Chapter 17 Wren
Not long after saying goodbye to her sister, Wren arrived in the courtyard with her satchel. She was wearing a simple blue dress, a pair of travelling boots and a long brown cloak, underneath which her hair hung unadorned in loose waves. She took one look at King Alarik, dressed in full regalia, and Tor, standing to attention in his blue and silver frockcoat, and frowned.
‘I told you two to look inconspicuous. We’re supposed to be travelling in secret.’
Alarik looked down at his shiny silver doublet. ‘What’s wrong with this?’
‘You look like a king!’
‘Maybe of Eana.’ He snorted. ‘In Gevra, this is practically peasant-wear.’
Wren pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Chapman!’
The steward scurried over.
‘Please fetch King Alarik something less ostentatious to wear.’ She turned on Tor. ‘And you’re literally in your uniform. You couldn’t look any more Gevran if you tried.’
‘My other clothes now reek of smoke,’ he said, pointedly.
‘A charge we shall most certainly be sending to Caro.’ Wren called after Chapman, ‘And bring something for the captain, too!’
Chapman eyed Elske, who was sitting at Tor’s feet. ‘And, uh, the wolf?’
‘Hmm.’ Wren tapped her chin. ‘A nice bonnet should do. Something with frills.’
‘Really?’ said the steward.
‘No, Chapman, obviously not,’ said Wren, impatiently. ‘The wolf is fine as she is. She can stay in the carriage until we’re far enough north.’
Chapman beetled away.
While Tor and Alarik went inside to change, Wren stuck her head inside the carriage. It was a far cry from the golden tour carriage that had ferried them around Eana. This one was plain brown with small windows and two lumpy benches facing one another. Just enough space for three humans and one rather large wolf. The carriage would be pulled by four horses, with two palace guards to serve as coachmen until they reached Glenlock, a town just north of the Ganyeve Desert. It was still about a day’s journey from the Mishnick Mountains, but the rest of the route would require them to surrender their carriage entirely.
‘Ahem.’ Wren startled at Chapman’s voice, hitting her head on the ceiling of the carriage. His face appeared through the opposite window. ‘Do remind me, why are you gallivanting into the unknown reaches of Eana with a murderous Gevran king and his grumpy-looking soldier?’
‘Didn’t I mention before?’ said Wren. ‘It’s none of your business.’
Chapman glowered at her. ‘As I have told you more times than I care to recall, I am the steward of Anadawn. The queens’ business is my business!’
‘Not this queen,’ said Wren, reeling backwards. She slammed the carriage door behind her.
Chapman scooted around the back of it. ‘But—’
‘And that grumpy-looking soldier just saved all of our royal horses and captured our arsonist,’ Wren added. ‘You will treat him with respect.’
Chapman folded his arms. ‘And the murderous king?’
‘Treat him however you like,’ said Wren, with a shrug. ‘It’s your funeral.’
He pulled a face. ‘This all just seems so … so reckless.’
‘Yes. But that’s kind of my thing.’
Chapman harrumphed. ‘You will send me into an early grave.’
Wren looked him up and down. ‘How many winters have you passed?’ she said, trying to guess. ‘Forty-nine? Fifty?’
Chapman glowered at her. ‘I’m only twenty-seven!’
Wren winced. ‘Have you ever thought about sheep farming, Chapman? A nice pastoral life somewhere in the south?’
The steward was too furious to answer her. Alarik and Tor returned presently, dressed as soldiers of Eana in frockcoats of green and gold.
Wren broke into a grin.
‘Don’t even start,’ warned Alarik.
‘It suits you.’
‘What? Poorly tailored trousers?’
‘Subservience to me,’ Wren said, brightly.
The king barked a laugh.
Wren shifted her attention to Tor, admiring the way the captain looked in the Eana colours. Somehow, he was even more handsome than before. ‘Well?’ she said, perhaps a little too eagerly. ‘Do you like it?’
