Chapter 8 Salt in The Wound
Everything was yellow. As if Wren were in a painting and the artist had run out of all other colors.
Those who came to attend the burial rite all wore various shades of the color.
The carriage Wren rode to the Salt Hills had been swathed in yellow fabric.
Daisies, marigolds, tulips, and lilies were tossed upon the white dunes.
The whipping winds tore them away and littered the petals on the foaming Tides below.
Wren supposed she should be grateful that everyone considered her brother to be a pure soul.
But she had been around polite society far too long and knew they weren’t wearing yellow to honor Heron.
They were wearing it to appease her parents.
Wren was already exhausted by the pageantry of it all.
She’d stood atop the hill and greeted guests for so long that her legs were stiff and her lips were dry and salty from the sea air.
The burial rite had still not begun. Judging by the line of carriages she saw from her perch, it would not start for some time.
“Lady Kalyxi,” a melodious voice called out over the wind.
Wren turned to face the person, her lemon-colored dress swirling around her ankles. Duchess Briony Alder held a large bonnet with a canary yellow ribbon against the crown of her head. Her matching dress clung to the outline of her legs beneath.
Wren curtsied. “Duchess Alder, thank you for coming.”
“I would never miss such a somber occasion. Your brother was a beautiful, pure soul. He will be dearly missed.”
“Yes, he will,” Wren agreed with numb lips.
Her energy was waning. She had not slept save for a few minutes the night before.
All day, she’d been bombarded by her Tides-blasted Curse.
The entire estate had been a whirlwind of emotion this morning between the servants, guests, and her family.
Now she was surrounded by even more people.
Each person’s emotions crowded her own. It was as though she were a sewing cushion stuck with hundreds of pins. There was no relief.
“You will make a lovely council member, though, I am sure,” Duchess Alder continued. “Someone as kind as you is bound to make the Wild Holm a better place.”
Wren fought to keep a serene smile on her face.
She wanted nothing to do with the Council.
Politics was never something that interested her.
Heron was the heir. Wren was supposed to live in a cottage on the edge of the estate.
She’d drink tea, eat honeycakes, and tend a small garden.
A quiet life alone is all she had aspired to since she was ten years old.
Sorrow crashed into her like the waves against the shore. Heron had assured her that her dreams would come true once he returned from the academy. He had been the only thing standing between her and her parents’ schemes to elevate their status by marrying her off.
“Thank you, Duchess Alder. I will do my best,” Wren replied once she had gathered the words.
More people climbed the dunes. The sun was hovering over the horizon, just barely risen.
Above it was the Adiran star, telling all that the Tides were safe for a little while longer.
That was why the burial rite was taking place here.
The Salt Hills were only exposed during Eventide.
Those who died outside of the safe season were either buried on family land or burned so their ashes could be scattered upon the sea.
It was considered a blessing to be laid to rest during Eventide, though Wren had yet to determine why in her study of the Wild Holm’s history.
It was not as though the Tides cared if someone was thrown into them.
“I’m certain you will. You’ll have my support, should you need it. Do come by for tea whenever you please.”
Wren’s smile turned brittle. Oh, how she despised politics.
Heron had not been given to the Tides yet, and this woman was already trying to manipulate her.
Wren wasn’t meant for this life. She hadn’t trained for it.
Heron had encouraged her parents to turn their attention elsewhere.
But she should have known better than to hope for a peaceful future.
It was foolish to dream while trapped in a nightmare.
“Thank you for the invitation. I must see to other guests, if you’ll excuse me.” Wren curtsied and spun away before the wretched eel of a woman could say more.
Wren searched the crowd of yellow for someone who wouldn’t be miserable to hold a conversation with.
At the top of the tallest hill, she spotted Ivanhild.
The casket that her brother had been brought home in was next to him, the jewels refracting rainbows beneath the sun’s rays.
Ivanhild had been tasked with the transportation of Heron’s remains.
He rode in the carriage with the casket and then dragged it up the hill by himself.
