Chapter 19 Wren
As the ground got steeper, they had no choice but to release the horses. Wren had only been trekking for a short time when the ground began to tremble. Tor reacted lightning fast, grabbing both her and Alarik and pulling them to the ground with him.
‘Earthquake,’ he said, frowning into the distance, as if he could see the source of it. The shaking stopped a moment later, and they rose uneasily to their feet.
Wren’s throat tightened. ‘That doesn’t usually happen here.’
Tor and Alarik exchanged a loaded glance but said no more about it. Wren knew they were all thinking the same thing. Oonagh’s power was growing, her reach extending towards Eana. Towards her.
They set off again, but as the afternoon sun arced over the rolling valley, Wren’s legs grew heavy. Her head, too. Tor and Alarik walked a way ahead of her, Elske padding companionably beside her master. While the soldier’s footsteps were strong and sure, Wren could see the king was struggling, like her. Alarik had begun to sway from side to side, as if he’d had too much wine, and he kept fiddling with his left sleeve. His scar was bothering him.
Elske looked over her shoulder at Wren, concern shining in her bright blue eyes.
‘Go on ahead, sweetling.’ Not wanting to make a fuss, Wren shooed the wolf on, then paused to lean against a boulder. She tipped her head back, letting the sun warm her face as she caught her breath.
Tor stopped walking.
‘I’m all right,’ she called. ‘I just need a minute.’
‘Good idea,’ said Alarik. ‘Let’s rest a while.’
Tor looked between them, a furrow appearing between his brows. Then he glanced up at the sun. Wren knew he was calculating how long they had been walking. An hour, maybe two. How long lay ahead of them? The Mishnick Mountains were still a distance away.
‘We should have brought the horses,’ said Tor.
‘It’s far too steep,’ said Wren, for the eleventh time. ‘They’d tire before us.’
Tor scrubbed a hand across his jaw, looking doubtful.
‘And anyway, it’s too late,’ added Wren.
Alarik laughed mirthlessly. ‘How pathetic we must look to you, Iversen.’ He looked as bad as Wren felt, his eyes bloodshot and his cheeks so pale they matched his hair. ‘Staggering about like a pair of sunstruck children. I think you might have to become our horse.’
Wren snorted, but Tor’s face was contemplative. She could tell he was calculating the weight of all the satchels, and then the people.
‘Carry her,’ said Alarik. ‘I can walk.’
Wren scowled. ‘So can I.’
Tor looked between them. ‘I should carry both of you.’
Elske let out a low whine.
‘I think Elske wants to carry me,’ said Wren.
‘Let’s not flatten the wolf,’ remarked Alarik. ‘We may need her to hunt.’
Wren flung a rock at him. He batted it away. ‘Is that really the best you can do, witch?’
‘Next time it will be a bolt of lightning.’
He raised his brows. ‘Now that I would like to see.’
‘Save your strength,’ said Tor, removing a water flask from his satchel and tossing it to Wren.
‘Tell me about this first witch you named your kingdom after,’ said Alarik, watching her drink. ‘Why was she so fascinated with these endless barren mountains?’
‘I think you mean our beautiful sloping hills,’ said Wren between gulps.
Alarik snorted. ‘There’s always a lie dancing on your tongue.’
Wren tossed him the water flask with unnecessary force. ‘Eana wasn’t just fascinated with these mountains, she made them. She made everything in this country. Every speck of land, every rock and blade of grass, every grain of sand …’
Tor and Alarik exchanged a look.
‘That sounds far-fetched,’ said the king.
Now it was Wren’s turn to snort. ‘Wasn’t Gevra run by bears for several centuries? You should think about restoring one to the throne. You’d probably be better off.’
‘I’m sure you’d find some way to make its life a misery, too,’ said Alarik. ‘Tell me more about your precious creator so I can offend her memory just as enthusiastically. How is it that she made this land?’
‘She flew here from the stars on the back of a green-tailed hawk,’ said Wren, fondly. ‘When the hawk touched the ocean, Eana used her magic to turn the creature into land. That’s why our kingdom takes the shape of a bird in flight. Everything after that came from her, too. Her magic was boundless; her power was … well, extraordinary.’
Tor perked up at the mention of the green-tailed hawk. He scoured the skies now, as though he was expecting to see one. ‘That must have been some bird.’
Wren hmm’d. ‘You won’t find another in our skies. In any sky. Green-tailed hawks haven’t flown in this kingdom for thousands of years.’
‘A shame,’ muttered Alarik. ‘We could use one to get up to those mountains.’
