Page 11 of Cursed Crowns

5

Wren

The following days passed with the same infuriating silence from King Alarik. It quickly became clear that Rose had run out of diplomatic ways to bring Banba home and, on the advice of Chapman, had turned her attentions to problems closer to home. Every morning, she took her breakfast in the library with the bossy steward and Captain Davers, all three of them poring over plans for a royal tour that Wren had no intention of going on.

Her thoughts were still firmly on Gevra. So much so that two days ago, Wren had crept down to the mews and sent her own letter to King Alarik.

Listen here, you arrogant, unresponsive ass, if you don’t give me back my grandmother, I swear to that stupid bear you worship that I’ll sail over there and smash every one of your teeth into your skull. Don’t test me. I’m a witch, remember?

Wren

Unsurprisingly, there had been no response.

Now Wren spent her mornings in the west tower of Anadawn,sifting through years of dust and grime and broken furniture. Mostly, it was an excuse to be alone while she came up with her own secret plan to save Banba, but there was a second purpose, too. Once it was decreed that the twins would rule Eana together, Wren had decided to turn the west tower into her bedroom.

To honor the memory of Glenna, the seer who had been trapped in the west tower for eighteen long years before being murdered by Willem Rathborne, Wren wanted to be the one to go through her things, but after days of trawling through molding clothes, old birdcages, and faded furniture, she was beginning to think there was nothing here worth salvaging.

Elske arrived in the early afternoon, nudging the door open with her snout.

“Clever girl,” said Wren as she scratched the sweet spot between the enormous Gevran wolf’s ears. “I knew you’d sniff me out, sooner or later.”

The wolf snuffled her skirts in affection and Wren pressed her face into her shoulder, reveling in her alpine scent. It reminded her of Tor, who had sailed away from her over three weeks ago. The wolf had been the soldier’s parting gift, a piece of his heart left behind in Eana. Wren’s own heart panged at the memory of how Elske had saved her life on the banks of the Silvertongue, fiercely fighting off Princess Anika’s snow leopard, who had been intent on tearing Wren limb from limb. Afterward, Elske had sat steadfastly by Wren’s side as they watched the Gevran soldier sail away from them, into the mist.

Thoughts of Gevra made Wren’s fingers itch. She would go right now if she could, but the day was bright and busy, and Anadawn wascrawling with soldiers. She would have to be smart about her next move, patient.

Wren sifted through a pile of junk by the window, her gaze falling on a familiar cracked portrait. She turned it over, gazing down at two faces that looked so like her own. Two crowns that had destroyed a dynasty. The Starcrest twins, Wren and Rose’s ancestors, had ruled Eana together over a thousand years ago, before one had turned against the other and brought about the ruin of the witches. In one fell swoop, Oonagh had managed to betray her sister, Ortha, and curse the witches, splintering their power into five different strands—healer, seer, tempest, enchanter, and warrior—before drowning in the Silvertongue River.

Wren stared down at Oonagh’s scowling face, as Glenna’s warning echoed in her mind.Beware the curse of Oonagh Starcrest, the lost witch queen. The curse runs in new blood. It lives in new bones.It was a warning meant for Wren, one that she had not shared with Rose. Her sister had enough to worry about already, without questioning Wren’s loyalty or wondering what sinister flaw she might share with their cursed ancestor. Besides, Wren knew she would never betray her sister. Not for anything in the world.

“Nonsense,” muttered Wren, flinging the portrait into the growing pile of rubbish. “We won’t be like them.”

A low rumble jolted Wren from her excavation.

Elske was growling at an upturned chest of drawers. “What is it, sweetling?” said Wren, scrambling to her feet.

The wolf backed away from the chest. Wren reached inside the drawer and found an old blue dress that had been rolled up and shoved right at the back. The material was plush and shimmering, and thoughthe embroidery around the bodice was fraying, she could tell it was a dress fit for a princess.

Or, perhaps, a queen.

Elske growled at the balled-up dress.

“What’s got into you?” said Wren as she unfurled it. Something rolled out of the garment and clattered to the floor, making her jump.

Elske backed away from it.

Wren crouched to investigate it and found her own emerald gaze peering up at her. The dress had been hiding an ornate hand mirror. It was made of silver and inlaid with a row of twelve sapphires that bordered the small glass oval. She turned it over, marveling at the fine craftsmanship.

“I knew if we looked hard enough, we’d find treasure in here.” When Wren looked up, Elske was standing at the door, with her tail tucked between her legs. Something about the mirror was frightening her, and Wren had a feeling it wasn’t her snowy reflection. It was magic. She could feel its gentle hum against her fingers, a trickle of warmth that marked this treasure as a relic, not of the Valharts, but of the witches who had ruled long before them. A witch who had once lived in this very tower, perhaps.

Wren carefully laid the mirror down. A minute passed, her breath bound up in her chest, as she waited for the glass to shatter, or something terrible to happen. But her own face looked back at her, her brow shiny with sweat, her chestnut brown hair frizzing around her temples. Whatever magic the hand mirror might have once possessed was dormant. It was simply a mirror now, far too fancy for Wren’s taste. But she resolved to keep it anyway. She didn’t want it falling into anyone else’s hands. Just in case.

She slipped the hand mirror into her satchel just as a bird landed on the windowsill. Elske forgot her fear and bounded across the room to try to chase it, and for one hopeful heartbeat Wren thought it was a messenger falcon returning from across the Sunless Sea. But it wasn’t a falcon at all.

It was a starcrest. The sight of the silver-breasted bird filled Wren with a sudden rush of anxiety. Starcrests only gathered near seers, witches who could divine patterns of the future from the birds’ formations. But Glenna was dead. Why had this starcrest returned to her tower?

She eyed her satchel. Was this the mirror’s doing? Had the enchanted bird been flying nearby and sensed the old magic she had awoken? Or was it simply a coincidence that it had come to rest on her windowsill?

Wren loosed a breath, trying to steady the rattle of her nerves. The bird took off just as quickly as it arrived, leaving her feeling like a fool for working herself up over it in the first place.

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