Chapter Nine: Wren

Wren stared out of the window in the east tower, trying to control her anger. Just beyond the golden gates, on the top of a humpback hill, sat the Protector’s Vault – an extravagant marble building domed in glass. It was supposed to be a place of worship, a safe haven from the witchcraft that the people of Eana swore had plagued them for years. Tonight, there was a man hanging from it.

Wren couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was a carpenter from the capital city of Eshlinn, according to Agnes. The maidservant had insisted on delivering her dinner to her rooms, upon hearing about Wren’s feigned headache. She’d laid out a veritable feast in the side chamber that connected to Rose’s bedroom, where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves clustered around a small reading desk. There was roast duck drizzled with almond and pomegranate sauce, buttered greens and fondant potatoes, followed by a freshly baked apple crumble.

Wren hadn’t been able to stomach a single mouthful of it. She was too fixated on the dead carpenter, who Agnes said had been in the employ of the palace until the Kingsbreath’s breakfast chair collapsed underneath him three days ago. When the guards found strange markings underneath the seat cushion, the carpenter was dragged in for an interrogation.

‘And. was he a witch?’ Wren had asked, barely clinging to her composure.

Agnes only sighed. ‘You know what the Kingsbreath says, love. When it comes to the witches, it’s better to be safe than sorry.’ Wren must have done a poor job of hiding her dismay, because Agnes began to rub her back in warm circles. ‘Best not to think too much about it, if you can help it. It’ll only give you nightmares.’

The second the old woman had left the room, Wren threw her goblet against the bookshelf.

This whole bloody kingdom is a nightmare, she wanted to scream. We’re all living in one! She stalked back into the bedroom and upended Rose’s vanity, toppling her perfumes across the floor. She threw her hairbrush at the unlucky palace guard who’d ducked his head in to see what was going on and then flung every single gaudy ring Rose owned across the room, watching them plink off the wall one by one.

Only then was she able to sit down and force herself to eat. She had to keep her strength up for the weeks ahead, and whatever nasty surprises Anadawn still had in store for her. If Willem Rathborne was going to murder witches right in front of her, she would have a much harder time pretending to be Princess Rose.

Despite telling Chapman that she urgently wished to speak to Rathborne, the Kingsbreath was still too busy to see her. Wren was used to waiting, but that didn’t mean she would be idle. Tonight, rather than pacing a hole in the carpet, she decided to find her way to Rathborne’s chamber to see what he was up to. She possessed some knowledge of the layout of Anadawn, but now that she was here, the endless hallways and winding turrets all looked the same.

She donned one of Rose’s elegant nightgowns for her midnight mission. It was long and crimson, the silk silent as she moved. A bracelet taken from her sister’s bottomless jewellery drawer anchored her dagger beneath her sleeve – just in case – while a demure smile and a quick sleeping enchantment took care of the guards in her tower.

Wren’s footsteps echoed along the stone floor, sconce-light casting her in shadow and flame. She took the stairs to the third floor and headed in the general direction of the king’s bedchamber, the room where her father, King Keir Valhart, had been found poisoned almost eighteen years ago. The room Willem Rathborne had since claimed for his own.

Portraits of past kings and queens looked down on her from the walls – the descendants of the Great Protector unfurling in an endless line of furrowed brows and gilded crowns. There were no memories of the witch queens and kings who had ruled Eana long before them, though Wren was hardly surprised. History belonged to the victors, and so, it seemed, did the winding halls of Anadawn Palace.

When she became Queen, all of that would change. A portrait of Eana, the first witch, and all those who ruled after her would hang proudly from these walls. Magic would be celebrated, not feared, and there would be a role – and a refuge – at Anadawn for every witch who came here in search of one.

On their last day together in Ortha, Wren and Banba had waded out on to the sea-slimed rocks, a howling wind whipping up around them, until it felt as if it was just the two of them pushing ceaselessly towards a new horizon.

‘I would raze this whole world to the ground for you, little bird.’ Her grandmother had pulled her close, her cloak scratchy against Wren’s cheek. ‘I would kill a thousand men and more just to keep you from harm, but the time has come to set you free. To send you home. Will you raze a trail through those golden gates for your people? Will you raze a trail for me?’

