Chapter 27 Wren
When Wren left Willa’s chamber, it was late in the evening. She was too exhausted and much too hungry to think about where Oonagh Starcrest was at that precise moment, or how they might go about tracking her down. Alarik wasn’t faring much better, and so, on the advice of the Healer on High, they decided to spend the night in the mountain.
They retired to the dining hall, where three bowls of hearty venison stew sweetened with carrots and parsnips were waiting for them. There was crusty bread slathered in butter and generous carafes of pomegranate wine. Dessert was a pear and almond pie heaped with fresh cream, and for Elske, a huge meaty bone.
Despite the feast, Wren ate mostly in silence. She didn’t have the stomach for polite conversation. Every time she looked at Tor and saw that angry red cut on his cheek, she felt an awful twinge of guilt. She couldn’t seem to keep from hurting him, one way or another. In the dining hall under the mountain, healers milled around them. Wren could feel their eyes on her as she ate. Wondering, no doubt, what a queen of Eana was doing in the Mishnick Mountains with the fearsome king of Gevra and his towering soldier, still dressed as a soldier of Anadawn.
Wren’s thoughts soon turned to Rose. She hoped her sister had made it safely to the Sunkissed Kingdom. Wren wished she could tell her what Willa had discovered about the curse, and just how pressing their search for Oonagh had suddenly become.
When Wren finished eating, she excused herself from the table. She left the Gevrans to talk strategy – both of them expertly acting as if that awkward moment in the baths earlier had never happened, that it hadn’t cut through Tor like a knife – and Maeva led Wren to a vacant bedchamber up near the mouth of the mountain. The room was small but cosy. A single bed was piled with furs and cushions, lit up by an everlight that hung from the low ceiling. There was a basin in the corner, alongside fresh towels, a nightgown and some fragrant soap. Wren’s satchel and travelling clothes were there, too, clean and neatly folded for the morning.
‘It’s not quite fit for a queen,’ said Maeva, apologetically. ‘But it’s been many years since we received a visitor in these mountains.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Wren, already sagging at the sight of the bed. ‘I’m so tired I could probably sleep standing up.’
Maeva smiled. ‘Ring the bell if you need anything, Your Majesty.’
‘Thank you, Maeva. I’m sure I’ll be just fine.’
The healer hesitated.
‘Is there something else?’ asked Wren.
Maeva looked at her sandals, her cheeks turning even rosier. ‘I was wondering about the soldier you arrived with. He was so kind to me before when you were in the baths. I wanted to know whether he might—’
‘He’s Gevran,’ said Wren, a touch too sharply. ‘He’s loyal to Gevra. He’ll soon return home.’
‘Oh.’ Maeva looked crestfallen.
Wren felt bad for bristling at the girl’s question. She was only human, after all. And Tor was eye-wateringly handsome. Not to mention brave and strong and—
‘Pardon me, Your Majesty. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No, pardon me. I didn’t mean to snap,’ said Wren. ‘I’m just … well, exhausted.’
And jealous.
‘Of course. You must rest.’ Maeva dipped her chin as she backed out of the room, leaving her alone. Wren ran her hands through her hair, her face heating in shame. It was no business of hers what Tor did or didn’t do in this mountain, or in his own life.
She had forfeited that right the day she’d kissed Alarik. And in her silence about it since then. She didn’t deserve Tor’s affection. And if he truly had been cosying up to Maeva earlier then he had obviously come to realize that, too.
Wren slumped on to her bed, deflated. Everything felt wrong. Inside her. Outside her. All too quickly, she drifted off to sleep, but when the darkness swept in, she heard Oonagh’s laugh, haunting her from one nightmare to the next.
Several hours before sunrise, Wren woke with a jolt. She swore she could hear singing. She sat up, blinking into the dimness. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The everlights flickered companionably, reminding her that she was safe. She flopped back against her pillow, measuring her breaths until her lids grew heavy.
There were hours to go until morning.
Hours of sleep yet to claim.
Then she heard that sound again – a distant melody echoing through the mountains. She slipped out of bed, and then her room, following the strange hum. Out in the tunnel, everlights illuminated the darkness. She followed them back towards the mouth of the mountain until she came upon the gushing waterfall. Eana’s tears.
The sound of tinkling water echoed around the cavern, making a strange melody. The song was a balm to Wren’s soul. She drifted towards the waterfall, running her hands underneath the streaming water. She closed her eyes.
‘Eana, help me,’ she whispered. ‘I need your guidance now more than ever.’