Tor tensed, gripping the icy pommel of his sword. Wren knew she had made a misstep by testing his loyalty in front of his king, but he deftly laughed it off. ‘If only it came with a shovel.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’
‘Nice try, witch,’ said Alarik, as he climbed into the carriage. ‘Get your own wrangler.’
Wren stuck her tongue out at the back of his head as she followed him.
‘Well, isn’t this cosy,’ said Alarik, sarcastically. ‘Remind me again why we couldn’t go by boat?’
‘I told you – the Mishnick Mountains are landlocked,’ said Wren. ‘You’re familiar with the way water works, aren’t you? Just be grateful we don’t have to trek through the desert. It would melt all the ice in your veins.’
Alarik looked at her, strangely. ‘What if the thaw has already begun?’
Wren was about to ask what he meant when Elske bounded into the carriage. She hopped up beside Wren, taking up the rest of the carriage bench and resting her chin on Wren’s lap until the only spare seat left was beside Alarik. Once Tor finished loading the carriage, he climbed inside and settled himself next to the king.
The space was even smaller than Wren had imagined. The air grew warmer, closer.
Tor smiled, tightly. ‘Well. This will be an adventure.’
The golden gates of Anadawn groaned as they opened, and the carriage trundled into motion. Wren flopped back against her seat, listening to the commotion in the courtyard die away. Soon, the comforting rumble of wheels on gravel filled the air, the carriage gently rocking as it gathered speed.
‘I hope neither of you get travel sick,’ remarked Wren.
‘No. But I do get viciously bored.’ Alarik turned his gaze to the forest outside. ‘How long will this journey take?’
‘A few days,’ said Wren, watching the trees go by. ‘We’ll take the Kerrcal Road north, until we reach Glenlock. There are villages along the way where we can rest a while, get something to eat. After that, we’ll ride west into the mountains.’ She glanced at Alarik. ‘It will be tough-going. Thea says the mountain pass is not for the faint of heart.’
‘You forget I was trained in the Gevran army,’ said Alarik, unruffled. ‘Worry about your own heart.’
‘Oh, please. I grew up on the knife-edge of a cliff,’ said Wren. ‘Once a storm blew in and took the roof off my grandmother’s hut. I nearly went with it.’
Alarik hmm’d. ‘When I was a boy of nine, I fell through the ice in our lake. My father left me down there until I turned blue,’ he countered, as if they were playing a game. ‘I couldn’t feel my fingers for days. He called it a life lesson.’
Wren stared at him in horror. ‘What was the lesson?’
Alarik smiled but there was no gladness in it. ‘Watch your feet.’
Wren was silent for a moment. ‘Once, in the midst of a tantrum, I threw a dead fish at my grandmother. She was so angry she trapped me in a ring of flames until sunrise.’
Now it was Tor’s turn to look horrified. ‘What was the lesson?’
‘Watch your tongue,’ said Wren, with a shrug. ‘Funny thing is, I think Banba would have forgiven me sooner if my aim had been better.’
‘It was your recklessness she punished you for, not your tongue,’ said Alarik.
‘For all the good it did me.’ Wren traced the scar on her wrist, absently. ‘I got worse as I got older.’
‘My father used to say that recklessness only happens when there is too much bravery to spare,’ said Tor. ‘The day I was born, Carrig was caught in the worst blizzard the island had ever seen. He trekked through the night, through ice and hail and snow, just to be at my mother’s side.’
‘Sounds as if she was the braver one that day,’ said Wren.
‘Yes,’ said Tor, fondly. ‘She is braver, still.’
‘Which explains where you came from, Iversen,’ said Alarik. ‘The first time I ever met Tor, he was wrestling a fully grown ice bear.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘You were just a boy, then, stalking through that arena as if it belonged to you. My father couldn’t tear his eyes off you. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever felt jealousy.’
Tor smiled, grimly. ‘I was just as jealous of you, watching from your balcony.’
‘Now that’s a story I wouldn’t mind hearing,’ said Wren.
Tor chuckled. ‘Very well,’ he began.