Banba had looked at her with such faith in her eyes, Wren had felt ten feet tall. In her, she had found not just a grandmother, but a family. A way to belong to the country that had orphaned her. And so she had said, without hesitation, ‘I would do anything for you, Banba.’ And she had meant it.

They had made the best of Ortha but they were sick of it – all of them – of living on the edge of the world, mired in the cold and the damp, shouting over the wind just to be heard. Cowering beneath the cliffs whenever a storm rattled the coastline and always looking up, never knowing when they might be discovered. The witches deserved peace of mind. They deserved to live in a place that was truly theirs. After a thousand years of exile, Wren was going to welcome them home.

‘Do whatever it takes to seize that throne, little bird. Eana will forgive you.’Banba had dulled the wind with a flick of her wrist, her hand closing around Wren’s as they turned for the shore. ‘I will forgive you.’

Wren rounded the corner at the end of the palace hallway and stopped dead in her tracks. Hissing seaweed! She had been so lost in thought that she didn’t recognize the Kingsbreath’s bedchamber until she was before it. Two burly soldiers stood guard, either side of the wooden doors. ‘Oi! Who’s that skulking down there?’

Wren’s stomach twisted. It was too late to turn back now – she had already been spotted. She rolled her shoulders back and relaxed her stride. ‘Good evening, gentleman. I was just looking for Willem?’

The guard on the right, who was pale and freckled with a bright red beard, flicked his gaze to the other. ‘The Kingsbreath’s a bit, er, indisposed at the moment, Your Highness.’

His furtiveness piqued Wren’s interest. ‘Oh. How so?’

The guard on the left, black-haired and olive-skinned with dark circles under his eyes, raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s awful late to be wandering about the palace by yourself, Princess. Is something the matter?’

‘I had a nightmare.’

The guards exchanged another look.

Wren pouted. ‘It was very scary.’

The bearded one caved. ‘The Kingsbreath’s just left,’ he conceded. ‘You’d be better off heading down to the kitchens for some camomile tea. Good for the nerves, my missus says.’

It was the perfect excuse for Wren to turn around and scurry away, but now she couldn’t help herself. ‘Where did he go?’

‘Up to the west tower.’

‘Ralph,’ hissed the other one. ‘You’re not supposed to say where.’

‘Burning stars, Gilly, it’s only Princess Rose.’

‘Ah, yes, the west tower,’ said Wren, mildly. ‘I haven’t been up there in ages. Is there something I should know?’

Ralph’s cheeks went as red as his beard. ‘Nothing of note.’

‘Certainly nothing for you to worry yourself about, Princess,’ Gilly assured her. ‘There ain’t no threat that’d ever breach the palace walls without us knowing.’ He winked. ‘We’re the best in the kingdom. Ain’t that right, Ralph?’

Ralph puffed his chest up. ‘Nothing gets past us, Princess.’

It was an effort for Wren to keep a straight face. ‘Well, thank the Great Protector you two fine soldiers have everything perfectly under control. Perhaps I’ll sleep soundly tonight, after all.’

Gilly grinned, toothily. ‘I should hope so. You’ll need your beauty sleep for the wedding.’

‘Goodnight, gentlemen. Keep up the sterling work.’

The soldiers dipped their chins. ‘Good night, Princess.’

Wren spun around and strode down the corridor. The second she turned the corner, she flung caution to the wind and broke into a run. When she reached the hallway that led to the west tower, she heard the rumble of distant conversation. She slipped a pinch of sand from her drawstring pouch and uttered one of her well-practised incantations. ‘From earth to dust, on this stone ground, may my footsteps make no sound.’ The sand disappeared as it fell, taking the noise of her approach with it. She kept to the shadows as she crept closer.

‘… not to breathe a word of my nightly visits here to anyone,’ came a low, menacing voice. It raked along Wren’s skin, and she knew, without ever having heard it before, exactly who it belonged to.

Rathborne.

The nearness of her parents’ murderer sent a shock of fear through Wren. She had been preparing to meet this man her entire life, and yet she was struck by the sudden trembling in her fingers, the rattle of her pulse in her ears.

‘I won’t have my personal business offered up as palace fodder. Is that understood, Chapman?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir,’ came Chapman’s reedy voice. As ever, you can count on me for the utmost discretion.’