The water hummed. A rogue breeze tickled her cheeks. When she opened her eyes, Wren saw the hilt of Eana’s sword flickering behind the waterfall. Night’s Edge was glowing. Wren wondered how she hadn’t noticed it before now. It was so bright, it made the water around it sparkle.
Take it, whispered a voice in the wind. Or perhaps it was in Wren’s head. It is yours to claim.
Wren looked around, searching the darkness, but she was alone up here. There was nothing but the gentle fall of water and the faraway howl of the night wind. And there, only a stone’s throw away, was the very weapon she needed to fell her wicked ancestor. To fell the curse that lived inside her.
Wren kicked off her slippers and hiked up her nightgown, stepping into the pool. It was much cooler than the baths, and she waded through it quickly, even as her scar began to sting and her bones grew heavy. It was as if something, or someone, was holding her back.
The hilt winked, urging her on. The singing swelled. Wren ducked under the waterfall, letting it drench her from head to toe. It plastered her hair to her face and her nightgown to her skin, but she hardly noticed. There was magic in here. Ancient, rippling magic. And it was hers for the taking.
If Wren couldn’t wield her own magic against Oonagh Starcrest then she would slay her ancestor with a sword. And not just any sword. The strongest, most powerful weapon in all of Eana.
After all, Night’s Edge was Eana.
Wren grabbed the hilt, and tugged. Nothing happened. She gritted her teeth, using all of her strength. The rock groaned but didn’t yield. The water was starting to hurt. The curse inside her was waking up. And it was angry. It didn’t want to be here. It didn’t want her here.
‘Come on,’ Wren pleaded with the sword. ‘I need you.’
The rush of the falls grew louder and for a terrifying heartbeat, Wren swore it would drown her.
The pain in her head grew to an almost unbearable pitch. She was about to give up entirely when the hilt warmed in her hand. Wren blinked, sure she was imagining it. But this time when she pulled, the rock began to crumble. She could see the blade now, bright and gleaming as the moon. Another tug and it slid from the rock. Night’s Edge was halfway out.
The mountain was yielding to Wren. The sword was hers to claim. Almost. There came a swear from behind her. Wren startled, releasing the hilt as she spun on her heel. Alarik was stumbling through the water towards her. He must have caught his foot on the edge of the pool.
‘What are you doing?’ said Wren.
His eyes blazed. ‘I could ask you the same thing, witch.’
He lunged, shoving Wren back towards the wall. She cried out as her head slammed against the rock. Alarik sealed the space between them, pinning her with his body. The waterfall made a veil behind him, sealing them in.
She struggled against him. ‘Have you lost your mind?’
Wren caught a flash of silver as he raised a knife to her throat. ‘I knew you’d go for that sword,’ Alarik spat. ‘You always meant to kill me.’
‘You’re being paranoid.’ Wren raised her chin to stop the knife from biting into her skin. It felt dull. A butter knife, she guessed. ‘I came up here because I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he hissed. ‘You made me believe we were friends. You made me believe we were in this together.’
‘We are,’ Wren gritted out. ‘Just get off me.’
‘So you can kill me?’ His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and he looked like a man possessed.
‘Alarik, I promise I’m not going to kill you,’ she said, calmly. ‘Although … I might slap you for this.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, but this time his voice wavered. His grip slackened. Wren brought her hands to his chest, curling her fingers in the collar of his nightshirt. ‘Alarik,’ she said, gently pulling him close. ‘Look at me. I promise I won’t hurt you.’
He swallowed. ‘I just … I thought …’ He glanced at the sword, jutting out of the rock. ‘I saw it move.’
Wren grabbed his chin, pulling his gaze back to hers. ‘The edge of that blade is not meant for you,’ she said. ‘It is meant for Oonagh.’
‘Oonagh,’ he said, in a whisper.
Wren nodded. ‘Only Oonagh.’
Alarik dropped his head, and then the knife.
His face fell, and he sagged against her. ‘I’m so tired, Wren. So very tired.’
Wren gripped his shoulders, steadying him. ‘I know you are,’ she breathed. ‘So am I.’
Alarik raised his head, but the words never came. He grunted as something knocked into the back of his head. It took Wren a second to realize it was a fist.
Tor caught Alarik before he fell. He lifted him up, cradling his body as though he were no heavier than a sack of grain. He frowned at Wren, looking her up and down. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded dumbly. ‘Did you just knock—?’
‘Yes,’ he said, jaw tensed.
Wren almost laughed from shock. ‘You could hang for that.’
