Chapter 15 Wren
While Rose spent the day with Rowena in the underbelly of Anadawn Palace, Wren had an early dinner with Tor and Alarik in the dining room. Cam had prepared a cut of beef so tender it melted in Wren’s mouth. To accompany it, the cook served buttered greens and glazed carrots, crispy potatoes drizzled in gravy and enough plummy wine to fill a barrel. But Wren was too tired to eat very much of it. She fed half of her beef to Elske under the table, which roused a conspiratorial smile from Tor, who appeared to be doing the very same thing.
Chapman arrived after dinner, spiriting the Gevrans away to a suite of guest bedrooms that had been prepared in the east wing of the palace. Wren wondered if the steward had purposely stationed them as far away from her as possible but thought better than to ask. She didn’t want anyone at Anadawn to get the wrong idea about her and the king of Gevra.
By the time she returned to her bedroom after dinner, she was already half asleep. She collapsed on to her bed with her shoes still on, passing the rest of the night, for once, in dreamless slumber. Wren awoke at dawn the following morning and dressed as the sun rose over the distant hills and brushed her hair in the mirror. Her hands trembled with anticipation, her throat so dry she went at once to the kitchens for a cup of peppermint tea. Something to settle her nerves, and steel her for the journey ahead.
She tried not to think too much about the long and winding road north, or the fact that she would be wedged between two Gevran men who had both, at some point in the last few months, kissed her to the point of breathlessness.
When she emerged from the kitchens, the palace was still sleeping. The tea had not settled Wren’s nerves. Rather, it had chased the panic into her limbs and now she found herself restless, pacing. She decided to take an early morning ride on her new horse, a magnificent desert-born mare that Shen Lo had gifted her for Yulemas. In return, Wren had commissioned a flaming wishing fountain for the Palace of Eternal Sunlight. An impressive stone sculpture that paid tribute to Shen’s desert kingdom, and burned with enchanted everlights, all day and all night.
When she arrived at the stables, she stopped at the sight of a familiar figure wandering along the stalls.
‘What are you doing here?’
Tor turned at the sound of her voice. He was not dressed in his official uniform. Instead, he wore a loose white shirt, black trousers and riding boots. His copper-streaked hair was still tousled from sleep, and though he looked strained, there was no hint of that worry in his voice. ‘Did you forget I stayed here last night? We had dinner together, remember?’
‘I meant here,’ said Wren, coming inside. ‘In the stables.’
‘Ah,’ he said, quietly. ‘I suppose I’m reminiscing.’
Her cheeks erupted at the memory of their almost kiss in this very stable, how she had wrapped her legs around him, desperate with desire. It felt like another lifetime now. So much had happened since then. And yet he was still looking at her the same way – with lightning crackling in his eyes, as if he might take her into an abandoned stall right then and there and finish what they’d started all those months ago.
She swallowed, grasping for composure. ‘And here I thought you were trying to steal a horse.’
He shook his head. ‘Just inspecting the ones we’ll be riding.’
Wren looked at him a moment longer, thinking of everything she wished to say to him. About their time in Gevra, how scared and confused she had been in those snow-swept weeks, how many reckless mistakes she had made, how angry she was at herself for them … how she had missed him fiercely in the months since. It all crowded together on her tongue, until she could manage only, ‘It’s good to see you again, Tor. After everything. It’s been …’
‘Difficult.’ His smile was edged with sadness. ‘I know.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you, too, Wren.’
She swallowed, trying to navigate the sudden tornado of her emotions. She reached for something to say, anything to ease the tension simmering between them. ‘We won’t be riding all the way to the mountains,’ she said, turning back to the horses. ‘We’ll take a carriage as far north as we can. And anyway, the carriage horses are out in the grazing fields behind the palace. It’s a bit of a walk but if you’re really curious—’
‘I’m not curious about carriage horses, Wren.’
‘Oh. I thought—’
‘I was just hoping I’d run into you,’ he said, surrendering all sense of pretence. ‘Alone, preferably.’
Wren blinked. ‘Here?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
She bit her lip. ‘Well, no …’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, though he didn’t sound sorry. He didn’t look it either. He looked … hungry. ‘I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’
Wren smiled. ‘Yes, you do.’