After Tor’s story, Alarik offered one of his own, recalling the time he had visited the Sundvik shore as a child, only to get lost. As he recounted, with great theatre, being chased up and down the famous black-sand shore by ravenous seagulls, Wren bent double with laughter, eyes streaming with tears. Then it was her turn to offer a tale of woe. She told them of the day she had chased a squirrel into the Weeping Forest, only to get stuck up a tree. Too embarrassed to call for help, Wren had had to wait for Shen to find her. He’d arrived at midnight, scaling the trunk with infuriating ease only to find her curled up in the bough.
This time, Alarik roared with laughter.
‘What about the squirrel?’ said Tor.
‘Must you always prioritize the animals?’ huffed Wren. ‘I was the one picking twigs out of my hair for days!’
They all shook with laughter. Wren was glad of the lightness that journeyed north with them, filling the cramped carriage with enough warmth to stave off the evening chill. They traded their tales back and forth, letting the minutes slip seamlessly into hours, until the sun surrendered its fight with the moon and melted from the sky.
They stopped in a small trading town to stretch their legs and fill their bellies. Along with the coachmen, they ate in a tavern half the size of Wren’s bedroom, wolfing down rabbit stew with creamy potatoes, carrots and parsnips, and for dessert – which Wren insisted on – they shared an entire cherry pie. After, Alarik went to freshen up while Wren poached a discarded lamb bone from the kitchen. But when she returned to the carriage, Elske was already munching on one.
Tor, who was leaning against the door, offered her a conspiratorial smile. ‘Great minds …’
Wren tucked the bone into her cloak. ‘For later, then. You can never have too much of a good thing.’
‘No,’ said Tor, holding her gaze. ‘You can’t.’
Wren looked up past the carriage, to where the stars were twinkling. There was a chill in the air, but the stew had warmed her. Or perhaps it was the company.
Over dinner, they had decided to travel through the night. Wren knew the road ahead would be rockier than the one behind as they navigated the northern marshes and the surrounding farmland. ‘We’ve still got hours to go,’ she said now, almost apologetically. ‘I’m sorry it’s taking so long.’
Tor leaned in. ‘This time last week I was chasing seven feral snow leopards through the Fovarr Mountains, trying to catch them before they maimed the mountain goats. Now I get to sit across from you in a warm carriage, laughing so hard, I can hardly breathe. Where do you think I’d rather be?’
‘Well, you do love your beasts,’ said Wren. ‘And your country.’
‘I love other things, too.’ He held her gaze, his eyes starlit as the sky. ‘Other places. Other people.’
Wren swallowed thickly. Guilt prickled in her cheeks. The knowledge of what she had done with Alarik in that blizzard – how they had kissed until their breath ran out – was still gnawing at her insides.
Tor’s face fell. ‘Freezing hell, Wren. You don’t have to look so frightened.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Wren, quickly. ‘It’s just … There’s something I need to tell you. About me. And Alarik—’
‘What about Alarik?’ said Alarik, striding out of the tavern.
Wren spun around. ‘I was just wondering how long you were going to spend fixing your hair.’
‘Only half as long as it takes you to tell a story.’ He winked as he brushed passed her. ‘Now finish that one about the time you fell into a vat of honey in Ortha. I hear laughter aids digestion.’
‘Why is it that you favour the stories where bad things happen to me?’
‘Because I am a brute, Wren.’ Alarik flashed a wolfish grin.
‘Finally, a bit of self-awareness.’ Wren clambered in after the king. Tor and Elske followed, and they set off again, travelling into the darkening night. The stew had made Wren sleepy, and with Elske warming her feet, she soon found herself drifting off.
Hours passed, a swathe of clouds moving in from the west and snuffing out the stars. Midnight came and went, and then the first brushstrokes of dawn cast their pallid light in the sky. When the carriage hit a rock in the road, Wren was jostled awake. The scar on her wrist was stinging and her head was aching. She couldn’t remember her nightmare but she didn’t feel rested. She looked down, to where the king’s right boot brushed against her leg.
