Chapter Eleven: Wren

Prince Ansel stood by the window in the drawing room, gazing out at the world. Wren studied the profile of her sister’s fiancé and cursed Willem Rathborne in her mind. After sending two more notes marked for his urgent attention, she was still waiting for him to show his face. If the Kingsbreath continued to avoid her, she wouldn’t be able to wriggle out of this nauseating engagement and carry on with her plan. The sky was grey and bloated, casting a dreary mist about the palace, but Ansel’s mood was unnervingly bright. ‘There’s something so enchanting about the sound of rain. It reminds me of the pitter-patter of tiny feet.’

Wren pressed her forehead against the glass and tried to think happy princess thoughts.

It was late spring – the days were supposed to be getting warmer, not wetter. But the thunderstorm had turned the palace into a prison, and the hours were crawling by. She had spent the morning pretending to practise her sewing in her bedroom, before stepping out for a brisk walk in the courtyard with Chapman, who nearly chattered her ear off. After that, it was a lunch of warm soup and crusty bread rolls, followed by an hour of supervised study in the library, where, much to Wren’s dismay, most of the books on offer were dense historical tomes about governance in Eana.

It seemed her sister had spent every mind-numbing moment of her day preparing to rule, but Wren had no interest in the last thousand years of Valhart history. It was the time before that – the time of the witches – that would inform her queendom. She would oversee a court of them – enchanters, seers, warriors, healers and tempests all working in harmony together – and Eshlinn would be a place full of magic once more. Banba would help her see to that.

Instead of having a picnic in the woods, Wren and Prince Ansel were cooped up inside. Tor was standing sentry by the door, his wolf snoozing at his feet. Wren had caught his eye once already, and had experienced such a dangerous flare of heat in her cheeks, she had to look away. Their midnight encounter on the banks of the Silvertongue felt like an illicit secret, and though she knew she shouldn’t enjoy it, it made Wren feel a bit giddy inside.

‘And of course the rain makes a nice change from all the snow in Gevra,’ Ansel went on, thoughtfully. ‘It’s so silent when it falls. Sometimes the world can feel too quiet there … it can make one feel quite isolated.’

Wren glanced sidelong at the prince. ‘Are you often by yourself, Prince Ansel?’

‘I’m sure I spend too much time with my own thoughts.’ Ansel smiled, sheepishly. ‘Alarik is often busy with military matters. Even when we were children, he spent much of his time practising swordplay or wrestling one of the family’s wolves. And while my sister Anika has her charms, she’s too much of a spitfire to ever sit still for long.’ Wren thanked the stars she was dealing with the mildest Gevran royal. Mercifully, Ansel didn’t seem the type to spontaneously wrestle a wolf.

‘I suppose it’s been worse for you,’ the prince went on. ‘I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to grow up without a family.’ He shook his head, strands of golden hair flopping into his eyes. ‘But of course, you have the Kingsbreath. And your Celeste.’

Wren tried not to flinch at the mention of Rose’s best friend. She had managed to avoid her once already, but she was running out of excuses. ‘I’m lucky to have Celeste,’ she said, ignoring the part about Rathborne. ‘She has been like a sister to me.’

Certainly, a far better one than Wren.

‘In your letters, you said you were looking for something more. Someone more.’ Ansel bit his lip, his blue eyes full of longing. ‘I confess I’ve been feeling the same way for some time now. As though my life has been …’

‘Unbearably tedious?’ Wren couldn’t help herself. ‘Monotonously soul-destroying?’

‘Stagnant,’ said Ansel. A pause, and then, ‘Lonely.’

Wren turned back to the storm. So, Rose had found a suitor who pined for the same thing she did – a lasting human connection, someone to belong to. Was that enough for her sister? The barest sliver of common ground upon which she planned to build an entirely new life? The thought stirred a deep sadness in Wren. In Ortha, she had never felt alone. The witches were like one big family to her. And of course, she had Banba and Thea, and Shen, who would gladly cut off his own arm if she needed it.

But Rose had grown up in a world of stone and ceremony, stifled by routine and constant surveillance, with only one true friend to look out for her.

‘I suppose I have been lonely, too,’ she said, just as she imagined Rose would say it.

‘Which is precisely why we should fill our lives with children at the earliest opportunity!’

A scream built in Wren’s throat. She played it off as a high-pitched laugh. ‘What a novel idea!’

Ansel’s face lit up. ‘I wonder how many we’ll have, my flower? Six feels like a nice round number,’ he went on with the confidence of a man who wouldn’t have to bear them. ‘We can have our own little Gevran army.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you think, Tor? You could train them up!’

Tor chuckled, good-naturedly. ‘I look forward to it, Your Highness.’

‘And perhaps Elske can be their nanny,’ said Wren.

Ansel’s face turned serious. ‘Don’t be absurd, my darling. Elske is a wolf.’

Tor smiled at his boots. At least one of them got the joke.

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves with such talk,’ said Wren, deftly. ‘We still have our wedding to discuss.’

