Chapter Seven: Wren

Prince Ansel was built like a soldier, so tall that Wren had to tilt her chin to take him all in. His shoulders were broad, and his arms were thick and corded with muscle. He was pale-skinned with dark tousled hair shot through with strands of copper. He wore a navy frock coat, inlaid with silver brocade, dark trousers and black leather boots. Exquisitely tailored. His face was exquisite, too. His eyes were wide and grey – the exact shade of a sea at storm, and the hard edge of his jaw was softened by the barest hint of a smile. Wren might not have noticed it at all if she hadn’t been staring so hard at his lips.

As they stood apart from each other in the courtyard, it occurred to her that she should probably say something. ‘Good morn—aftern—hi—hello!’ The words came out in a breathless whoosh. She tried again. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I completelylost track of—’

‘No need to apologize, my flower.’ Wren blinked, but Ansel’s mouth wasn’t moving. He was just … staring at her.

A much slighter man stepped out from behind him. He was a sapling compared to the oak tree towering next to him – with porcelain skin, a dainty nose and a wide, smiling mouth. ‘You are, as ever, worth the wait.’

He twirled his hand as he bowed, strands of thick blond hair flopping into his eyes.

Wren’s excitement curdled inside her. She dropped her head, masking her disappointment with a curtsy. ‘You’re too kind.’

The real Prince Ansel offered her his elbow and Wren scurried to take it, ignoring the stormy gaze of his silent companion as she brushed past him.

They wandered into the rose garden, where the bushes were bright and the air was heady. ‘You seem a little flustered this afternoon, my flower. I hope my guard’s continued presence isn’t proving a bother to you.’ Ansel tossed his head, flicking his hair away from his face. ‘You know I have the utmost trust in the Anadawn court. The palace has been nothing but hospitable since the moment we arrived, but I’m afraid my brother insists on a personal guard and we’ve known Captain Tor Iversen so long he is practically family to us. Thankfully, he is a man of few words. He fades right into the background.’

Wren was too embarrassed to look over her shoulder. Ansel might not have noticed her mistake but his soldier had witnessed her salivating in close, agonizing detail. ‘It’s perfectly fine.’ She gestured to the palace guards stationed at the far corners of the courtyard. ‘I’m well used to silent company.’

‘Well, a treasure as fine as you must have a keeper,’ said Ansel, in what Wren assumed was his attempt at a compliment. ‘You know, my brother has long been convinced there are at least ten people looking to kill him at any given time of the day,’ he said, with a chuckle. Alarik keeps his most trusted guards within arm’s reach of him at all times. Even at family dinners! Or perhaps I should say, especially at family dinners. My sister does have quite a temper.’

Alarik. A rush of dread coursed through Wren. There was only one royal Alarik known throughout all of Eana, and not for his kindness. Alarik Felsing was the iron-fisted ruler of the icy kingdom of Gevra on the northern continent; a young, feral king who led with brute force and boundless cruelty.

Oh no.

‘Sit down, my flower. You don’t look quite well.’ They had reached a table set in the middle of the garden. There was a platter of miniature cucumber sandwiches and fruit tarts waiting for them, as well as a steaming pot of mint tea.

Tor stationed himself beside a tall yellow rose bush that peered out over the courtyard, and beyond it, the Eshlinn woods. Wren did her best not to look at him but she couldn’t help the odd, traitorous flick of her gaze. This time, she noted what she had missed the first time – his impressive sword. The pommel was made from frosted glass, and glinted like an icicle in the sunlight. The scabbard was midnight blue and wrought with silver – the same colours as his uniform.

Gevra colours.

Now Wren really was starting to feel unwell. She swayed on her feet, and Tor’s arm shot out to steady her.

‘Rose?’ Across the table, Ansel’s face creased in concern. ‘Are you well?’

Wren ignored the soldier’s arm, and sank into her chair. ‘Just a little warm, that’s all.’

Ansel nodded, knowingly. ‘I know spring is mild here but after growing up in Gevra, these tepid afternoons feel like a desert to me.’

