Page 89 of Twin Crowns

“Is it that you’re worried for the Kingsbreath?” he said uncertainly. “There are Gevran healers here now. I’m sure they will be able to offer some kind of—”

“Please stop,” said Wren. It was exactly what she didn’t need to hear—that Rathborne was inching closer to life, not death. That theGevrans had arrived just in time to save his fate and seal hers. The wedding was still hurtling toward her and, with it, a new life in a foreign land without her throne. Without her people. “I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t want to talk about anything.” She pressed her face into Elske’s fur and inhaled her glorious alpine scent. “I just want to cuddle your wolf.”

Tor took a careful step backward. “As you wish,” he murmured.

The silence stretched around them like a bubble, the lone starcrest returning to its tower as a brisk breeze stirred the rosebushes. Wren drew her cloak tighter, but the cold chattered through her teeth.

“There is a place in Gevra that winter doesn’t touch,” said Tor quietly. Wren looked up at him again. “It’s tucked away in the northern hills, a full day’s hike from civilization, but it’s worth every footstep. The Turcah Valley is a place of rare beauty. The land there is as deep and green as your eyes.” He swallowed thickly. The storm in his gaze had settled into a moonlit silver, and in its spotlight, Wren felt as if she was glowing. A blush rose in her cheeks. “You will like it there,” he said with unerring sureness. “The sun will shine on you whenever you’re missing home.”

She smiled ruefully. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It can be,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice.

Wren shook her head. She would need more than a valley to sort out the mess she was in, but she couldn’t tell him so, no matter how badly she wanted to. “And what is your remedy for a life with Prince Ansel?” she said instead.

Tor exhaled through his nose, relief flitting across his face at heradmission—that she was bound to Ansel not by feelings but by duty. “Prince Ansel will be good to you.”

“What if I don’t want good? What if I want passion? What if I want freedom? What if I want...?” She let the rest of her sentence hang in the air.

In her heart, she said,Eana.Shescreamed,Eana. Wren had only ever wanted Eana. She told herself that as her breath shallowed in her chest, as the air between them felt as if it was crackling. She looked at her hands and thought of Banba half a world away. Waiting for the life Wren had promised her. “It’s not enough, Tor.”

He made to reach out to her, then stopped, instead curling his hand into a fist and pinning it to his side. “Elske will be at Grinstad,” he said hoarsely.

Wren understood what he meant. Where Elske roamed, so did her master. He was offering her a lifeline, another reason to walk down the aisle and bind herself to Ansel. But the crown was Wren’s destiny. Even if there were times she wished it wasn’t. Even if in the quiet darkness of the last few weeks she had found herself pining for a simpler life in a safer place, without her grandmother’s prodding finger pushing her toward the throne.

“It takes great courage to face the unknown,” said Tor when she didn’t reply. “And from what I know of you, Your Highness, you have no shortage of that.”

Courage.The word was like a life raft in the storm. Tor was right. Wren had come to Anadawn with all the courage of the witches. She was the granddaughter of Banba Greenrock, the fiercest witch she hadever known, who had trusted her—and her alone—with the future of their people. She had not raised Wren to cower at the first sign of danger, nor to quit at the sudden changing of a plan.

Wren raised her chin, meeting the molten silver of Tor’s eyes, and offered the truest thing she had ever said to him. “You’re right, soldier. I can’t think of anything worse than living a coward’s life.”

Which was why she was going to get the crown she had come here for, no matter who or what stood in her way.

30

Rose

Storm was faster than Rose remembered, her hooves barely hitting the ground. If Rose hadn’t seen the plumes of dirt churning around them as they raced through the night, she might have thought they were flying. She clung to the horse for dear life, the strands of her mane whipping her face as the wind galloped alongside them.

When they reached the Weeping Forest, Storm slowed to a walk and lowered her head in deference. Rose squeezed her thighs around the horse’s middle, urging her onward, but Storm’s pace was careful and plodding, as if something in the mist was stopping her.

Or, perhaps, someone.

The glowing seeds soon found Rose in the forest, the first one landing on her cheek. It was a new memory, but no less violent than the others had been. A raven-haired tempest flung whorls of wind at the Protector’s advancing army, casting them from their horses and up into the air. The witch laughed as she tossed the burly soldiers like rag dolls in a storm. But then a dagger, thrown with deadly aim, came from above and pierced the hollow of her throat. Blood spurted from her mouth as she collapsed, lightning crackling in herfingertips as she gurgled her last breath.

Rose came out of the memory grasping at her own throat, sure she had felt the point of the dagger against her skin. But it was another trick of the forest, memory and reality blurring as the souls descended on her like raindrops. She suddenly, desperately missed Shen and his steady presence behind her, the comfort of his hands around her waist. She had only her courage now, so she raised her voice and used it as a shield.

“I am one of you,” Rose called to the forest, to the sweeping trees and the floating seeds, to the witch spirits that lingered in the mist. “I have seen your stories and felt your pain as my own. I mean the witches no harm. Not today, nor any day. Please, let me pass.”

The forest stilled, as though it were listening. Slowly, quietly, Storm trekked onward, and this time, the seeds floated around them, like fireflies. Rose loosed a sigh of relief. She had survived this haunted place before when she was its enemy. She would survive it now as a friend.

After what seemed like a lifetime, they reached the edge of the forest, where the Mother Tree stretched toward the sky, mighty and uncowed by time. Beyond it, the sun was rising over the Ganyeve Desert. As they passed the great tree, Rose was struck by the sudden urge to press her palm against it and pay her respects to Ortha Starcrest, the last witch queen of Eana. To tell her that another witch would soon sit on her throne and rule this land in her memory.

Rose nudged Storm toward the Mother Tree, bowing her head as she placed her hand against the trunk. She could have sworn she felt it move, as though it were taking a breath, taking her in. The air warmed and a faint breeze tickled her earlobes. Rose looked up, through thebranches of the tree, and gasped. The largest seed she’d ever seen was floating down from the canopy, the soul of Ortha Starcrest bright and glowing like a star.

Without thinking, Rose stuck her hand out and caught it in her palm. She tensed, waiting to be thrown into another memory, but nothing changed. She was still sitting atop Storm at the edge of the forest. The wind was whistling through the trees, and dawn was breaking in beautiful brushstrokes of amber and pink.

She was about to open her hand and set the soul free when a bellowing cry split the air in two. A man in silver armor stepped out from the other side of the Mother Tree and came charging toward her. He was tall and broad with a large chin and a heavy brow, and though Rose had never glimpsed the angry brightness of his eyes, she knew him at once from his portraits.

---