Page 88 of Twin Crowns

“Until tomorrow, then,” said Shen, taking a long swig. “And all the days after that.”

When the rum had been drunk and his lids had grown heavy, Rose tucked his cloak around him and helped him lie down on the sand. She stayed with him until he fell asleep, then she curled up Wren’s letter and stuck it in the top of the empty rum bottle, where he wouldn’t miss it.

Once she started climbing the Whisperwind Cliffs, Rose never looked back. After hours of practice, her feet knew where to go, and she was quicker now, braver. She almost wished Shen could have seen her. When she reached the top, she dragged herself onto the grass and looked up at the same stars she’d been watching with him. She felt the strands of herdestiny tugging at her, leading her back to Anadawn.

To Wren.

She knew she didn’t have much time. But she had conquered the cliffs, and no matter what lay before her, she would not be stopped. “I am Eana; Eana is me,” she whispered before getting to her feet.

Storm seemed happy to see her, nuzzling Rose’s hand as she led her from the stables. Out in the cool night air, she climbed onto the horse’s back. “Take me home to Anadawn, Storm.” She curled her fingers in her mane, holding on for dear life as she whispered, “Hush, hush, rush.”

Storm took off like thunder, carrying Rose into the night.

29

Wren

The evening air in Eshlinn was unnaturally cool. It was as though the Gevrans had dragged the icy winter with them across the Sunless Sea. It nipped at Wren’s cheeks as she sank onto a bench in the rose garden, the silver moon glimmering overhead. It was almost full again. The arrival of King Alarik the morning before had thrown the palace into chaos, sending servants skittering back and forth through the halls of the guest wing and the cooks working all through the night.

Chapman was in such a panic he had thrown Rose’s schedule to the wind. Wren hadn’t seen him since yesterday when he had called her a river rat and sent her swiftly back to her tower. She had done exactly as she had been told, and had stayed in her bedroom ever since, spiraling deeper into her own panic.

Willem Rathborne was still clinging to life, and now King Alarik was at Anadawn Palace. Wren could feel the maw of Gevra closing around her like a ravenous ice bear. The pressure had sent her running to the gardens where she hoped a morsel of fresh air might help her find another plan in the tornado of her terror. But the cold seared into herbones, and under the haggard skeletons of her sister’s rosebushes and the mournful gaze of a single starcrest perched atop a nearby trellis, Wren felt more hopeless than ever.

The Gevrans were here, and if the wedding went ahead in three days’ time, their soldiers would then go on to track the witches, and they would die screaming without ever knowing how sorry Wren was for failing them. The thought of Banba and Thea perishing on that wind-ravaged beach was too much to bear. She dropped her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t stop the sudden rush of her tears, fear and frustration rising within her like a tidal wave.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Banba,” she whispered between sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For a long time, there was only the staccato of her breath and the salty wetness of her tears. Then the wind changed, ever so slightly, and Wren felt something soft and warm brushing against her legs. She dropped her hands to find Elske sitting at her feet, her head cocked in concern.

“Hello, sweetling.” Wren sniffed. “What are you doing here?”

As if in answer, Elske laid her head in Wren’s lap and snuffled at her skirts. Wren scratched behind the wolf’s ears, losing herself in the loveliness of her snow-white fur and those wide pale eyes. Slowly, slowly, her tears dried. For the first time since she’d glimpsed those fearsome boats gliding down the Silvertongue yesterday morning, Wren felt as if she could breathe again. “If only all Gevrans were as lovely as you,” she murmured.

She looked up then, past the bushes and the hideous marble statueof the Protector, to find Tor loitering at the edge of the rose garden. He was standing with his hands behind his back, his gaze on his boots as if he could see his reflection in their polish. In the silvery moonlight, he looked more like a god than a soldier, tall and broad and impeccably dressed, the angles of his jaw chiseled to near perfection. And here was his beloved wolf nuzzling into Wren’s lap, offering the comfort that he could not give her himself. Not under the watchful windows of the palace.

The coldness in Wren’s bones ebbed away. “Is she an early wedding gift?” she called out. “Really, Tor, you shouldn’t have.”

The soldier chuckled. “You overestimate my generosity.”

Wren returned her attentions to Elske, trying not to dwell on how the Gevran had seen her in her weakest moment, weeping alone in the rose garden. “Can’t you be persuaded to give her up?” she said, striving for lightness. “I’ll give you every free elk in Eana. You’ll eat like a king for the next ten years. You can mount their heads on all your walls and use their antlers to clean your teeth.”

“As appealing as a home filled with elk carcasses sounds, I’m afraid I could never give Elske up,” said Tor, his smile gleaming as he drifted closer. “It would be like cutting out my own heart.”

“So dramatic,” said Wren, but she was smiling, too.

Tor loitered by the statue, his hands dug deep into his pockets as he studied the tear tracks on her face.

Wren looked at her hands, embarrassed. She hadn’t cried in front of anyone since she’d been a child, not even last summer when she’d taken a tumble off a rocky peninsula while training with Shen and ended upshattering her ankle. She had gritted through the pain as they hobbled back to shore, biting into a pillow as Thea methodically set the bones, one by one.

“King Alarik is only a terror to his enemies.” Tor’s voice pulled her from the memory. He was closer now, the heat from his body gently warming the air between them. “You don’t have to be afraid of him. There is nothing that matters more to the king than family, and you will be family soon enough.”

Wren looked up at the Gevran soldier. He had misread her pain, but instead of pressing her about it, he had decided to try to remedy it. First with the wolf and now with his words.

“I’m not afraid of your king.” She didn’t know if that was strictly true or not, just that it had little to do with the swell of anxiety moving inside her. Things were far graver—far bigger—than Tor could ever guess at. “And I amnothis family.” If Tor thought Wren would ever feel anything but utter repulsion for Alarik Felsing, then he didn’t know her at all.

Tor’s brows lifted. “I thought that’s why...” He trailed off at the sight of her grimace. “Forgive me. I just wanted to put your mind at ease.”

“A wasted effort, I’m afraid.”

---