‘Then I’d caution you to steer clear of the Ganyeve. Your face would melt right off,’ said Wren, absently.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t you say you’d never been outside the capital?’

‘Or so I hear,’ she added, hastily. ‘And if it helps, today is a lot hotter than I was expecting it to be.’ She glanced at Tor, then laughed awkwardly. ‘Anyway. What do we have here?’

In the centre of the table sat an ornate box full of small, wooden pieces. Ansel inclined his chin towards it. ‘I thought instead of embarrassing myself at chess again today, you might like to have a go at a puzzle instead? It is such sweet destiny that we both enjoy the rush of a good board game.’

‘Ah, mild, orderly fun,’ said Wren, as she reached for her teacup. ‘My favourite.’

‘Strawberry tart?’ offered Ansel, plucking one for himself.

She shook her head as she sipped, trying to figure out why on earth her sister had decided to court a Gevran prince of all people.

‘Keeping yourself nice and trim, I see,’ said Ansel, approvingly.

Well, that certainly wouldn’t do. Prince or no prince, he had no right commenting on how she ate. Wren shot her hand out and shoved an entire tart in her mouth. ‘SHANGED SHMY MINDSH,’ she said, crumbs flying from her lips. ‘MMM, DELSHSSS!’

The prince’s bright blue eyes went wide.

Wren chewed expressively while she fished a puzzle piece from the box and set it down between them. A blur of white.

‘Then again, a woman who satisfies her appetites can be just as alluring.’ Ansel took a puzzle piece out and connected it to Wren’s. Ah! What an auspicious start.’

Wren swallowed, thickly, and wiped a bit of custard off her mouth. ‘I’d hate to put you off.’

‘Impossible.’ Ansel placed a corner piece of puzzle. A smudge of grey. Wren rifled through the wooden box, looking for another. How was this already so boring?

‘This is the most fun I’ve had in months,’ said the prince, with a sheepish smile. Wren could admit he had nice teeth, even if they were wincingly bright. ‘I’m not used to such charming company. With each passing day, I grow ever more thankful to the Kingsbreath for opening his palace to me.’

‘I think you mean my palace.’ Wren pressed two grey blobs together, imagining the sweet cracking of Willem Rathborne’s neck as they snapped into place. What business could he possibly have with the bloodthirsty nation of Gevra?

‘Yes, well, he has certainly taken great care of it. Especially after what happened to your poor parents …’ Ansel rubbed the back of his neck, sorrow pooling in his eyes. ‘What awful circumstances. To be murdered in the very place they called home, and then all that horrid war business that came afterwards. You must feel most grateful to the Kingsbreath for taking you in.’

Wren was careful to control her face. ‘Bank your temper, little bird,’ cautioned Banba’s voice in her head. ‘Even if it burns you alive. ‘

Wren’s parents’ story was as tragic as it was romantic, their untimely deaths reverberating in every far-off corner of Eana. Falling in love with the king should have made Wren’s mother fear for her life, but the bloodshed of the Protector’s War was long past, then – and by all accounts, Wren’s father did not bear the same resentment towards the witches as his ancestors. After all, how else could he have fallen in love with one? Banba said it was hope that made Lillith Greenrock open her heart to a Valhart – the possibility of a kingdom finally united by a marriage between two lineages long at war. The dream of a child who would be a descendant of both the Protector and the witches – and one day, a bringer of peace.

But then Lillith was murdered moments after giving birth, and all that hope died with her. King Keir was found poisoned in his bedchamber soon after. Willem Rathborne swore it was a jealous palace witch who did it – a midwife who couldn’t stand the thought of one of her own marrying a Valhart – a claim that was bolstered by several witnesses who saw her fleeing across the Silvertongue River not long after.

Rathborne’s story contained a clever half-truth. The midwife was indeed a healer witch. And she fled swiftly, across the Silvertongue, but not from guilt. For life. The palace guards who saw her disappear didn’t notice the mewling bundle wrapped up in her arms.

They spoke only of the one left behind.

