Page 81 of Twin Crowns

Rowena staggered to her feet. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because a good leader rules with compassion, not cruelty. My grandmother might own these sands, but Eana belongs to me.” Rose leveled Rowena with a dark look. “You would do well to remember that.”

Rose smiled to herself as she walked back across the beach. Her blood was warm inside her, and her hands were tingling, but it wasn’t magic that set the new spring in her step. It was power. She had held it firmly in her grasp just now as she looked down on Rowena, and despite her anger and resentment, she had used it in the right way. With mercy, and justice.

For the first time in her life, on this ragged little beach at the edge of the world, with sand in her hair and salt in her teeth, Rose felt like a queen.

A queen who was ready to face anything and anyone that stood in her way.

When she returned to the hut, Banba was sitting in her rocking chair. “I know what you did.”

Rose squared her jaw. “It was the right thing.”

Banba snorted. “I should hangyoufrom the cliffs for disobeying me.”

“Then go ahead.”

The old witch sighed and shook her head. “Your mother had the same kind heart. And it got her killed.” A sweeping sadness came over her, and for a terrifying moment, Rose thought her grandmother wasgoing to cry. She took a step toward her, but then something in the old woman shifted. Banba’s gaze hardened, and so did her voice. “I won’t let that happen to you.”

Early the next morning, the sound of scratching woke Rose before the others. She tiptoed to the door and opened it, expecting to see Tilda.

Instead, a starcrest stared up at her with bright, beady eyes. It had a letter tied to its left leg. Rose recognized the ribbon as one of her own and knew at once whom it was from. She retrieved it with trembling fingers, and as the bird returned to the dawning sky, she read the name scrawled on the letter.

Banba.

She looked over her shoulder to make sure her grandmother was still snoring. Then she stepped out into the sea air, crept down to the beach, and opened the letter.

I can’t stop the wedding. The Gevrans are coming. Run.

27

Wren

The following days in Anadawn passed under bloated skies. Wren chewed her fingernails down to nothing and paced herself to exhaustion while the Kingsbreath lay in his bedchamber, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, under the watchful eye of Hector Pegasi. His condition hadn’t improved, but it hadn’t worsened either. Each morning Wren woke to the fear that she might pass him in the courtyard looking as well as ever, or open her door to find the palace guards waiting to arrest her for what she had done.

She had been avoiding Celeste, for fear her memory enchantment would fail and she would return to her senses—and her suspicion. Thankfully, Chapman’s schedule kept her busy, Wren’s allotted time with Prince Ansel providing the perfect excuse to avoid Rose’s best friend while finding excuses to be close to Tor. On their horse ride to the Eshlinn border, Wren had reclined on the riverbank, laughing uproariously as the prince and his soldier tried to outdo each other in catching leaping salmon with their bare hands.

After that, she saw Ansel for three more lunch dates and once for a meandering walk in the woods, where the prince failed on severaloccasions to hold her hand before turning his attention to feeding the ducks in the lake. Wren spent these meetings exchanging furtive glances with Tor, wanting nothing more than to pull him into a dark corner and finally kiss him senseless.

Sometimes she would pretend to fawn over Elske just to get close to him without arousing suspicion. It was a dangerous game, but she couldn’t help herself, and even though the Gevran carried himself all too professionally—standing stiff-backed and remote by his wolf—she would sometimes catch him watching her with a look of such naked desire, it sent a thrill rippling up her spine.

A week before the wedding, when the moon was almost full again, Wren woke to the distant blare of horns. She sprang out of bed in a fright and threw on a dress. Agnes was nowhere to be found and neither was breakfast, for that matter. When Wren descended the east tower, she almost crashed straight into Chapman, who was racing about in a panic.

She caught him by the arm. “What’s that noise? What’s going on?”

“It’s the Gevrans!” he shrieked. “They’re halfway down the Silvertongue!”

Wren stiffened. “They’rehere?”

“And ahead of schedule!” Chapman waved his scroll about in a bluster. “With the Kingsbreath ill, we’ve had no time to prepare a welcome procession. I need to assemble the honor guard at once. And the prince! Oh!” He took off in a rush. “Someone has to tell the prince!”

The second Chapman disappeared from view, Wren picked up her skirts and made for the passageway underneath the east tower. Her hurried footsteps thundered in the damp silence, the everlights oflong-dead witches lighting her way toward the river. By the time she clambered out through the storm drain, her skirts were covered in mud.

Down on the banks of the Silvertongue, the townsfolk of Eshlinn were gathering by the mill. Some had spilled out across the bridge and were craning their necks to get a look at the ships. Wren crept along the near side of the river, keeping to the shadows. When she reached a gnarled tree that hung low over the water, she rolled up her sleeves and started to climb it. It was trickier with her dress cinching her ribs and her skirts bunching around her ankles, but she got the hang of it, scrabbling up the trunk like a squirrel.

The horns sounded again. Wren rolled her eyes. The Gevrans were clearly intent on waking every man, woman, and child in Eshlinn.

Soon, she was high enough to make out the sharp nose of the first ship cutting through the river mist. It was a thing of monstrous beauty. Its sleek black hull moved swiftly and gracefully, and its billowing sails were a deep shimmering gray. The Gevran crest was emblazoned in bright silver along each one—a mighty ice bear midroar—so there could be no mistaking the proud vessel or whom it carried. Wren inched along an overhanging branch to get a better view of the people out on deck. The tree groaned as it tipped toward the river, but she held on tight, her knuckles white against the bark.

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