Page 53 of Cursed Crowns

“Why are you being so kind to me, Klara?”

Klara smiled sheepishly. “I was only told to help you get ready.”

“I see,” said Wren slowly. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she was a guest, rather than a prisoner at Grinstad Palace. Alarik was being nice to her, which only worsened the unease stirring inside her. She stood back to let the maid pass. “I can take it from here. Thank you, Klara.”

Klara scurried away, collecting the empty tray on her way out of the room. The door closed with a click, the key turning in its lock, leaving Wren alone with her suspicion.

She sank into the bath, trying to ignore the distant cacophony of growls as the kingdom’s beasts rose to face the day. She scrubbed every inch of her body until her skin was pink and her hair smelled of cinnamon. Afterward, she dressed in a red velvet dress with a narrow waist and lightly flared sleeves, pairing it with a matching cloak lined with fur, the hood so large she could hide her entire face in it. As she tied it at her neck, she stared at herself in the mirror.

Wren was unnerved by how Gevran she looked. She was draped in fur, her face too pale in the biting cold, her wet hair darker than usual. “Another palace,” she muttered. “Another part to play.”

A knock at the door made her jump. She turned to find a towering blond soldier standing in the doorway. She was about Wren’s age, withwide shoulders, a round face, and darting gray eyes. She was gripping the pommel of her sword so tight her knuckles were stark white.

“Careful with that thing,” said Wren, gesturing to her glittering sword. “Enchanters aren’t that scary, you know. Especially ones without earth.”

The soldier swallowed thickly. “The king has sent for you.”

Wren picked up her skirts and marched across the room. “It’s about damn time.”

The soldier led Wren down one flight of stairs after another, winding deeper and deeper into the recesses of Grinstad Palace, until they reached a tunnel that stretched underneath the mountain itself. Stone soon turned to rock, stalactites dripping from the ceiling like icy tears, while stalagmites crawled up from the uneven ground to meet them. The air beneath the palace was so frigid Wren had to wrap her arms around herself to keep warm. Snow leopards prowled alongside them, patrolling the network of narrow cells where frostbitten prisoners cowered, looking half frozen to death.

Wren’s stomach twisted every time she peered into a cell searching for Banba. A prisoner lurched for her as she passed, and a leopard lunged from the shadows, snapping at his bony fingers.

Wren hissed at the beast, shooing him with her cloak. “Get back, you wicked thing!”

The leopard bared its teeth as it slinked away. The prisoner whimpered as he withdrew into the corner of his cell, cradling his hand to his chest.

They walked on, the mountain creaking as ice water dripped into pools at their feet. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Wren spotted her grandmother huddled at the back of a cell. Her cropped whitehair flickered in the low sconce light, and Wren’s fingertips tingled, the magic inside her recognizing another of its kind. Banba’s hands were chained behind her back to keep her tempest magic at bay. The sight of her, small and shivering, sent a bolt of fresh rage through Wren, but it was desperation that made her fling herself at the bars.

“Banba!” she cried, the sound echoing all the way down the tunnel. “Are you all right?”

The old woman looked up, her green eyes bright in the dimness. She blinked once, then twice, as if Wren was an apparition come to haunt her. “Wren?” she croaked. “But it can’t be my little bird...”

“It’s me, Banba. It’s Wren.” Emotion thickened Wren’s voice. Her grandmother might be freezing, but she was alive. She washere, mere feet from Wren. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

“No, it must be a trick...” Banba stood on trembling legs. She was still wearing her brown tunic and trousers, with only a paltry woollen cloak to cover her. She shuffled toward Wren, her bound hands making her lumber to one side.

Wren reached for her through the bars.

A sword shot out so close to Wren it almost nicked her arm. She glared at the soldier over her shoulder. “Get that thing away from me.”

The soldier raised her sword, until the point hovered at Wren’s chin. “Look, but don’t touch.”

“Says who?” snapped Wren.

“King Alarik,” said the soldier.

Wren gritted her teeth. “Where is that frost-hearted bastard?”

“He’s waiting for you. Come.” The soldier inclined her chin back the way they had come, toward a darker tunnel that branched off, deeper under the mountain. Dread prickled in Wren’s cheeks. Banba wasn’tthe destination; she was simply part of the journey—a cruel stopover along the way to Alarik. He had wanted Wren to see her imprisoned grandmother first. To know what was at stake.

“You have seen the witch,” said the soldier impatiently. “Now we must go.”

But Wren was rooted to the spot, her heart clenching so tightly it ached.

“Wren, listen to me!” Banba pressed her forehead against the bars, spittle foaming at the edges of her cracked lips. “I don’t know what possessed you to come here, or how you survived it, but don’t strike any deals with the Gevran king. Better if you don’t speak to him at all.”

“It’s all right, Banba. I’m here now. I’m going to save you.” Wren ignored the soldier’s warning and threaded her arms through the cell, rubbing warmth into her grandmother’s shoulders. They were stiff and as cold as ice. “We’ve already come to an arrangement.” Wren’s voice cracked, but she held her smile. She didn’t want Banba to worry about her. “I’m getting you out of here.”

---