The tale of poor orphaned Princess Rose and her slain parents was all the Kingsbreath needed to usher in Lillith’s War, a bloody, futile battle designed to finish what the Protector had started a thousand years ago. To finally stamp out the last of the witches in Eana. Almost all of them – enchanters and healers, tempests and warriors, and even the seers – were decimated within weeks of the Kingsbreath’s order. The few fortunate survivors escaped to a secret windswept coastal settlement in the west, which they named Ortha, after the last reigning witch queen.

And for all the years since, nobody – not Willem Rathborne nor Rose herself – knew of the other twin. The girl who had inherited her mother’s craft. The girl who had returned all these years later to reclaim her kingdom for the witches.

There was so much more at stake than pride, but Wren couldn’t help herself. ‘Willem was merely my father’s advisor.’ Snap! Another puzzle piece. ‘So, really it was I who took him in.’

Ansel frowned. ‘But you were just a baby.’

‘Which makes it even more impressive. No?’ Wren stole another glance at Tor. His gaze was on the distant trees, but she could tell by his furrowed brow that he was eavesdropping. She knitted her hands under her chin. ‘But let’s not talk of brutally murdered parents. We’ll spoil our afternoon.’

A blush rose in Ansel’s cheeks. ‘I’m afraid I’ve broached a topic I shouldn’t have, my flower. Please forgive me.’

He reached across the table and Wren, masquerading as Rose, had no choice but to take his hand. Its clamminess betrayed his nerves but she pretended not to notice. All is forgiven.’ She fished another three pieces from the box and slotted them into place … Snap! Snap! Snap! The greys were bleeding into white.

‘I should have known you’d be a champion of puzzles, too,’ said Ansel, admiringly. ‘I can scarcely keep up with you.’

Please try, thought Wren, as she grabbed another piece. So this infernal boredom can end.

A droning bumblebee startled them from their conversation. Ansel yelped as he sprung to his feet, his teacup sailing through the air. Wren lunged without thinking, hooking it on her pinkie finger a heartbeat before it could shatter on the ground.

‘My, how impressive!’ panted the prince. ‘Especially considering you accidentally toppled the chessboard on our last date. Don’t you agree, Tor?’

Tor smiled, tightly. ‘Good catch, Your Highness.’

Wren stifled a groan. Of course her sister would be a clumsy fool. ‘More like a lucky catch,’ she said, gently placing the teacup back on the tablecloth. When she looked up, she gasped. A white blur was bounding out from the rose bushes, and heading straight for her.

‘Rotting carp!’ She stumbled backwards, tripping over her chair in a clatter.

‘Elske! Down!’ Tor’s command ripped through the air like thunder. He leaped towards the blur, which turned out to be a fully grown wolf, and curled a strong arm around her before she could pounce on the table.

‘I told you to control that beast, Tor!’ cried Ansel. ‘You’ve frightened the princess half to death!’

‘She meant only to protect you, Your Highness.’ He scratched behind the wolf’s ears and she licked his face. Wren didn’t blame the wolf one bit. ‘Elske wouldn’t harm a flea unless I commanded it.’

‘Even so. This is no place for your wolf to play, Tor. She belongs on a chain. I shouldn’t need to remind you of all people that in Gevra, we train our animals to be soldiers, not pets.’ Ansel helped Wren to her feet, putting a protective arm around her waist. ‘You have nothing to fear, my flower. I would throw myself between you and even the most fearsome of beasts.’

Except the dreaded bumblebee, noted Wren.

Tor stood up, stiff-backed. Wren could see he was affronted by Ansel’s words, but he knew better than to defend his beast. Despite everything the prince had just said, Elske was very clearly a pet.

Wren spun out of Ansel’s embrace. She had never seen a wolf before, and she was quite taken with the beauty of this one. She knelt to get a closer look. Elske’s fur was the colour of freshly fallen snow and her eyes were pale as glaciers.

‘Hello, sweet girl,’ cooed Wren.

Elske blinked her bright eyes, then rested her head in Wren’s lap, where she began to nibble at her skirts.

