Chapter 23 Wren
The Healer on High rang a bell on the side table, and Maeva returned to collect Wren and Alarik. Wren’s stomach knotted as she led them deeper into the mountains, down a winding tunnel that seemed to go on forever. It got darker and warmer until the humid air curled the wayward strands around Wren’s face.
Alarik walked alongside her, silent as stone. She watched him from the corner of her eye, trying to read his face in the dimness. His jaw was tight, and his fists were clenched. He must be nervous, too. After all, they were as far from Gevra as they had ever been and Alarik was placing his life – his fate – in the hands of witches he knew next to nothing about. A small part of Wren admired him for that.
At last, they reached the end of the tunnel, which spilled out into a cavern that contained a large crystalline pool. The everlights here refracted off hundreds of precious crystals embedded in the rock. They looked like stars, casting the pool in a soft silvery glow.
Alarik walked along the edge of the bath, running his hand through the steam. ‘At least it’s warm,’ he said, breaking the strange tension that had followed them under the mountain.
‘And healing,’ Maeva reminded him. ‘These are Eana’s tears, after all.’
‘So you’ve said.’ He turned to look at Wren. ‘It’s not like you to be so quiet.’
‘I’m just … taking it all in,’ said Wren, uncertainly. Now that the reality of what they were about to do was dawning on her, she was feeling squeamish. The cavern was completely empty, save for the three of them, and though the steam was thick, she would still be able to see Alarik through it. Without a shirt. And he would be able to see her, too.
‘You’re blushing,’ said Alarik.
Wren scowled at him. ‘It’s hot, that’s all. I don’t blush.’
‘My mistake.’ He turned away but not before Wren caught the edge of his smirk.
Arrogant ass.
Maeva cleared her throat. ‘I’ll leave you both. There’s a chamber to the side where you can change,’ she said to Wren. ‘I’ll send someone to come and collect your clothes so that they may be washed and cleaned.’
‘Thank you,’ said Wren. ‘I’m sure you’ve noticed that the king smells like dung.’
‘Not unlike the kind that comes out of your queen’s mouth,’ added Alarik. ‘Perhaps you should wash that, too.’
Maeva bit her lip, unsure of where to look. Wren could tell their banter was making her uncomfortable.
‘You may go,’ she said, doing the girl a kindness. ‘I’m afraid Alarik’s only going to get worse in these acoustics. He loves the echo of his own voice.’
Maeva shuffled away from them. ‘Willa says to soak until the water turns black. With any luck, you’ll be up in time for dinner.’
‘Thank you, Maeva,’ said Alarik, with unusual politeness. ‘In the meantime, you might see to my Captain of the Guard. I’m sure he would quite enjoy some company.’
At the mention of Tor, Maeva flushed bright red. Wren wanted to shove Alarik straight into the water but instead turned around and stomped off towards the side chamber, trying to ignore the irritating echo of his laughter.
Wren peeled off her dress and unbraided her hair, running her fingers through the tangles. Then she kicked off her shoes and socks. She resolved to keep on her underwear and chemise, lest the king get any wrong ideas. The very thought of it brought back the memory of their blizzard kiss.
Stop it, Wren scolded herself. That was the last thing she needed to be thinking about right now. She hadn’t come here to bathe with the king. She had come here to get rid of the curse she had accidentally cast the day they raised Ansel from the dead.
Any thoughts of kissing were unhelpful and distracting and—
‘Have you fallen down a crevasse over there?’ called Alarik.
‘I’m changing,’ Wren called back. ‘Mind your own business!’
‘You are my business, Wren.’
Wren grabbed a towel, covering herself on the short walk back across the cavern. Thankfully, the steam was so thick, she could barely see a foot in front of her own face.
She could tell by the sound of rippling water that Alarik was already immersed in the bath. ‘Well? How is it?’
‘Wet.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Wren dropped her towel and found the stone steps, following them down into the water. The first flush of heat stole up her legs, wrenching a sigh from her. ‘Oh.’
Wren didn’t realize how weary she was until the water was lapping at her skin. First her calves and then her knees. Another step, and it was at her hips, and then her stomach. She pushed off the edge, letting the water come up to her neck. She tipped her head back, immersing herself fully.
Salt crystals kissed her skin as she kicked her legs up, floating like a fallen leaf. She sighed again, long and languid.
Alarik stilled in the water. ‘What are you doing?’
Wren had almost forgotten he was there. ‘Enjoying the silence. Don’t ruin it.’
His laugh found her through the steam. She could tell he was close by, but she couldn’t see him.
She closed her eyes. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Damp.’
‘Be serious.’
‘I don’t know.’ He was further away now. ‘Not terrible, I suppose.’
Wren turned around, searching for him in the curling mist. She followed his voice, wading towards a ledge at the back of the cavern, until the bath got so deep she had to walk on her tiptoes. Alarik was sitting at the edge of the pool. The water was at his chest, his arms splayed out along the rock behind him. Silver crystals clustered around his head, like a crown. His hair was wet and slicked back from his face, revealing the exquisite lines of his bone structure.
‘Stop staring at me,’ he said.
