare was no coincidence. Whatever affliction was bothering her must have reached him, too. Why else would he be seeking her out?
While the nighthawk waited on the windowsill, Wren went to her desk to scribble her reply. There was so much she wished to say to Tor, a hundred thoughts and fears and feelings, but this letter was not the place, and time, now, was of the essence. So, she wrote, simply:
Tor,
Meet me at Sharkfin Point at sundown tomorrow.
Yours,
Wren
Wren fastened the note to the nighthawk’s foot.
‘Fly fast,’ she urged, as it flew out into the dawning sky.
A flock of starcrests peered down at Wren from the castle roof. Since the breaking of the witches’ curse, starcrests visited Anadawn almost every night. They lined the west turret now, watching the hawk as it soared up and away, into the morning clouds. Then they looked back at Wren, as though they had something they wished to tell her. But night had passed and despite the return of her full magic, Wren had proven to be a woeful seer. She wasn’t patient enough to watch the skies at night, and more than anything, the starcrests’ patterns confused her.
And besides, there was nothing the skies could tell her that she didn’t already know. Trouble was brewing across the Sunless Sea.
Wren reeled back into her bedroom and shut the window. She slid to the floor and read Tor’s letter again. And again. And again. A terrible truth was crystallizing. Gevra was suffering, and soon, Eana would be, too. After all, this was Oonagh’s kingdom. It would not be long before the ruthless queen returned to it.
The pain in Wren’s scar flared, as though in agreement.
She was reminded of her dream, of King Alarik kneeling in the snow, with the same pain etched across his face. She vowed to find out what that vision meant.
For both of them.
When morning broke in earnest, and the room was bathed in soft golden light, Wren got to her feet. She grabbed a robe from her closet and shrugged it on, preparing to face another unavoidable truth.
Soon, she would have to tell Rose everything.