Ansel cleared his throat. ‘Darling, our puzzle.’

‘It will keep.’ Wren pressed her face into the wolf’s fur. She smelled of wild pine and adventure. ‘Oh, you’re a darling,’ she murmured, as she scratched behind her ears.

‘Elske does not often warm to strangers.’ Wren could feel the soldier’s gaze on the crown of her head, and detected a hint of curiosity in his voice. ‘Especially in this country.’

‘She is a princess.’ Wren tipped her head back, her eyes meeting his. For the briefest moment, she felt utterly at sea. ‘Like calls to like.’

‘Well, this prince is calling to his princess.’ Ansel drummed his fingers along the table. ‘Come, my flower. We must see our puzzle through to its stirring conclusion.’

Tor released a sharp whistle. Elske lifted her head from Wren’s skirts and padded over to her master. Wren rolled to her feet and returned to the table, with the melancholy of a prisoner walking to the gallows.

With remarkable quickness, Ansel returned to boring the life out of her. She threw her remaining energy into finishing the damned puzzle, and with it, their date. After today, she would have to come up with a way to remove any further meetings with the prince from Chapman’s schedule. Otherwise she might perish from acute boredom before her coronation. The pieces of greys and whites slowly arranged themselves into a towering fortress, cut into the heart of an icy mountain range. No sun above, just an endless swathe of white sky.

‘Grinstad Palace,’ said Ansel, triumphantly, as he placed the last puzzle piece. A final snap! completed the spectre. ‘Once we’re married, my flower, this is where we’ll summer.’

Wren’s heart juddered to a grinding halt. She stared at the prince in silent horror.

Ansel whipped his head around. ‘What is it? Is it another bumblebee? Where?’

Wren feigned a cough to hide her grimace but she could do nothing about the violent shock coursing through her body. Since when did Rose have a hissingfiancé? And why had he been plucked from Gevra of all places? The more she thought about it, the more uneasy she felt.

‘Rose?’ said Ansel, worriedly. ‘Are you well?’

‘I was just thinking about our wedding,’ said Wren, weakly. ‘Sometimes, I get so excited I’m afraid I might vomit.’

Ansel’s grin revealed every one of his pearly teeth. ‘I admit the idea that you will soon be my wife gives me butterflies, too.’

Wren exhaled through her smile. She didn’t have butterflies. She had scorpions, and right now, they were eating her alive. To her relief, Chapman arrived presently to collect her, with his precious schedule tucked underneath his arm. She said her goodbyes to Prince Ansel, allowing herself a final stealthy glimpse of his guard, before following Chapman back into the palace.

‘I need to speak to Willem at once.’

Chapman blinked at her in alarm. ‘The Kingsbreath’s not taking visitors, and certainly not ones that aren’t on the schedule!’

‘Well, put me on the schedule, then.’

‘Oh, and shall I sprout wings while I’m at it?’ he scoffed. Wren glowered at him. ‘Please tell the Kingsbreath I wish to speak to him urgently about my wedding to Prince Ansel. I have some thoughts.’

Chapman wagged his finger at her. ‘A girl with too many thoughts in her head is not busy enough with her days,’ he chided. And anyway, today is no good. You’re due to go riding with Celeste in an hour.’ He stalled at the bottom of the east tower. ‘Go up and change. I’ll have the stablehand prepare your horse.’

Wren winced. Celeste was Rose’s best friend. As the daughter of Rathborne’s prized physician, Hector Pegasi, she had grown up in the palace alongside Rose, the two girls fast becoming inseparable. She was going to be the hardest to fool, and after everything she had just learned, Wren was in no fit state to try.

‘There’s no need,’ she said, as she started up the steps. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel. I’ve got a terrible headache.’

The headache’s name was Ansel. She hadn’t come all the way to the palace to betray her sister and steal her life only to end up sharing her crown with some puzzle-obsessed Gevran prince. In the space of an Anadawn afternoon, one thing had becoming abundantly and unavoidably clear: Wren would sooner feed herself to Elske than bind herself to this man – or any other – for the rest of her life.

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