On that, they could all agree. Soon, they walked on, but the going was slower than before. After another hour or so, they resolved to stop for a rest, where they shared some apples and cheese from Wren’s satchel. After, Wren found enough energy to continue onward, and not wanting to be outdone by her, Alarik did, too. Together, all three of them journeyed deeper into the northern valley, gazing up at the mountains that seemed to grow taller with every step.
Elske led the pack, sniffing her way through the grassy plains, often returning with an unfortunate shrew or a quivering mouse for her master. Tor took them from the wolf with great pride, making sure to scratch behind her ears, before sending her off again. Once, Elske chased a hare so far she disappeared for almost an hour.
‘Do you think she’ll come back?’ said Wren, straining to see her small white blur in the distance.
‘She always comes back,’ said Tor. He looked between them, scanning their drawn faces, their tired gaits. ‘How are you both bearing up?’
‘Great,’ huffed Alarik.
‘Never better,’ said Wren.
‘I could walk ten more miles,’ added Alarik. ‘Twenty, even.’
Wren rolled her eyes. ‘You’re so immature.’
‘Something you two have in common,’ said Tor.
They wandered on. Now that they were in the heart of the valley, the hills seemed to go on forever. There was something strangely soothing about the landscape, as though they were being cradled in the very arms of Eana, where no harm could come to them.
‘Remarkable,’ said Tor, tipping his head back to study the towering peaks. ‘It’s like a great rolling ocean has swept us up.’
‘Iversen the poet,’ muttered Alarik.
‘My kingdom is beautiful,’ said Wren. ‘It just takes someone with an actual soul to recognize that.’
‘If you ask me, it lacks a certain wildness,’ mused Alarik. ‘Although the same can’t be said of its queen.’ He smirked at Wren. ‘But let’s not argue over whose kingdom is better.’
‘Well, I know which one is safer,’ she shot back.
‘You can have your ancestor back any time you like, Wren.’
‘Maybe we should all be silent for a while,’ suggested Tor. ‘Save our breath.’
In the welcome quiet that followed, Tor hummed to himself, filling the air with the honeyed lilt of his voice. Wren found herself breathing easier, walking just a little further.
They were in the foothills now, so close Wren swore she could hear the mountain springs tinkling through the valley. But as the sun was sliding from the sky like a golden raindrop, the temperature plummeted. Darkness fell, and Wren’s teeth began to chatter.
When they came upon a small clearing, Tor insisted they stop and rest for the night. On one side, they were sheltered by the mountains, and on the other, surrounded by boulders that would protect them from the howling night wind. While Tor went to gather firewood, Wren set down their blankets and pelts to create a makeshift mattress.
Alarik sat on a nearby rock, watching her work. ‘Didn’t it occur to you to bring a tent?’
‘I thought we’d make it there by nightfall,’ said Wren, with a huff of frustration. ‘And what do you care? Haven’t you ever slept outside before?’
‘More times than I care to count,’ he mused. ‘My father had a penchant for camping in the Fovarr Mountains when I was a child.’
‘Don’t tell me – you once spent the night in an elk carcass?’ Wren guessed.
Alarik stared at her. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘Too many things to list,’ she muttered, which earned her a laugh from the king. He picked up a blanket and set about helping her.
‘Tell me, witch. What’s for dinner?’
‘Whatever Cam packed for us,’ said Wren, rummaging about in her satchel. She pulled out a loaf of bread, a cloth filled with sliced chicken and even a small jar of gravy. It wasn’t much but she was suddenly starving, and she knew, once warmed by the fire, the food would taste wonderful.
Tor returned presently with Elske in tow, his arms so full of firewood, Wren couldn’t see his face over them. He dropped them in the centre of the clearing and began piling them up. Wren watched him build their fire, her gaze lingering over his strong arms, how his jaw hardened as he worked.
‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’ needled Alarik.
Wren shook herself out of her trance. ‘It looks as if you’re building a castle with all that wood,’ she called out to Tor.
‘The more wood, the more warmth,’ replied Tor, without turning around. ‘I learned this technique from long winters on Carrig.’ He glanced up at the cloudless sky, where thousands of stars were twinkling. ‘The night will get colder still.’
When he finished building his tower of wood, Tor sat back on his heels and looked to Wren. ‘I think this could do with a little magic.’
Wren smiled, eager to be of some help. ‘My speciality.’
She stood over the firewood and summoned a wisp of tempest magic, picturing lightning crackling between her fingers. Her magic erupted, setting the wood alight. But it brought with it a familiar shooting pain. She fell to her knees as it tore through her body. She wrapped her arms around her middle to try to bear it.
‘Wren?’ The anxious rasp of Tor’s voice cut through the blackness in her mind.