Not once did he complain or so much as grunt with the exertion.
Wren’s calves burned as she crossed the dunes to get to him. Her bare feet sank into the sand up to her ankles. Each step was a fight. When she finally crested the hill, there was a thin sheen of perspiration coating her skin. The winds coming off the Tides did their best to dry it.
“Lady Kalyxi,” Ivanhild greeted with a bow of his head.
“Professor.”
Wren’s eyes dipped to the casket. Yellow petals littered the top from where visitors had dropped flowers. She stared. Her eyes burned in the salty air.
“Your traditions here are beautiful. More pleasant than Stonemouth,” Ivanhild commented.
Wren’s gaze lifted. She blinked a few times.
“What are your traditions?” She had read very little about other islands, since most of her studies were centered around the Wild Holm.
Lord Floriant said that it was important for her to learn about her home before she dove into the history of others.
Much of her knowledge of other islands was based on issues that had occurred when they clashed with the Wild Holm.
“Our ancestors believed that the predators of the land should have a taste for our blood. It would make them thirsty for it. This would result in more dangerous hunts for the next generation, and as such make them stronger than the former,” Ivanhild explained.
“When someone dies, their body is taken into the forest and thrown into a ravine for the animals to devour.”
Wren pressed her gloved fingertips to her lips.
“I am glad to have been raised on the Wild Holm,” she said when words failed her.
Ivanhild managed a smile. “It suits you better than Stonemouth would, that is for certain.”
Wren scanned the crowd. Her parents were on a nearby hill, distracted with a line of people jostling their way into the duke and duchess’s good graces.
“The politics here do not suit me, though,” she confessed. “I am afraid I am not prepared to be an heir.”
Ivanhild’s guilt-ridden grief squeezed the air out of her lungs.
“I’m sorry.” The two words would have meant nothing if not for Wren’s ability to feel the emotion that came with them.
“What’s done is done,” Wren said, but the words scratched like a blade in her throat. Heron’s body lay at her feet, but still she expected him to run up the hill at any second.
“If I can be of service to you in any way, do tell me. It is the least I can do.”
Ivanhild’s offer was exactly the opening Wren had hoped for. She’d intended to speak with him in a more private place, but she couldn’t waste any more time. Eventide wouldn’t last forever.
“There is something,” Wren began. Ivanhild’s gaze weighed heavily on her. “I want to go to the academy.”
Ivanhild jerked his head side to side. “No, I apologize, Lady Kalyxi, but I cannot allow that. Your brother would have my head.”
Wren pointed to the casket. “My brother is dead. He was studying to become the best heir. Now I must do the same.”
“There is no need for you to go to the academy. Your parents will teach you what you need to know.”
Wren scoffed. “You would have me become like them?”
Ivanhild looked over Wren’s head. There was a war happening behind his green eyes. A war Wren hoped she would win.
“If something happened to you…” Ivanhild gritted out, but didn’t finish the sentence.
Wren sensed he would never forgive himself. This strong man, raised on an island that fed remains to predators, would break if he felt he had a hand in Wren’s death.
“You didn’t know that Heron was in trouble,” Wren spoke gently. “There was no way to protect him without knowing he was in danger. Now we both know the dangers. You will be able to look out for me.”
“I fear that your curiosity will lead you to places I cannot protect you.” Ivanhild ran a hand over his braided beard. “You must promise that you will tell me everything. If someone is so much as mildly cross with you, inform me.”
Wren met his gaze. The wind whipped their yellow clothes. The sunlight beat down on them. The Tides crashed into the shore. Wren prepared to lie.
“If you get me to the academy, I promise not to hide anything from you.”
Ivanhild’s eyes scanned her face. If he were searching for a crack in her facade, he would not find it. She was far too practiced.
“If your parents approve, I will see to your enrollment. We leave for the Whispering Isle in two days, so I must have an answer before then.”
“Thank you.”
Wren’s gaze lowered to her brother’s casket once more. Her father’s voice rose above the hum of the crowd.