He smiled back, full and radiant. Stars. It was like staring into the sun. She blew out a breath. ‘So, you don’t want to meet my magnificent new horse, then.’
‘I’ve already met her,’ he said. ‘She’s beautiful.’
Wren frowned. There were twenty-five horses in the royal stables alone, each one as impressive as the next. ‘How do you know which one I’m talking about?’
He turned and walked to the end of the row, where a dappled silver mare peered out of her stall, as if she were listening in on their conversation. He laid his hand against her muzzle. ‘It’s this one.’
Wren gaped at him. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘Because she’s my favourite.’
Wren laughed, the weight on her heart easing. Of course he was right. And really, she didn’t know why she was surprised. He was a wrangler, after all. He had a way of reading animals, of sensing their loyalties and personalities.
‘You have the same spirit.’
‘Is that so?’ said Wren, drifting closer.
He nodded. ‘Curious. Spirited … A little wild.’
‘I think you mean reckless.’
‘Only for the right reasons. Or the right person.’ He turned back to her, a question in his eyes. Wren knew that question. It had stolen her breath more than once. She knew her answer, too. But there were things still unsaid between them. She owed him a confession, and she knew it might change everything. At the reminder of her blizzard kiss with Alarik, something inside her wilted.
Tor came towards her. ‘What is it?’
She shook her head, trying to find the right words. ‘It’s … There’s still so much to say, and I don’t know where to begin.’
Tor lowered himself on to a bale of hay. ‘Let’s start small, then,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘Tell me your horse’s name?’
Wren was flooded with a curious rush of relief. She could start small, like this. Just talk, the two them, like old times. The words would build, and eventually she would come to the truth … to her guilt. ‘Didn’t you ask her?’
‘Contrary to popular belief, I can’t speak to animals.’
‘What?’ She feigned a gasp. ‘How disappointing.’
‘I know,’ he said, leaning his head back. ‘I can only sense the core of their being and divine their entire life’s purpose, including but not limited to their greatest desires, their deepest fears …’
Wren stared at him.
He broke into laughter, the sound filling the stables like a song.
She grinned. ‘I always forget you have a sense of humour.’
‘You have no idea how wounding that is, Wren.’
‘Sorry.’ She perched on the bale beside him. ‘Back to more serious matters. My horse’s name is Breeze.’
‘Breeze,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Interesting choice.’
‘I don’t know what it is,’ she confided, ‘but when I’m near her, when it’s just she and I trekking through the woods on a quiet morning in Eshlinn, the storm inside me – my grief and my fear, and that insidious little voice that tells me I’m not good enough to be queen, that I’m not good enough to be a witch – all of it just … fritters away. And it feels as if I’m back home, standing on the shores of Ortha on a misty spring morning, watching the waves kiss my feet and feeling the sea breeze on my cheeks. And suddenly the world is small again and so am I. All is well. All is peaceful.’ She looked at her hands, her voice quiet. ‘She gives that peace to me. So, I called her Breeze.’
Tor was silent, then. Wren was too embarrassed to look at him. When she finally raised her gaze, he was staring at her with such fierceness, her heart began to thunder. ‘You are more than good enough,’ he said in a low voice. Angry, but not at her. At the voice in her head. ‘For this life. For this destiny.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re just saying that.’
‘You of all people should know I don’t speak unless there is something worth saying.’
Wren smiled. ‘I suppose you are more of a strong, silent type.’
‘Only because I like to hear you speak, Wren.’
‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘Can’t you?’ he said, leaning into her. His words were a whisper between them, his lips so close Wren couldn’t help herself. She raised her chin, brushing her nose against his.
Tor tensed, his eyes going wide then narrowing.
Wren froze, sensing the sudden shift in his mood. ‘What is it?’
‘Smoke,’ he said, sniffing the air. ‘Something’s burning.’
Wren heard the crackle of flames a heartbeat before she saw them. They erupted along the entrance to the stables in whips of amber and gold. And there – just beyond them – a cloaked figure was running. Tor leaped to his feet, grabbing a nearby pail of water. Wren grabbed another, both of them running towards the fire. They managed to douse the barrier of flames and fling themselves through the choking smoke.
Wren stumbled but Tor caught her with one arm, swinging her away from the blaze.