A groan seeped through Wren’s teeth. The pain was already passing, like a shiver rattling down her spine. It had been a warning, not a punishment. A reminder: her magic was tainted, just as she was.
Strong hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her back. Wren realized too late that she had fallen too close to the fire. She opened her eyes as Tor lifted her away from the blaze. Alarik reached out to steady her, his face ashen in the smoke. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘Nothing.’ Wren shook them both off. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, finding her own footing. ‘It was just … the magic. My magic.’ She traced the stinging pain in her wrist. ‘It’s painful now. It hurts.’
‘You should have said something,’ said Alarik.
‘I should have made the fire,’ said Tor.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s done now,’ said Wren, slumping to the ground. Elske came and laid her head on her lap. ‘Let’s eat.’
‘Good idea,’ said Alarik. ‘The sooner we get to those mountains, the sooner this will all seem like a bad dream.’
They ate in the glow of the fire with the stars twinkling overhead. Afterwards, Wren lay back, searching the sky for starcrests. But the stars never moved, and her lids grew heavy. With Elske curled up beside her, she drifted off, lulled by the muffled chatter of Tor and Alarik, who were lost in tales of their childhoods. Wren was so exhausted she would have slept the whole night cradled in the foothills of the Mishnick Mountains, between Tor and Alarik, had it not been for the menacing growl that rumbled through their camp sometime after midnight.
Tor was on his feet before Wren even opened her eyes. With the fire burning low, it took her a moment to spot the creature watching them in the dark. She heard the growl again, only it was louder this time. And then she knew. It was a mountain lion. By the outline of its body in the dark, it was far bigger than any she had seen before. And stranger still, its eyes were glowing red.
The mountain lion pounced but Tor dived at the same time, knocking the beast into a boulder. It howled before righting itself again. At closer range, Wren noticed the gleam of its partially exposed skull, and the strips of fur hanging off its back. Horror punched through her, stealing her breath. She tried to blink the creature away, to convince herself this was a nightmare, but that awful growl came a third time, shivering all the way down her spine.
‘Hissing hell,’ she cried in a strangled voice. ‘It’s dead.’
‘Not quite.’ Tor pulled his knife, ready for the next attack. ‘Stay behind me,’ he warned Wren, while Elske rounded on the creature from the other side, releasing her own terrifying growl.
Alarik stirred at the commotion. Within seconds, he was on his feet, sword swinging.
‘Watch it!’ said Wren, ducking to avoid the blade.
This time, when the undead mountain lion went for Wren, Tor jumped into its path, grabbing it by the shoulders. Wren had never witnessed such brute force before, or seen a man look so like a beast, but Tor met the creature head on, his teeth bared as he shoved it back. He jerked to avoid its snapping jaws, expertly keeping it at arm’s length. They circled each other around the campfire, the wrangler keeping his back to Wren and Alarik, and making a shield of his body.
Elske pounced from a nearby boulder, momentarily flattening the mountain lion. But the beast shook the wolf off, its red eyes flashing as it rounded on Wren. The creature wasn’t interested in Elske or Tor.
Tongue hanging and bones gleaming, it prowled towards Wren. She had the sudden, sickening suspicion that it could sense her magic. That it wanted to devour it – or perhaps devour her.
Tor was quick to figure out the same thing. He leaped in front of Wren. Alarik flanked her other side, sword raised. ‘How do we kill a thing that’s already dead?’ he said.
‘Start swinging,’ said Tor. ‘We’ll work it out along the way.’
The lion roared as it jumped at Tor, but this time, he jumped, too, bringing his knife up with a sickening crunch. Wren flinched as it sank between the creature’s ribs. She shut her eyes, listening to its last pathetic whimper. Then it slumped at her feet, dead again.
At least for now.
Tor wiped the sweat from his brow as he looked Wren over. Then, satisfied she was unharmed, he removed the blade and cleaned it on his sleeve.
‘Now where did this particular terror come from?’ said Alarik, surveying the corpse.
‘It’s no Gevran beast,’ said Tor. ‘The colouring is wrong.’
‘Wherever it came from, it’s one of Oonagh’s,’ said Wren, grimly.
Alarik’s eyes darted, his voice turning fearful. ‘Does that mean she’s nearby?’
‘She could be anywhere,’ said Wren, and that was the true horror of her ancestor’s dark power. ‘She moves like a fish when she wants to.’ She recalled the vision she had once seen of Oonagh falling into the Silvertongue, how she had turned herself into a merrow in the water, with gills slashed into her neck and the long swishing tail of a fish. She could be anything she wanted to be. Anywhere. Wren stared at the mountain lion’s decomposing skull. ‘This creature could be a warning.’