‘That’s tomorrow’s problem.’ Tor turned around and carried Alarik out of the pool. Wren followed him, wringing the water from her nightgown.
‘Wait,’ she called after him. ‘Will you come back?’
Tor looked at her over his shoulder. ‘What for?’
Wren’s face fell. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I just thought … well, to talk?’
He must have noticed her embarrassment or perhaps took pity on her standing in the middle of the cavern like a half-drowned rat, because he relented with a sigh. ‘Wait here.’
She sat at the edge of the waterfall, her ancestor’s sword momentarily forgotten as she waited for the soldier to return. True to his word, Tor came back a few moments later. It was only then that Wren noticed his white nightshirt was plastered to his skin, revealing the hard planes of his chest, and the ridges of his stomach muscles. His hair was damp, too. He raked it away from his face. ‘What do you want, Wren?’
Wren swallowed, searching for something to thaw this ice between them. ‘Why did you do that to Alarik just now?’
‘He was threatening you,’ said Tor, casually rolling his sleeves to his elbows. ‘I saw him pocket a knife at dinner. I was afraid of what he might do with it in his addled state.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Wren looked at her hands. ‘I just didn’t want you to think there was anything … that we were … or that he was trying to kiss me.’
‘I would have knocked him out for that, too.’ Wren looked up, struck by the storm in his eyes. He had surrendered his stony facade, and now she could see the pain beneath it. The betrayal. The anger. ‘I should have knocked him out in the baths for touching you as if you were his.’
Wren’s breath shallowed. ‘We didn’t kiss in the baths.’
‘Just the blizzard, then.’ The waterfall roared in the sudden silence. Wren stared at Tor. He stared back, letting her see the accusation in his gaze. Stars, he knew. He had known all this time.
Wren opened her mouth, closed it. She couldn’t find the words, or the breath.
‘Anika told me when I returned from Carrig some months ago,’ he went on. ‘I should have turned around and rode home right then.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘But like a fool, I stayed, hoping I would somehow see you again. Hoping that the fates would draw us back together.’ He shook his head, his smile rueful. ‘But, it seems, fate has no interest in me. Only you and him.’
‘That isn’t fate, Tor. It’s a curse.’
‘Yes, it is, Wren. All of it.’
He turned to go.
‘Wait!’ She leaped to her feet. ‘You can’t just turn around and leave.’
He stilled, eyes flashing. ‘You can’t command me.’
‘I can in this mountain,’ she shot back. ‘In this land. And I’m not done speaking.’
He came towards her, his voice a growl. ‘So, speak, Wren.’
Wren swallowed the sudden dryness in her throat. Tor was more beast in this place than she had ever known him to be, and yet the sight of him seething and practically shirtless stirred in her a desperate need to be closer to him. To stand in the headiness of his alpine scent and meet him, glare for glare.
She stared up at him, so tall and broad and immovable in his anger, and gave voice to her own feelings, messy as they were. ‘It’s true that I kissed Alarik in that blizzard. We kissed each other,’ she admitted. ‘But it was no fairy tale. It wasn’t some stolen moment written in the stars. It was a storm of pain and grief and fear and confusion.’
Tor weathered the confession in stony silence, though a muscle flickered in his jaw.
‘My grandmother was dead. Oonagh killed her right in front of me and smiled when it was done. Then the world came crumbling down around me.’ Wren’s eyes welled at the memory, her grief catching in her throat. ‘The pain of that loss was so sudden, so jagged, I swore it was shearing my heart in two. I didn’t want to go on, Tor. I didn’t want to live past that moment.’
Wren was crying now, but she didn’t care. The words were crowding on the back of her tongue and she had to free them. He had to hear them.
His brow furrowed. He tried to look away from the sight of her pain, but she grabbed his jaw, holding his gaze.
‘You weren’t there that day. I was alone, and out of my mind. I was adrift in this vast sea of maddening grief and Alarik was my life raft. He was the only person I could reach for, and when I flung my hand out, he reached back and caught it. He saved me that day. He gave me the strength to go on.’
Tor closed his eyes. ‘So, you kissed him.’
‘Yes,’ said Wren, her voice ragged. ‘Hate me if you want. Yell at me. Curse me, for stars’ sake! Just please don’t walk away from me again. Don’t leave it like this.’ She grabbed the collar of his shirt, shaking him until he opened his eyes to her. ‘I’d rather have your anger than your silence.’