‘I’m staring past you.’
‘Whatever you say, witch.’
Wren tried to stick her tongue out but she swallowed a mouthful of water. She spluttered, trying to balance on her toes, but the water was so close to her mouth it lapped at her bottom lip.
Alarik smirked as he watched her. ‘The primary objective is not to drown.’
‘I’m an incredible swimmer.’
‘Not from where I’m sitting.’ He patted the space beside him. ‘Come.’
Wren swam over to the ledge, not because he told her to but because her limbs were beginning to tire. The burst of euphoria she had felt upon entering the baths was fading and she was starting to ache. The water didn’t seem to be healing her; in fact she felt as if it was prodding at the curse inside her, waking it. Her head was beginning to spin.
She dragged herself on to the ledge.
It was hotter here, the water deeper. The steam between them thickened.
‘Why are you sitting all the way back here?’ she asked, as she wrung the water from her hair.
Alarik watched her through the mist, tracing the rivulets as they fell across her shoulders. ‘For privacy.’
‘From me?’
He shook his head. ‘For us.’
Wren’s hands stilled. She looked at Alarik and felt a strange calmness come over her. Perhaps it was the steam, but she could suddenly feel the steady thud of her heart in her chest. She exhaled, long and deep and slow. ‘What do you mean?’
He dropped his voice. ‘I was feeling light-headed just now. I thought you might be, too.’
Wren frowned. ‘I felt good at first. But then, I don’t know … I felt as if the water was making me feel worse.’
Alarik nodded. ‘And now?’
Wren ran her hands through her hair. ‘I’m doing better now. My wrist is stinging but not as much as before. And my head has stopped spinning.’
‘Mine, too.’
Wren looked around herself. The water was still clear. ‘Do you think it’s working?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Alarik. ‘Maybe. I don’t feel as wretched as I did a moment ago.’
Wren looked at him more closely. The shadows in his cheeks didn’t look as pronounced, and his eyes seemed brighter somehow. Almost silver, like the everlights above them.
‘Now you really are staring at me,’ he said. ‘Now I really am,’ she admitted. ‘You look better than before.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing about you.’
‘Was I really that bad?’
‘Yes,’ he said, at once. ‘Your eyes … they had lost their …’ He frowned, searching for the right word. ‘Light.’
Wren snorted.
‘And you weren’t being half as annoying as usual,’ he added, quickly. ‘I was coming to miss your irritating smugness.’
Wren splashed him. ‘You are the smug one!’
‘Me?’ he said, drenching her back. ‘I was merely trying to match you.’
She laughed and he joined in, the sound echoing around them.
Alarik leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. ‘Tell me a story. You’re good at that.’
‘I used all my best stories on the way up here.’
‘That can’t be true. You’re bursting with stories.’
‘How do you know?’
He shrugged. ‘Because you’ve lived wildly. You weren’t raised as a princess. You were raised by the elements.’
‘And my grandmother,’ Wren reminded him.
‘Who was something of an element herself.’
Wren smiled. ‘It was a bit like growing up in a storm.’
‘Tell me more about the storm, Wren.’
So Wren did. For an hour or more, they sat side by side, letting the steam lick their skin clean as they talked about their childhoods. Alarik’s spent in the Fovarr Mountains, hunting, trekking, watching his father rule with an iron fist. Wren spoke of Ortha, of the cliffs that roughened her palms by the time she was five years old. He asked to see them and she held them up. On and on they went, trundling through the stories that made them who they were: guarded, clever, careful. The people who raised them. The people they had lost.
All the while, the water stayed clear around them, and yet in all these long months, Wren had never felt so far from the pain inside her. She began to hope that perhaps the healing bath was working. That even though they couldn’t see it, the curse was dissolving.
‘Now that you’ve told me about all the beasts that have tried to eat you over the years, tell me something nice,’ said Wren, after a while. ‘Such as where you managed to get that tiny sliver of charm from.’
He wagged his finger at her. ‘Careful, witch. You’re in grave danger of being nice to me.’
She flicked water at him.
He slipped into another tale. Without meaning to, Wren leaned in to listen. ‘In the spring, when I was a boy, my mother and I would get up before sunrise to skate together. She used to twirl like a dancer across the lake. It was mesmerizing.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I would try to match her only to fail miserably every time. I’ve never eaten so much ice.’ He raised his chin, drawing closer until Wren could see the thin white scar on the underside of his chin. ‘Of all my scars, this one is my favourite.’
‘What a thing to say,’ murmured Wren.
He looked at her, his lowered lashes casting a shadow along his cheeks. The moment stretched, silent, loaded, the steam so thick it felt as if it was pressing in on them.
Wren hinged backwards. ‘Banba always hated when I slept past sunrise,’ she said, breathless. ‘Once, she tried to spook me out of bed by pretending to be a ghoul. She wore this huge black cloak over her head and stuck giant branches down her sleeves to make her arms look far longer than they really were.’
Wren rose out of the water, sticking her hands above her head to try to convey the shape of the monster. ‘She stomped through the hut and kicked the door open until she filled up the doorway.’ She waved her hands about, mimicking what Banba had done. Alarik broke into laughter and Wren joined in, until tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I’ve never screamed so much in my life. Thea came running. She thought I was being murdered.’