‘Or a deserter from her army of undead beasts,’ remarked Alarik.
‘Or an attempt on your life,’ said Tor, his knuckles white around the blade. ‘It must have scented your magic.’
Wren looked at her hands, thinking of the strange smoke writhing inside her. ‘Or the curse,’ she said, quietly.
Elske padded over to Wren, resuming her post at her side, while Tor hoisted the mountain lion on to his shoulder. ‘I’ll burn the corpse. Just in case it decides to reanimate,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll keep watch until morning.’
Though Wren trusted Tor to keep them safe, the attack had left her uneasy. Oonagh could be watching them right now, readying her next ambush. Or perhaps she was simply toying with them, plucking at their fear like strings on a harp. Somehow, that made Wren feel even angrier.
‘Don’t dwell on it,’ said Alarik, reading her frown. ‘It will take more than a half-rotted mountain lion to best Iversen and his wolf.’ He turned his sword in his hand. ‘And if it makes you feel better, or indeed envious, I am a remarkable swordsman.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Wren pulled her blanket around her shoulders. ‘But I don’t want to put any of you in danger.’
‘Then you probably shouldn’t have raised my brother from the dead.’
Wren turned to scowl at Alarik, only to catch the glint of his smile in the dark. He laughed hoarsely. ‘It seems to me that whatever curse is inside you is in me, too,’ he went on. ‘So, we are in this together, Wren. For better. Or for worse.’
They stayed awake a while longer, teasing each other to dull the edge of their nerves. When Tor returned with more firewood, they settled into an easy silence. Wren thought she’d never fall asleep again, but before long, she was drifting off. She didn’t wake until an hour after dawn when all the birds in the valley were chirping.
Tor was sitting on a boulder, watching the morning mist move across the mountains. His shoulders were tensed and his left hand was tight around the hilt of his dagger. He must have stayed awake all night, guarding them.
Wren smiled as she threw her blanket off and stood up. ‘Alarik really should give you a raise.’
Tor turned at the sound of her voice, and though his eyes were tired and his face was drawn, he managed a smile. ‘Perhaps you should tell him that.’
‘Or you could come to Anadawn. I’ll shower you in diamonds.’
Tor chuckled. ‘I am not so easily bought, Wren.’
‘Too bad.’
Alarik was still sleeping, so Wren nudged him with the toe of her boot. His hand shot out, grabbing her ankle. ‘Do that again and you’ll regret it,’ he murmured, still half asleep.
‘Wakey-wakey,’ said Wren, shaking him off. ‘I want to reach the mountains by noon.’
Alarik groaned as he sat up. Wren looked him over and wondered if she appeared as grey and exhausted as he did. She passed a hand through her hair, tugging at the knots. She desperately needed to bathe.
They packed up their satchels and set off again, walking under the morning sun. The land climbed and they climbed with it, the way ahead growing sparse and rocky.
‘There are so many mountains,’ said Alarik when the wind grew quiet. ‘How will we know the right one?’
Wren recalled what Thea had told her. ‘Look for bloom and birdsong, and the opening will reveal itself to you.’
‘We’ll know it when we see it,’ Wren said, trusting in the old witch’s words.
Fortunately, they soon came true.
Wren spotted the birds before she heard their call.
‘Look, there!’ she said, pointing ahead, to where the tallest of the Mishnick Mountains jutted up like an arrowhead to pierce the low-hanging clouds. Songbirds swooped and soared around it, calling to each other through the mist.
They stuck to the curve of the mountain as they climbed. Rock face soon turned to flowers, blooming petals of blue and pink and yellow and violet casting a symphony of colour all around them until it felt to Wren as if she had strayed into a dream. Somewhere nearby, she heard the sound of tinkling water, and felt a strange calmness come over her.
She exhaled properly for the first time in months.
On either side of her, Tor and Alarik had fallen quiet. Reverent. The birds sang and they listened. They followed the trail of flowers until at last they came upon an archway cut into the mountain face.
Beneath it stood a girl about Wren’s age, wearing a dark green robe. She had cornflower-blue eyes, long golden hair and a placid smile that set Wren’s pulse at rest.
‘Your Majesty,’ she said, dropping into a curtsey. ‘It is our honour to receive you here in the Mishnick Mountains.’
Before Wren could respond, Alarik interjected, ‘Majesties.’
The girl looked at Alarik then back at Wren. A furrow appeared between her brows but she swallowed whatever she was about to say, and stepped back through the archway. It was only then that Wren noticed the huge cavern behind her, and the crystalline waterfall cascading from above.
‘Come in,’ said the girl, her voice soft and lilting. ‘And be well.’
Wren hoped it would be as easy as that.