“We extend our sincerest gratitude to all of you who have come to honor our son, Heron,” the duke boomed.
Wren focused on a large sapphire atop the casket, glittering in the sun. The color of Heron’s eyes.
“We knew the day we dipped him in the Tides that he was special. When his Gift of swordsmanship developed at the early age of five, we were so proud. We knew that he would be a strong heir.”
Wren’s toes dug into the sand. Heron was so much more than his Gift.
He was kind, witty, and intelligent. But just like everyone else, the Gift the Tides bestowed was what made a person who they were.
If you were blessed with something that made you stronger or smarter or better, then you were set apart as superior.
Merit or honor held no esteem in the Seven Havens.
Only what you were given by a reckless pool of magic mattered.
That was one reason Wren kept her Gift–or what she had determined was a Curse–secret.
Those around her believed she had been Gifted with exceptional writing.
Heron was the only one who knew the truth, and he was also the one who taught her how to keep it hidden.
He believed those around Wren would see the Gift either as a tool to be used for their gain or a way to manipulate her emotions with their own.
“His loss is devastating to Riverwild, but thankfully, we were blessed with another Gifted child.”
Wren lifted her gaze at this. She saw her mother dabbing at her face with a pale yellow handkerchief.
Her father beckoned her to their hill. Wren did her best to gracefully traverse the shifting sands.
When she made it up, her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
She gathered no comfort from the gesture.
“Lady Wren Kalyxi will take her brother’s place as heir to Riverwild.
After a period of mourning, she will begin sitting in on council meetings.
We are grateful that the Tides blessed both of our children, so that this loss, though great, is not detrimental to the health of the estate or the community of the Wild Holm as a whole.
Rest assured, Riverwild is mighty and will bear this tragedy accordingly. ”
The crowd began to clap and cheer. Wren’s ears rang. Joy, relief, and satisfaction bombarded her senses. The emotions were so in contrast to her own that it felt as though she were being ripped in two. Her knees trembled beneath her dress.
“Smile,” her father muttered. “We must appear strong.”
Wren wrenched her lips into the expression.
“Now, we will lay my son to rest,” the duke announced in a somber tone. “Ivanhild, it is time.”
Wren turned her head to watch the professor kneel before the casket.
He opened it, and the flowers on top took flight in the wind.
Wren’s breathing became rapid. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession.
Bright yellow fabric was all she could see, but she knew who was wrapped in it.
As was custom, the dead were covered in perfumes and expensive oil before being swaddled in fabric.
Ivanhild reached in and lifted her brother’s remains.
He cradled the bundle in his arms. Wren recalled the year of the incident.
How Heron had carried her to her room that same way.
Every breath she took burned. The stoic professor walked to the lower Salt Hills and laid Heron’s body there.
When Eventide was over, the Tides would rise and sweep him away.
Until then, guards would watch over his body to prevent any wildlife from disturbing it.
Wren’s parents were handed a bouquet of yellow flowers. Her father let go of her and walked to lay them on her brother’s body. Wren stood motionless on the hill as everyone attending did the same. Ivanhild stood near Heron, arms crossed over his chest in the Stonemouth symbol of honor.
All but Ivanhild vacated the dunes after presenting their flowers.
Once they were the only two left, Wren stumbled down the hill and collapsed beside the pile of flowers.
The cloying floral scent coated her mouth and nose.
Silent tears streamed down her face. Ivanhild’s grief and pain mirrored her own.
As did the guilt of not being able to prevent this.
Wren reached a shaking hand into the pocket of her dress. She pulled out a single yellow daisy. It was crushed, and petals were missing, but it was all she could bear to pick from the meadow this morning. She set it on top of the others, then wrapped her arms around her middle and sobbed.
Ivanhild set a hand on her shoulder. “He is at rest now, dear child. We must take comfort in that.”
But he would not be at rest in Wren’s eyes. No, there would be no rest for him or Wren until his killer was brought to justice.