Wren could just make out Rathborne’s shadowy figure up ahead. He was tall and thin as a quill, and he moved with unnerving grace. Firelight flickered along his pallid skin, turned the greying strands of his hair amber. Chapman scurried alongside him, like a palace rat. They were surrounded by guards; one at each side, and two at the rear.

‘You four are to wait here until I return, and if I catch word of anyone drifting off, I will hang you from the Protector’s Vault by your bootstraps.’ Rathborne promptly removed a key from a piece of twine around his neck and slotted it into the door to the tower. He paused to look over his shoulder. ‘Chapman, patrol the halls for anything untoward. If you feel even a modicum of suspicion, raise the alarm.’

Chapman tucked his scroll under his arm and gave a rousing salute. ‘Rest assured. Not even the tiniest moth will get past me.’ He sniffed left and right, and then promptly took off on his patrol.

The door to the west tower groaned as it opened. Rathborne swept inside alone, letting it close behind him with a resounding thud. The guards arranged themselves either side of the door, backs stiff and gazes alert.

Wren lingered a while in the shadows, but it soon became clear that Rathborne wasn’t coming back out. She took off the way she came, trying to figure out what she had just witnessed. When she returned to the east tower, Chapman’s voice was echoing through the stairwell. The little weasel was interrogating the guards outside her room, and while Wren doubted he would go so far as to enter her bedchamber to check on her, she couldn’t very well arrive back in the middle of their conversation. It was bad enough that the guards were still half-asleep from her spell.

She quickly descended the stairwell, tiptoeing down into the bowels of the tower, where she waited for Chapman to leave. In the darkness, Wren’s anxiety began to fester. She pressed her fists against her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. Rathborne was skulking around the palace as if he was up to something, and though she had no clue what it was, she had a bad feeling about it. Between the Kingsbreath’s evasiveness and Rose’s surprise Gevran fiancé, everything had suddenly become much more complicated.

The sooner Wren came face to face with the Kingsbreath, the sooner she could figure out what on earth was going on. She hadn’t come this far to be foiled by someone else’s plotting. She wasn’t going to let anything – or anyone – get in the way of her coronation.

A faint breeze tickled Wren’s cheeks, rousing her from her panic. It was coming from under the door at the bottom of the stairs. It yielded with a sharp push, and Wren found herself in a disused cellar, full of dusty casks and old furniture. She followed the breeze into the darkness, until she came upon a broom cupboard. Her fingers tingled as she opened it, something deep and primal stirring in her bones. The air in here was laced with old magic and it was calling out to her.

She stepped inside and let the door close behind her until she could see nothing but a pair of white symbols etched into the wall. They shone out into the blackness, like two tiny stars.

Witch markings.

She traced her finger over them, and the wall released a low, keening groan. The stones cleaved apart to reveal a narrow opening. Warm air tickled Wren’s cheeks as she stepped through the doorway. The passageway was cold and damp, the darkness feathered by purple flames that flickered from hollows in the walls.

‘Everlights,’ whispered Wren. They were cast by tempests, designed to burn until they were blown out – however long that might take. Every winter, during the Festival of Flame, Banba would ignite huge silver bonfires along the rocky shores of Ortha. They would blaze for seven days and nights, until it looked as if the sea had swallowed the sky, and all the stars were burning from within.

Wren’s steps quickened as she followed the purple lights. Thea had told her about the network of tunnels that once existed beneath Anadawn Palace, but Wren believed – as they all did – that the old passageways had been sealed up by Rathborne when he rose to power eighteen years ago.

Wren’s laughter echoed all the way down the tunnel. The arrogant fool had missed one! But of course, it would never have shown itself to him. Not with the witch markings guarding the entryway, those two simple symbols stronger than any lock in all of Eana.

Wren wound her way deep into the underbelly of Anadawn until the tangy scent of river water reached her on the breeze. She started to run, then, and she didn’t stop until she got to the end of the tunnel, where the night sky twinkled through the grill of an old storm drain. The wind tickled her face as she shoved the grill aside and hauled herself up on to the riverbank. Mud stained her nightgown as she crawled through the slimy reeds, until finally, she was standing alone on the banks of the Silvertongue.

Wren’s laughter soared on the river wind. No matter what obstacles Anadawn threw at her, the witches still protected her. Tonight, they had shown her that. A nearby rustling startled her from her triumph. She whipped her head around just in time to see a familiar white blur bounding through the reeds towards her.

