Page 30 of Burning Crowns

‘Was that necessary?’ said Wren.

The king smirked. ‘I’m afraid I’ll need your full attention.’

‘For what?’

‘See for yourself.’ Alarik rolled up his sleeve.

When Wren saw the silver crescent scar on his wrist, a gasp caught in her throat. She sank to her knees. Without thinking – without asking – she traced her thumb across it.

Alarik shuddered.

‘How is this possible?’ she whispered.

At his look of confusion, she removed her glove and showed him her matching scar. He took her wrist, tracing it as she had done. Instead of pain, Wren felt a strange tingle of warmth. She closed her eyes, trying to make sense of it.

‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

‘Not now. But sometimes it does. Especially whenever I use my magic.’

‘I see.’

‘And yours?’

‘At night, mostly. I think it’s making me …’ He trailed off.

‘Ill?’

‘Weak.’ Alarik’s frown sharpened his cheekbones. In the flickering light, he looked a bit like a wolf. ‘I can’t afford to be weak right now.’

Wren realized his hand was still on her wrist. There was something soothing about his touch, about the nearness of his pain, so like her own. Then she thought of Tor, standing just outside the door.

She pulled her arm back and reached for her glove.

Alarik narrowed his eyes. ‘Whatever this thing is, it’s affecting both of us.’

‘Yes,’ said Wren, as she stood up. ‘Something must have happened when I was in Gevra to create this strange bond.’

‘I was thinking the same.’ Alarik cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps it was that day … after the mountain came down.’ Wren saw a memory spark in his eyes, heard the hunger in his voice. He was thinking of the blizzard, of the kiss that had swept them up. ‘When it began to snow—’

‘No,’ she said, quickly. She didn’t want to think about that. ‘It wasn’t the blizzard, Alarik. It was the blood spell. It must have happened when we raised Ansel from the dead.’

Alarik frowned. ‘Oh.’

Wren began to pace, building her theory. ‘It was your blood and my words. My magic. We messed with the dark side of power and did something unforgivable. And now we’re paying the price. With this pain … this scar. There’s something wrong.’

‘So, make it right.’ Alarik stood up, the hardness returning to his voice. ‘You’re the witch. Fix it.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ said Wren. ‘I can’t heal. I told you that.’

‘Your sister, then. She’s a healer.’

Wren shook her head. ‘Rose already tried to heal my scar.But it’s made of something else. Something deeper than skin, deeper than blood and bone. I don’t understand it myself.’

‘Figure it out, Wren.’ Alarik raked a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands around his temple. ‘My country is sick, too. My beasts are turning bad. My graveyards lie in ruins. Your ancestor stalks my kingdom. Day and night, my army has been searching for her. And finally, after months of searching, they spotted her on the cliffs of the Sundvik shore two days ago.’

Wren stilled. ‘Youfoundher?’

‘We didn’t just find her, Wren. We tried to kill her.’ Alarik’s face was grim. ‘We fired forty steel arrows. Half of them found their mark, and yet not one could pierce her. My soldiers charged with their swords, but she was impervious to those, too.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Then she dived from the cliffs and let the sea swallow her whole. But she’s not gone, Wren. I can still hear her laugh on the wind. I feel it rumbling in the mountains.’

---