He removed her hands from his shirt, freeing himself from her grasp. ‘I’m not angry at you, Wren,’ he said, taking a step back, and then another, until he stood before the waterfall, distractingly damp and utterly exasperated. His gaze found hers, a streak of lightning cutting through the storm. ‘I’m in love with you.’
Wren blinked.
‘And it’s torture.’ A cold wind rushed in between them, unsettling the strands along his face. He raked them back. ‘This is torture.’
Torture.The word echoed back at her from deep inside the mountain.
She had stilled at Tor’s confession, her hands still hovering in mid-air, waiting for him to take them. He did not. ‘And I know torture, Wren. I grew up in the wilds of Gevra. I went to war as a boy. I fought beasts far larger than I was, and buried soldiers much younger.’
Wren’s eyes filled with tears. How could a confession of love sound so bleak; how could desire taste so sour? How could he compare his feelings for her – their feelings for each other – to the horrors of war? Now here they stood, both shivering and wounded, and neither one of them was the better for it. ‘What a cruel comparison,’ she whispered. ‘How could love ever be torture?’
‘Because love is being stuck here in this faraway place, watching you watch him,’ said Tor. ‘Watching you want him. Watching him caress your hair. Watching him touch your skin. Like—’ He stopped short, gazing into the pool at her reflection. ‘He doesn’t deserve you, Wren.’
She frowned. ‘He doesn’t have me.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Don’t patronize me.’
He huffed a humourless laugh. ‘The truth is bitter.’
‘You are bitter.’
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice rueful. ‘That is another truth.’
‘I don’t want him,’ said Wren, pressing the point. The silence swelled, and she hated every second of it. ‘You have no idea what I want.’
He cocked his head, looking at her for a long moment as if he was trying to figure out who she truly was. Then he sighed, and it was as if something inside him shifted. Something gave up. ‘The trouble is, Wren, neither do you.’
This time when he turned from her, Wren knew it was over. The sudden fear of losing Tor was like a knife in her gut. She couldn’t stand the idea of it, couldn’t stomach the sight of his back as he walked away.
‘I know what I want!’ she called after him.
He kept walking.
She lunged, grabbing his hand. ‘Did you hear me? I said I know what I want!’
He turned, achingly slow. His gaze found hers, and this time there was a spark of lightning in it. A challenge. Or perhaps, a plea. ‘Prove it.’
Wren grabbed him with the desperation of a drowning woman, ripping the buttons on his shirt as she pulled his body against hers. He yielded, reluctantly, and she raised her chin, claiming his lips with hers. The kiss was short, tentative.
‘Please,’ she whispered against his mouth.
‘Are you sure this time?’ he whispered back.
She kissed him again, brushing her tongue against his, showing him just how sure she was. ‘Can’t you taste it?’
He groaned into her mouth, his resolve crumbling. Wren rose to her tiptoes and wound her arms around his neck, tugging him closer. He raked his hands through her hair, holding her still as he lavished her with a kiss so deep and ragged, she lost her breath.
They melted into each other, their soaked bodies pressed together so tightly not even the wind could come between them. The raging heat of their desire chased the chill from their bones, and as the last of their hurt washed away with the water, they both found themselves smiling between kisses.
When the dampness finally seeped into Wren’s skin and she began to shiver, they surrendered their embrace. ‘We should go to bed,’ she said, between breaths. ‘We’ll catch our deaths out here.’
Tor brushed the strands from her eyes. ‘I’m afraid a head cold is one of the few things I cannot protect you from.’
‘You seem truly bereft about that,’ said Wren, taking his hand.
‘I am,’ he said, falling into step with her.
When they reached the door to her bedchamber, she lingered on the threshold. ‘Stay with me a while. We can keep each other warm.’
He leaned against the door frame, his teeth winking in the dimness. ‘Are you frightened of the big, bad mountain, Wren?’
‘What if Alarik tries to kill me with a soup spoon?’
‘It’s more likely he’ll come for me next,’ said Tor.
She frowned, recalling the unfortunate circumstances of the king’s concussion. ‘You should probably go and deal with that.’
With great reluctance, Tor stepped back into the hall. ‘Let’s hope he’s in a forgiving mood.’
‘Then I really will be worried.’
‘Goodnight, Wren.’
She waggled her fingers. ‘Sweet dreams, Captain Iversen.’
‘Of that I have no doubt.’ He disappeared into the dimness, the music of his laughter echoing after him. Wren wished she could catch the sound and bottle it, but for now, the memory of their kisses was enough to warm her as she peeled off her sopping nightgown and crawled into bed. She pulled the furs around her, smiling as she dropped into slumber.