Ansel clapped his hands, leaping to the topic with eagerness. ‘It’s thrilling to think that in just three short weeks, you will be my wife.’

Three. Short. Weeks.

The words exploded like cannon-fire in Wren’s head. Her stomach swooped, and for a heartbeat, she thought she was going to get sick.

She clawed back her composure, her left eye twitching just a little. ‘It seems I’ll have a husband in time for my birthday.’

‘And a great many jewels.’ Ansel beamed at her. ‘I intend to shower my new bride with the finest Gevran treasures.’

So, Rose is to be married before she turns eighteen. She must wear a Gevran veil before an Eanan crown. But why would Rathborne push Rose into the arms of Gevra mere days before her coronation, and risk losing control over her and the kingdom? It didn’t make any sense … Which made Wren even more uneasy.

‘I only wish my father were still here to see us married.’ Ansel pressed his palm against the window, a touch of sadness creeping into his voice. ‘He always said a good man is made great by the wonder of love.’

Wren fetched her teacup and perched on the armchair nearest the fireplace, where her parents’ portrait hung. ‘What a beautiful sentiment. I’m sorry he’s no longer with us.’

Ansel turned from the window. ‘It’s hard to believe it’s been seven years since we lost our great king. We haven’t had a hailstorm that brutal since, and thankfully, nothing strong enough to sink another ship.’ A shudder passed through him, and Wren felt a sudden rush of empathy.

‘What a tragedy,’ she murmured.

His eyes misted. ‘It brought the country to its knees.’

‘Your brother too?’

‘Not Alarik,’ he said, distantly. ‘My brother has always been ready to wear the crown.’

‘How fortunate for Gevra.’ Wren glanced at Tor to find him watching her. As if he was trying to make her squirm. ‘What was he like? Your father?’

‘The best I could have asked for.’ Ansel lit up with the memory of his father. Wren let the prince talk, her eyes flitting to the portrait of her own parents. Her mother looked so young – just a few years older than Wren was now. Her smile was wide, her emerald eyes the exact shade of her gown. They were softened by love. Beside her, King Keir looked regal in his golden crown, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting on Lillith’s burgeoning bump. His eyes were soft, too.

Too soft.

‘A soft ruler is a dead ruler,’ echoed Banba’s voice in her head. ‘You will not make the same mistake.’

No, thought Wren, as she tore her gaze from her parents’ portrait. I will never fall in love.

What a foolish way to throw your life away.

‘… my dear mother refuses to leave Grinstad Palace ever since Father died. And she hasn’t played a single note in all those years. The truth is, I miss the music. What do you say, Rose?’

Wren blinked.

Ansel was staring at her. ‘Will you grace me with a song?’ He gestured at the pianoforte that sat gleaming in the middle of the room. ‘You did promise me on our first date.’

‘I did …’ said Wren, vaguely.

Ansel beamed. ‘And now we have the perfect opportunity.’

‘I would hate to drown out the rain,’ she said, quickly. ‘As you said, it makes for such a soothing backdrop.’

‘Leave the rain to the roses. I would rather bask in your musical talent.’

Wren sipped her tea, thinking. Panicking. She was no musician; she had never even seen a pianoforte before today. ‘I’m afraid I’m feeling quite shy, Ansel.’

There was a noise from the corner of the room. Tor was clearing his throat.

‘Come, my flower,’ cajoled Ansel. ‘It would cast such brightness to this dreary day.’

Wren hesitated. ‘I don’t—’

‘I would like to hear it, too,’ interrupted Tor.

Wren threw him a withering look.

He smiled blandly at her. ‘I don’t mean to be impertinent, Your Highness. I only meant to help the prince convince you. You spoke so passionately of your pianoforte upon our arrival, I have been looking forward to hearing you play.’

Ansel chuckled. ‘Well, there you have it. You wouldn’t disappoint two Gevrans on this rainy day, would you?’

‘Three,’ said Tor. ‘Elske is particularly fond of music.’

‘Is she indeed?’ said Wren, dryly.

‘That, and the midnight moon.’

Wren swallowed her gasp. Was he blackmailing her? Well! The soldier’s smile broadened, a challenge brewing in those stormy eyes, and Wren found – to her surprise – she very much wanted to meet it.

‘Well, then. Who am I to disappoint such an eager audience?’ She rose to her feet. ‘I just need a moment to … prepare.’

She turned, keeping her back to the Gevrans as she slipped a stealthy hand into her drawstring pouch. A pinch of sand would have to do. And even then, the spell was not without its risks. For one thing, it wasn’t one of her usuals. She had never practised this kind of spell before. And for another, an enchantment could not make something out of nothing. It would only alter that which was already there, to grow it or to take it away. But if Rose had music in her bones, then perhaps Wren did, too. After all, she spent every Bealtaine dancing late into the night. Shen always teased her about her sense of rhythm but didn’t enthusiasm count for something?

She lingered beneath the oil painting of her parents.