‘Elske, NO!’ she shouted, but the wolf leaped at Wren like an excited puppy, the full force of her weight toppling them both. Wren giggled and squirmed as the wolf licked her face. It took an age, but she finally managed to push her off. She was still laughing when she scrabbled to her feet and found herself face to face with Elske’s master.

Oh, rotting carp.

Captain Tor Iversen regarded Wren as if she were a wraith dredged up from the river. ‘Princess Rose? Is that you?’

Wren used her sleeve to casually wipe the drool from her face. ‘Good evening, soldier,’ she said, mildly. ‘Pleasant weather we’re having, isn’t it?’

Tor blinked in confusion. ‘What brings you down here at such a late hour, Your Highness?’

Wren felt a strange tightening in her stomach. ‘Is it late? I hadn’t noticed.’ She was all too aware of the blush rising in her cheeks. ‘I was just getting a spot of exercise.’ She swung her arms for added effect.

Tor’s brows lifted as he swept his gaze over her nightgown. It was thoroughly damp and covered in mud. ‘Is this what an Anadawn princess wears to exercise?’

‘Oh, I know I’m hopelessly mucky.’ Wren laughed airily, refusing to acknowledge the fact she was quite clearly dressed for bed. She was thankful at least that her nightgown covered her slippers. ‘But I prefer to run in the reeds. It’s so much better for the knees.’ She gestured vaguely at his muscled arms. ‘I don’t need to tell you that, soldier. You’re certainly no stranger to exercise.’

‘I’m not familiar with this kind,’ said Tor.

‘Well, we like to do things differently in Eana.’

‘Evidently.’

‘Though perhaps it would be best to keep this just between us,’ said Wren, as though the thought had only just occurred to her. ‘I would hate for Prince Ansel to ever think of me in such a state of … disarray.’

Tor’s lips flickered, but he resisted the smile. ‘As you wish, Your Highness.’

Elske began to sniff at Wren’s drawstring pouch. She pressed her hand over it, terrified the wolf might sense, somehow, what was inside. And what that made her. And speaking of dear Ansel, you’ve left your sleeping prince all alone.’ She raked her fingers through her hair to draw the guard’s keen gaze away from her waist. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your post?’

Tor stiffened. Wren had clearly caused offence by questioning his sense of duty but she didn’t regret it one bit. His frown was exquisite. ‘I’m on my way back,’ he said. ‘Elske was feeling restless so I took her for a walk.’

Wren smiled at the wolf. ‘I know the feeling.’

Tor scratched behind Elske’s ears and a certain softness came over him, at odds with the sharp lines of his uniform and the menacing glint of his sword. ‘She is far from home, but the midnight moon soothes her.’

‘And what about her master?’ said Wren, unable to help herself. Even as a child, she would stick her fingers too close to Banba’s bonfires, relishing the crackle of danger. Besides, in her filthy nightgown on the muddy banks of the Silvertongue, she was practically dancing in the flames already. ‘Are you homesick, too?’

‘A soldier’s home is where his sword is.’

Wren snorted. ‘You can’t really mean that.’

‘I mean everything I say, Your Highness.’ He looked at her and Wren noticed the flecks of silver in his eyes. Well. ‘I apologize for interrupting your exercise.’ She wondered if he was making a point about her own truthfulness. ‘Would you like me to escort you back to your tower?’

They had lingered too long in the darkness, and the Gevran was uncomfortable. If anyone saw them down here together, questions would be raised. Princess Rose would never let herself get caught in such a compromising position. Wren only wished she had thought of that before she climbed out of that bloody tunnel.

‘I’m afraid I’m not quite finished my route yet.’ She pointed vaguely over her shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t ask where she was going. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your post, soldier. You’ve been absent far too long already.’

Tor’s jaw twitched as the barb landed. He dipped his chin. ‘Very well, Your Highness.’

Wren swung her arms as she flounced away from him. She could feel the Gevran’s eyes on her as she waded back through the reeds, her feet squelching in and out of the soupy mud. Only when she was sure Tor had relinquished his curiosity and returned to the palace did Wren sink on to her hands and knees to crawl back into the storm drain. Back in the tunnel, her ancestors’ everlights danced as she passed them, and though deep down Wren knew it was her own addled imagination, she could have sworn they were laughing at her.

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