‘FIRE!’ he roared, turning to fetch more water. ‘FIRE IN THE STABLES!’
‘Wait here!’ he called to Wren. Before she could stop him, Tor battled his way back through the smoke to free the horses, who were whinnying and rearing up in alarm. Wren summoned her tempest magic, but the gust was short and sharp, barely feathering the flames. The effort of it nearly knocked her to the ground and sent a searing pain ripping through her scar.
Chaos descended across the stables as the fire grew, devouring the hay and then the wooden beams. Roused by the smoke, soldiers and servants poured out of the palace in their droves, rushing to help battle the blaze and to set the animals free.
In the swell of activity, Wren caught sight of the hooded figure again. They were further away now, far past the north end of the stables and heading for a thicket of trees.
She set off after them, her lungs screaming as she ran. The figure was much faster than her, and already leagues ahead. In desperation, she summoned another blast of wind. Her scar burned, her body revolting against the pulse of magic, but the gust found its mark, knocking the figure over.
Wren kept running, pushing through her discomfort to close the gap between them. She was much closer now, but she couldn’t risk another burst of magic. The arsonist sprung to their feet and resumed their escape. Despite her best efforts, Wren was losing ground.
Just as the figure reached the treeline, there came a whistle from somewhere overhead. Wren looked up to see a shovel hurtling through the air. It crashed into the figure blade first, knocking them to the ground. This time, they didn’t get up. Wren glanced over her shoulder to find Tor charging after her, like a tiger on the hunt. Impeccable aim. Remarkable speed. She should have guessed.
She reached the figure just as Tor caught up with her. He rolled the arsonist over with his foot, and Wren came to her knees to rip their hood off.
She blinked in utter disbelief. ‘FELIX?’
‘Nnngh,’ the prince of Caro groaned. ‘My head.’
‘What in hissing hell are you doing?’ Wren shouted, fury filling her.
Felix scrunched his eyes shut, as if he was trying to make her disappear.
A shadow fell across Wren and the sharp end of the shovel appeared at Felix’s throat. ‘Speak,’ growled Tor. ‘Or I’ll bury you alive right here.’
Felix whimpered. ‘Just let me explain …’
‘Do it in the next breath,’ said Wren. ‘Or my horses will forever trample your shallow grave.’
‘Can you perhaps remove the shovel from my—’
‘No,’ said Tor and Wren at the same time.
Felix took a shaky breath, and then, to Wren’s disgust, he began to weep. ‘She made me do it,’ he said, between wracking sobs. ‘The witch who looks like you.’
‘Rose?’ said Wren, frowning.
He tried to shake his head. ‘I went to Rose’s tower looking for her, but then she came to me instead. I saw her in the mirror. She … showed me things. She cast me under her spell.’
Wren stared down at the blathering prince, too horrified to speak.
‘I was powerless to resist,’ he wept. ‘She promised me my very own magic.’ His eyes widened, filled even now with a frenzied desire for that power. ‘All I had to do was play her game, and frighten the queen. Spook the servants and the other witches. Sow terror and discord behind the castle walls …’ He trailed off. ‘Make mischief. It was only mischief.’
Wren would have laughed if she wasn’t burning with fury. Oonagh was toying with them, planting mistrust in the palace, scattering chaos like seeds, so that the people closest to them would lose faith, would see them as weak – and all of it was merely a prelude to her bloody return. ‘You thought burning down the royal stables with me inside it was mischief?’
Felix chuckled, until he saw the Gevran’s face.
‘Wrong answer,’ said Tor, pressing the shovel against his neck. ‘In Gevra, if you harm a royal beast, we let them eat you.’
Wren stood up, laying a cautionary hand on Tor’s arm. ‘I know it’s tempting, but we can’t bury the prince of Caro in a shallow grave. It would be a diplomatic disaster.’
‘Not for me,’ said Tor, who was still glaring at the prince.
‘Perhaps not,’ reasoned Wren. ‘But I’m pretty sure Rose would implode from the stress.’
It was precisely at this moment that Rose’s voice rang out. ‘WREN!’ she yelled, running barefoot past the smoking stables, dressed only in her nightgown. ‘What’s going on? Are you all right?’
With great reluctance, Tor tossed the shovel aside. ‘Lucky wretch.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Wren.
Felix whimpered.