She slumped on to the edge of the bath, enjoying the cool air on her face. She didn’t realize how hot the water was until she was half out of it again.
Alarik stopped laughing. She looked down at him. His eyes fell, from her face, to the column of her neck, and then to her white chemise which was plastered to her chest. And completely see-through. ‘Wren,’ he said, the word hoarse.
Wren slinked back into the water. Now it was nowhere near as hot as her cheeks. Embarrassment roared in her ears. She had not come here for this. She had come to seek respite from the pain of the curse, and even though the water ran clear around her, it had been working. Hadn’t it?
Alarik swallowed hard. ‘We’re not here to do that again,’ he said, echoing her thoughts.
She rounded on him. ‘Do what again?’
He lowered his chin, meeting her gaze. ‘Let’s not play this game.’
‘If you’re referring to the blizzard, that was your fault,’ she said.
He crooked a brow. ‘You’re the one who kissed me.’
Wren swallowed her retort. She supposed it didn’t matter. The truth was she had kissed the king in a maelstrom of fear and grief. She recalled the endless horror of that day, how she had reached for Alarik in a rush of terror, finding comfort in his arms. But the king was not made to comfort others, to comfort her. He had the same jagged heart as Wren, and while those pieces might recognize each other, they were not made to fit together.
All Wren and Alarik knew together was pain. And now, here they were again, in misery, hoping to find release from a terrible thing they had done together. As far as Wren was concerned, that kiss – and this awful curse – were bound together. Somehow.
‘It was a mistake,’ she said, pushing off the ledge.
‘Then why are you still thinking about it?’ Alarik challenged. ‘Every time you look at me your cheeks turn bright red.’
‘That must mean you’re thinking about it, too.’
‘I never said I wasn’t,’ he said, with a shrug.
‘This is not helping,’ sighed Wren. She paddled away, putting as much distance between them as possible.
Her head began to pound again, her limbs so heavy she could hardly swim at all. Suddenly, she felt as if she had climbed ten mountains in a row. Her breath shallowed and stars pinwheeled in the sides of her vision. She could practically feel the thing inside her – the shadowy curse – stretching through her bones.
She scrambled for footing but the water had deepened without her realizing it. She flailed, trying to swim, but her arms were too heavy. It was hard to move, to think. ‘Alarik!’
He was there in the next heartbeat, curling his arm around her waist and dragging her through the water. ‘Calm down. Breathe.’
He pulled her back to the ledge, and she grabbed it with both hands, letting her head slump on to the edge of the pool. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ she mumbled, into the rock. ‘I felt … I feel …’
He came to her side, resting his head on his elbows until they were both slumped over the side of the pool, looking at each other. Alarik took a deep breath, and Wren did the same. In and out, in and out, until they fell into sync with each other.
He reached over, peeling a strip of wet hair from her eyes. ‘How do you feel now?’
Gingerly, Wren lifted her head. ‘A little better.’ She frowned. ‘A lot better. I don’t understand.’ Was the water making her sick? But no. If that were true, she would still be ill now, and she wasn’t. It was only when she tried to swim away from Alarik that she began to weaken.
‘I think I understand.’ Alarik sat up, looking stronger now. ‘Come here.’ He reached for her and Wren went to him, clambering across the ledge. He took her wrist in his hand, brushing his fingers over her scar. ‘Can you feel that?’
She looked at his fingers. ‘It doesn’t hurt any more.’
‘No,’ he said, quietly. ‘Not while we’re together.’
Tears pricked Wren’s eyes as understanding dawned on her. The curse was not broken. It was just sleeping. The pool aggravated it, but when they were close together, it wasn’t so bad. It was the water that stretched it, prodded it, making them aware of it. But the water wasn’t working either. It was still clear. This thing – made of curse and shadow – was still inside her. Inside him.
Wren closed her eyes, sadness and fear guttering through her. ‘We’re still broken.’
Wordlessly, Alarik took her in his arms, folding her body into his own until they were skin to skin, and she felt weightless. She sighed as the tension uncoiled from her body. He laid his chin against the top of her head. ‘But not like this.’
His sigh feathered her cheek. It occurred to Wren that he must feel that same weightlessness, too. She turned her face into him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. Soon, she was so relaxed she thought she might fall asleep. He trailed his fingers through her hair, absently stroking it.
‘What is this?’ whispered Wren.
‘Peace,’ he whispered back. ‘Just for a moment.’
She smiled, then. ‘Blessed peace.’
The moment did not last long. There came the sudden sound of footsteps, and then a familiar voice, shooting through the centre of Wren’s heart like a lightning bolt.
‘Is it broken yet?’ asked Tor.
Wren looked up, and flinched at the expression on his face. He looked as if he had been run through with a cutlass.
Alarik gestured at the clear water, a new bite in his voice. ‘Does it look broken, Iversen?’
‘It certainly doesn’t look right to me,’ said Tor, without taking his eyes off Wren, and she found that she couldn’t meet his gaze.