Page 114 of Burning Crowns

Wren

CHAPTER 37

When the golden gates of Anadawn groaned open once more, Wren was sitting astride her quickest horse and dressed in her fighting leathers, with Night’s Edge fastened to her hip.

Shen was riding at her side, a steel-eyed king and a vengeful queen both ready for war.

‘Look at us, journeying across the desert to find your sister,’ he said, as they rode out into the wilds of Eana. ‘Just like the good old days.’

Wren chuckled, weakly. ‘At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

‘You know my wit is my sharpest weapon.’

Though it had pained Wren to say goodbye to Tor, he had left already, riding north to join Princess Anika in commanding the Gevran army that Alarik had promised to summon to Eana. Wren hoped that promise would hold true and that she would see Tor – and his reinforcements – soon.

Despite her ailing strength, she had insisted on riding without a saddle mate. She hoped the magic in Night’s Edge would sustain her strength across the desert. After all, what good was a queen who couldn’t lead her own army?

Better than a queen who can’t ride at all, Shen had argued, but she had brushed off his concern. Back at the palace, Thea had offered her a modicum of healing, a mere bandage on an open wound, but it was enough to get Wren washed and fed. The nearness of Eana’s ancient sword and Wren’s own adrenaline had taken care of the rest. So far.

It had only been a handful of hours since Wren’s return to Anadawn, the news of her sister’s drowning passing through her like a dreadful shiver. Now the entire Anadawn Guard had been assembled, spilling out behind her in their pristine uniforms of green and gold, longswords glimmering at their hips. Celeste rode alongside them, leading the contingent of witches, which included Kai, Bryony, Rowena and even young Tilda.

Though Thea had volunteered to come and fight, she was of far better use at Anadawn. Wren could not afford to leave their seat of power undefended and Thea was the only one she and Rose trusted to rule in their stead.

‘Are you all right?’ said Shen, as they rode through the trees, setting a course for the Kerrcal Road, and beyond it, the restless sands. By the time they reached the desert, it would be nightfall again. ‘If you’re feeling faint, just give me a signal.’

Wren glanced sidelong at him. ‘The signal will be me falling off my horse and faceplanting in the sand.’

‘Great. Let’s see if I can catch you before that.’

‘Try and salvage my dignity while you’re at it.’

‘Challenge accepted.’

They rode on, mostly in silence. Shen’s jaw was tensed, every muscle in his body coiled to spring. Wren knew he was thinking about Rose – just as she was. She hoped they had chosen the right direction,and that when they arrived at the Weeping Forest, they would not be too late.

She couldn’t help thinking of Alarik either, the weakening king cooped up in the Mishnick Mountains, trying to weather their burrowing curse without Wren there to help soothe his pain. The truth was, Wren wasn’t just riding for Rose. She was riding for Alarik, too. And for herself. Willa’s warning rang like a bell inside her. She had to kill Oonagh before the curse killed her. All of their fates now balanced on the knife-edge of war.

War with an ancient, powerful being.

‘You’re starting to sway.’ Shen’s voice cut through Wren’s reverie. It was sundown already, and yet she hadn’t felt the hours pass. ‘Do you want us to slow down?’

‘No,’ she said, gripping the reins tighter. ‘Every moment is precious.’

Shen didn’t argue but he didn’t set his concerns aside either. ‘Fix your saddle, Greenrock. Anchor your knees better, so if you do drift off you won’t get trampled by the thousand horses behind you.’

Wren took his advice, tying herself into the saddle in case she fell asleep. Her shoulders were already aching and her head was spinning. She gripped her sword, uttering a plea to the first witch. ‘Keep me strong, Eana. Help me fight.’

Wren soon drifted off, lulled by the comforting thrum of hoof-prints and the sureness of her best friend at her side, charting the way ahead.

Every so often, she became dimly aware of Shen’s hand on her shoulder, straightening her in the saddle or his hand on hers, tightening her grip on the reins, but apart from that, her sleep was deep, feathered only by glimpses of Alarik pacing the dusky halls of the Mishnick Mountains,too wounded even to rest. She saw nothing of Rose, the absence of her sister’s presence – even in her thoughts – setting a bone-deep anxiety to work inside her. The curse fed off it, growing greedier by the hour.

Even in sleep, Wren’s head pounded mercilessly.

Evening slipped away, turning the sky amber and pink, then a dark velvety blue. When Wren awoke, there was a song moving in the wind. The dunes were singing. They had crossed into the desert, the hoof-prints behind her dulling to the barest whisper. She groaned, trying to roll the crick from her neck.

A flask appeared in front of her. ‘Drink,’ said Shen, keeping his eyes on the shifting sands. ‘You look like death.’

‘Thank you for the morale boost.’ Wren snatched the flask from him and drank deeply. ‘How far are we from the Sunkissed Kingdom? We could do with another army.’

---