Alarik was fast asleep across from her, with his arms folded across his chest and his head lolling against the side of the carriage. A lock of blond hair curled across his forehead, making him look unkempt. Younger, somehow. The king was smiling in his sleep. It was not a smile Wren had seen before. This one was softer, truer. It whispered of happier times.
Somewhere outside, a nightingale was singing.
Wren was struck by the strange intimacy of this moment, of seeing King Alarik wholly unguarded for the first time.
She looked away, only to catch Tor’s eye. He was awake, too.
Watching her watch Alarik.
Rotting carp.
Wren’s cheeks burned. ‘Good morning,’ she mouthed, a little sheepishly.
‘Almost,’ he whispered. He glanced towards Elske, sprawled fast asleep at their feet.
Wren smiled, patting the empty seat beside her.
Tor raised his eyebrows. Wren knew it was an impossible invitation. For one thing, there wasn’t enough space with Alarik’s feet kicked up on the bench. And for another, to sit side by side in the semi-darkness would be a lesson in restraint neither of them would likely pass.
Tor raked a hand across his jaw, considering it. Then he folded his arms, leaning back against the seat.
Wren laid her head against the window, waiting for him to fall asleep first, but the soldier easily outlasted her, and as she drifted off once more, she wondered, idly, if he ever slept at all.
When Wren woke again, the sky was blue, the morning sun flooding the carriage with golden light. She winced as she opened her eyes, trying to get used to the glare.
‘Morning,’ said Alarik. ‘Did you know you drool a lot in your sleep?’
Wren furiously scrubbed her chin with her sleeve. ‘Shut up. I do not.’ She looked to Tor. ‘Do I?’
Tor stalled. ‘Define a lot.’
She flung a cushion at him.
He flopped backwards, pretending to be wounded.
Wren thumped on the carriage roof. ‘Time to stop for breakfast! I’m starving!’
At the next village, they had breakfast in a local tavern. While the coachmen snatched an hour or so of rest, Wren went for a walk in a nearby field, where she threw sticks for Elske. The wolf padded along beside her, watching the flying sticks dispassionately.
Wren looked down at her. ‘Wilful little thing. Don’t you play fetch?’
‘Not unless you throw a slab of meat,’ called Tor, who was stalking through the long grass, looking at the wildflowers.
‘This is supposed to be fun for her,’ said Wren.
‘Then why don’t you go and get the stick?’ said Alarik, picking up a twig. ‘I’ll even throw it for you.’
Wren snatched the stick from him. ‘Actually, I can think of a better use for this. Why don’t I—’
‘Watch your mouth, for once?’ said Alarik, before heading back to the carriage. ‘Didn’t your grandmother teach you that?’
‘Actually, she taught me to better my aim.’ Wren fired the stick at him, grinning as it bounced off the back of his head.
Alarik turned to glare at her. ‘I know you like to pretend to forget, but I am still a king.’
‘Not in this land,’ she called after him.
His laughter flew over his shoulder. ‘In every land, Wren.’
By late afternoon, they were finally approaching Glenlock, where spindly wooden houses clustered around a sprawling silver lake, gazing at their reflections. The lake town looked particularly beautiful in the setting sun, like an oil painting come to life.
They gazed out of the carriage as they passed, admiring the little town in companionable silence, until at last, the road ran out. Wren climbed out of the carriage and looked to the west, where the Mishnick Mountains skewered the darkening horizon. She circled her scar and, though it ached still, she found she could breathe a little easier. They were almost there.
The coachmen unbridled three of the horses and unloaded their satchels, before heading back to Glenlock, where they would rest for the night before returning to Anadawn.
Tor came to stand beside Wren, surveying the wilderness ahead. ‘Our journey grows more treacherous.’
Wren glanced sidelong at him. ‘You can ride, can’t you?’
Tor smirked. ‘Beast or horse?’
‘Now you’re just showing off.’
He laughed loudly. The sound found wings and soared across the valleys and Wren burned to follow it. Deep into the mountains, to the magic that awaited them there.