Page 130 of Twin Crowns

The wind rallied against Rose as she crawled across the altar looking for Wren. She passed Shen’s unconscious body, tears streaming down her face as she inched onward. Finally, she spotted her sister pinned beneath the ceremonial plinth. It had fallen over in the storm, flattening the keeper’s skull and trapping her legs. Wren’s eyes were shut, and she wasn’t moving. The toppled Eternal Flame burned around her in a circle.

Rathborne had lost Sanguis Bellum in the blast, but he was already back on his feet, stalking toward Wren.

Rose scrabbled for her sister. “Wren! Watch out!”

Rathborne grabbed the sword Shen had stuck in the plinth. “See how the Protector favors me!” He laughed madly as he pulled it free.“He wills your death, just as he wills the death of all witches!”

“NO!” The fire licked at Rose as she threw her body between Wren and Rathborne, bracing herself for the blow.

As the blade whistled through the air, something jolted deep inside Rose. For a terrifying heartbeat, she thought it was the sword embedding in her back. But the spark became a burning blaze, and suddenly, she felt her magic bursting like a star within her.

Below her, Wren gasped awake, a twin fire shining in her emerald eyes.

There was a beat of nothing, where time warped and darkness curled them in its mighty fist.

Then the world exploded around them, and the Vault came down in a hail of fire and glass.

47

Wren

Through a haze of smoke, Wren saw Rathborne lying dead, singed from his hair to his boots.

The plinth had been shattered into smithereens, and she was relieved to find she could move her legs again.

Rose rolled off her. “What just happened?”

“I think...wehappened.” Wren surveyed the smoking ruin that had been the Protector’s Vault only moments ago. Everything was bright and burning, and there were bodies strewn across the altar. The ceiling had been blown off entirely, and glass was still coming down like raindrops. One of the walls had been ripped away, and in the distance, at the bottom of the hill, Wren spied the rushing waters of the Silvertongue and the gray sails of the Gevran ships.

Alarik led the Gevrans’ panicked retreat, soldiers and nobles hobbling down the hill, shouting about magic and poison and curses.

In the aisles and among the pews, the witches groaned as they returned to consciousness. While Rose went to help Shen and Celeste, Wren staggered to her feet and searched for Banba. She spotted her lying on her side at the edge of the Vault.

“Banba!” She limped toward her grandmother. “Wake up, Banba!”

The old witch groaned. “My little bird...,” she wheezed. “My little...” She trailed off, dropping her head once more.

“I’m here, Banba! I’m coming!” Wren’s legs were leaden beneath her, her chest aching with each stride. Ahead of her, a Gevran soldier emerged from a mass of groaning bodies and plodded toward Banba. He reached her before Wren, scooping the unconscious witch easily into his arms.

“NO!” Wren lunged, but her foot caught on a broken step. She crashed to her knees. When she dragged herself to her feet, the soldier was already marching down the hill.

“Stop!” Wren stumbled out onto the grass. Her head was still spinning madly, and she couldn’t see straight. “You can’t take her! She’s ours!”

The soldier kept marching, leaving the burning Vault far behind him.

“Please!” Wren screamed her voice ragged as she threw herself down the hill, momentum propelling her fast and hard toward the river.

She couldn’t let them leave with Banba. She was the only family Wren had ever known, the only one who had a plan for the future, for the throne they had fought so hard for. She would be lost without her grandmother. Banba would be lost without the witches.

She couldn’t let them take her.

Shewouldn’t.

By the time Wren reached the bottom of the hill, her legs were trembling and her lungs were stinging. She had lost sight of Banba—the soldier must have taken her onto one of the ships, and the last of theGevrans were climbing up the ladders, preparing to set sail.

And then Wren spotted Tor—stiff-backed and solemn—as he carried the body of the dead prince onto the king’s ship. Elske padded wearily at his side. Her tail was singed, and her fur was dappled with soot.

“Tor! Wait, please!”

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