‘The pianoforte belonged to my father,’ said Wren, recalling what Thea had once told her. ‘They say he played every morning before breakfast. Sometimes he would wake the birds with the sweetness of his song.’ She rubbed the grains between her fingers, and cast a hurried whisper into the world. ‘From earth to dust, in doubt I pray, please give my fingers notes to play.’ Her fingertips tingled as the sand disappeared. She turned around and strode purposefully towards the piano. ‘Let’s see what creatures I can wake with mine.’

Ansel draped himself over the lid. ‘What composition will you grace us with, my flower? You had mentioned you were an admirer of Nella Plume.’ He gestured to the sheet music; inky black blobs that all looked the same to Wren. ‘But I see you have been practising Claude Archer’s “Flight of the Melancholy”.’

‘Oh, who wants to be melancholy on such an already dreary day?’ Wren slid on to the music bench. ‘I thought I might offer one of my own compositions instead.’

Ansel raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh.’

Wren flexed her fingers above the keys. Was she supposed to press the little black ones first or the big white ones? Or both at the same time?

‘It’s a work in progress.’ She smiled, sweetly. ‘Please be forgiving.’

‘Of course.’

The floorboards creaked as Tor moved closer.

Wren placed her hands on the keys. She held her breath and pressed down, wincing at the discordant clang. Her fingers twitched. They found their way to a different chord, this one harmonious. After that, another, and then another. Nimble fingers skipped up and down the pearly keys, moving so quickly she had to snap her head back and forth to keep up. The result was a brisk melody buoyed by a merry staccato. It was a bunny rabbit hopping in a meadow, a butterfly taking flight in spring. Wren’s shoulders sagged with relief. She tossed a smirk over her shoulder at Tor.

He had pushed for a song – and she was giving him one.

Until, suddenly, she wasn’t.

Wren’s fingers sped up, her hands blurring along the keys. Oh no. Her heartbeat galloped, and so did the melody, the notes veering off tune and out of sync until it sounded like the drumbeat of battle. And still her fingers quickened. The melody grew louder, the wooden pins making a violent percussion with every strike.

Wren stared at her fingers in horror.

The enchantment was failing.

Ansel, still draped over the lid, was trying his best to nod along.

Tor was so close, Wren could hear his stifled laughter.

Elske had awakened, and was howling as if she were in physical pain.

‘RIVER SPIDER!’ Wren tore her hands from the keys and leaped to her feet. The bench tipped over in a clatter. ‘Help! Somebody, HELP!’

Ansel rushed into action, rounding the piano and scouring the keys. ‘Where, my flower? Point him out and he shall be swiftly beheaded!’

Wren pointed vaguely at the piano. ‘There! Underneath! Oh, what an eight-legged scoundrel. He’s huge!’

Ansel got down on his hands and knees to inspect the legs of the pianoforte.

Tor remained unmoving. ‘River spiders are harmless, Your Highness.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ wailed Wren. ‘I … I once swallowed one in my sleep and … and … nearly choked to death!’

‘Flipping frost!’ cried Ansel. ‘How awful!’

Wren sniffed. ‘It was the scariest moment of my life.’

Tor raised a questioning brow.

Wren ignored him. Elske was sniffing about her skirts. She pushed the wolf away. ‘I’m sorry but I’m afraid I must retire. It’s the trauma. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Oh no, what a shame.’ Ansel wilted. On his knees under the piano, he looked as if he was about to propose. Again. ‘I hate to see you go so soon.’

‘And I hate to leave you.’ Wren dipped into a hasty curtsy. She bolted from the room, her feet hitting the stone passageway with a clatter. Elske followed her out. The wolf nipped at her drawstring pouch, pulling it loose. Wren turned around to wrestle it free, but the bag was already in the wolf’s mouth.

‘Hissing seaweed.’ She crouched down, clicking her teeth. ‘Good girl. Give it back, please.’

Elske shook her head. Ortha sand spilled out on to the stones. Wren crawled towards her, swiping at the pouch. ‘Here, wolfy wolfy.’

A shadow fell across her.

Tor whistled through his teeth. ‘Elske, release.’

Elske dropped the pouch. Wren snatched it, just as the wolf’s paw came down on it. The string snapped, releasing a shower of sand everywhere.

‘No, no, no.’ Wren tried to catch the grains, but they sifted through her fingers, turning dull and brassy on the stone floor.

Elske sneezed.

Wren cursed.

‘What is that?’ said Tor, bending down.

Wren retrieved the empty pouch and scrabbled to her feet. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’

He gathered the grains on his finger, his brows drawing close. ‘It’s sand …’ He snapped his chin up. ‘Why do you carry sand with you?’

‘It’s fertilizer,’ said Wren, smoothly. ‘For my roses. How do you think they grow to be so fine?’

Tor stood up, slowly. ‘But you had it with you last night. Down by the—’

‘Tor?’ Ansel ducked his head around the door frame. ‘Is everything all right out there?’

‘It appears Elske is a little restless,’ said Wren, clutching the empty pouch to her chest. ‘I was just advising Tor to take her for a walk.’ She turned around and scurried away, tossing her parting words over her shoulder. After all, a little rain now and then is good for a soldier.’

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