Chapter 5 Drawing Room Conclusions
“The investigation of Heron’s death concluded quickly after it began,” Ivanhild told Wren as he pushed a trunk out of the way of the sofa. Wren sat down, candlestick in hand, and Ivanhild pulled up a chair from the corner of the room.
“And what was the exact determination?”
The flame of the candle warmed her face. She welcomed the heat as the house had grown cold without the hope of Heron’s return.
“As I said yesterday, it was deemed a cryptura attack. But Heron knew better than to wander in the Whispering Woods. He wouldn’t have succumbed to such a fate willingly.”
Wren did her best not to think of her brother being feasted upon by the darkest creatures above the Tides.
Cryptura were the monsters every child in the Seven Havens grew up being warned about.
They stalked the forests of every island, but were most prominent on the Whispering Isle, where the academy was located.
Wren heard that the academy had tried to rid the woods of the creatures when they first built upon the island, but only succeeded in pushing them back with a large stone wall.
“Do you think someone coerced him to leave the grounds?”
Ivanhild nodded. “Or they killed him, then disposed of his body to make it look like a cryptura did it.”
Wren shrank into the sofa. The cruelty it would take to do such a thing was unimaginable.
“Heron told me several times that the academy was a dangerous place. I’d thought he meant for me specifically, but now…” she trailed off.
“It is dangerous,” Ivanhild agreed. “The students are willing to do anything to get ahead, and the professors are no different. But killing a student, especially one of the caliber that Heron was, is unheard of.”
“Did you know of anyone who might want to hurt him?”
Her brother had a strong sense of justice that often made others uncomfortable. He believed there was a bold line between what was right and what was wrong. If this academy was a place that dealt in shades of gray, they may not have liked Heron’s black and white perspective.
Ivanhild shook his head. “He was well-liked by many people. I can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt him.” He ran a hand over his beard. “However, toward the end of the semester, I spotted him in conversation with a few students that tend to deal in darkness more than others.”
Wren sat up taller. “Oh?” She wished she would have brought her journal with her, but she didn’t want to risk it being snatched by one of her parents if they found her.
“The most worrying acquaintance of his was Castien Valengard.”
Wren’s eyes widened. “As in the Prince of the Lucent Enclave?” She had never met him, but tales were spread all over the Known Islands about his Gift of strategy and the dangerous ways he used it. He was on track to become the next emperor. There was little question of him being voted in.
“The very same.” Ivanhild let out a weary sigh. “I saw them seated together in the dining hall a few moons ago and I knew, I knew I should have said something.” His guilt was so strong it took Wren’s breath away. She sank her fingernails into her palms.
“Even if you’d warned him, Heron was headstrong,” Wren consoled him. “There was a greater chance of him not listening than him heeding your warning.”
Heron was not rebellious, but rather, he had a moral code that dictated his every move. If he thought it fit into his principles to speak to Castien, then no one would be able to stop him.
“I should have at least tried,” Ivanhild said in a choked voice. “But I thought he knew. Heron saw through most people. I presumed he had his reasons that I shouldn’t interfere with.”
“He did,” Wren whispered, putting together more pieces of the journal.
The dates in the journal lined up with what Ivanhild said. Heron started writing about the Order around the same time he was spotted with Castien. Given Castien’s reputation for scheming, it was not a reach to think he was in the Order.
Wren watched Ivanhild’s tortured expression over the flame of the candle.
The professor appeared to have not known about Heron’s involvement with the Order.
He might not be aware of the society’s existence at all.
Which meant that Heron’s trust of him only extended so far. Hers would end here as well.
“Did he say something to implicate anyone for his death in his journal or letter to you?” Ivanhild asked once he had composed himself.
Wren shook her head. She’d spent most of her life lying. It would not be difficult to do so now.
“No. His journal was rather indiscernible, and his letter to me was nothing but an apology for not coming home.”
The best lies were ones as close to the truth as possible.
“The morning will come soon,” Wren said as a way to end their conversation. She couldn’t have him asking to see the journal or letter. It would be difficult to weave a reason as to why she wanted to keep it private.
Ivanhild looked toward the still dark window, then back at her. Suspicion wasn’t something she could feel with her Curse, but she knew a man who spent his days amidst lies and deceit would not be easily dismissed.
“I haven’t slept since I fainted on the steps,” Wren told him. Worry rippled in the air around her. There it was. Her chance at escape. He cared.
“You should rest. Tomorrow will come early,” Ivanhild said and stood.
Wren followed suit. “Thank you for speaking with me, and for your kindness toward my brother. I know he would be happy that you were here in his stead.”
Wren’s words were genuine, but also calculated. The more she thanked Ivanhild and brought up her brother, the less suspicious he would be of her.
“It is my great honor to have carried him home.” Ivanhild crossed his arms over his chest and bowed to Wren. “I will do my best to bring his killer to justice once I’m back at the academy. By next Eventide, I hope to have news of their capture.”
Wren bent her knees in a soft curtsy. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He bowed once more, then slowly opened the door and slipped out.
Shadows wrapped around Wren like a coat of armor.
She padded to the trunk that he’d pointed out earlier as soon as he was gone.
She flipped up the latches and used her candle to look for the parcel inside.
Sitting beneath a stack of blankets was a package wrapped in brown paper and twine.
Heron had scrawled To: Birdie on the top in black ink.
She swallowed down her grief, then set the candle on the floor and sank to her knees beside it.
Her fingers trembled as she ripped the paper away.
It was a wooden box with a gold latch. She opened the box to find a statue carved out of some kind of black stone.
It was of two birds flying together, wings spread wide.
A heron sheltered a small wren beneath its wings.
Wren pressed the statue to her chest and curled around it.
Tears streamed down her face as silent sobs wracked her body.
She lay on the floor beside her brother’s belongings until her crying subsided.
Memories of their childhood intertwined with images of his casket until she became sick with rage at the person who had stolen him from her.
The muscles in her body ached with exhaustion as she stumbled to her feet, statue in hand. She looked down at the birds again.
Determination like nothing she had ever felt before stole through her like a fire through dry brush. She would avenge Heron. He had brought justice to the one who wronged her all those years ago. She would not stop until the same was done for him.
Wren would not sit back and wait on Ivanhild to find her brother’s killer. No, she would find them and do exactly what her brother had done for her: kill.