Page 48 of Burning Crowns

‘Watch your tongue,’ said Wren, with a shrug. ‘Funny thing is, I think Banba would have forgiven me sooner if my aim had been better.’

‘It was your recklessness she punished you for, not your tongue,’ said Alarik.

‘For all the good it did me.’ Wren traced the scar on her wrist, absently. ‘I got worse as I got older.’

‘My father used to say that recklessness only happens when there is too much bravery to spare,’ said Tor. ‘The day I was born, Carrig was caught in the worst blizzard the island had ever seen. He trekked through the night, through ice and hail and snow, just to be at my mother’s side.’

‘Sounds as if she was the braver one that day,’ said Wren.

‘Yes,’ said Tor, fondly. ‘She is braver, still.’

‘Which explains where you came from, Iversen,’ said Alarik. ‘The first time I ever met Tor, he was wrestling a fully grown ice bear.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘You were just a boy, then, stalking through that arena as if it belonged to you. My father couldn’t tear his eyes off you. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever felt jealousy.’

Tor smiled, grimly. ‘I was just as jealous of you, watching from your balcony.’

‘Now that’s a story I wouldn’t mind hearing,’ said Wren.

Tor chuckled. ‘Very well,’ he began.

After Tor’s story, Alarik offered one of his own, recalling the time he had visited the Sundvik shore as a child, only to get lost. As he recounted, with great theatre, being chased up and down the famous black-sand shore by ravenous seagulls, Wren bent double with laughter, eyes streaming with tears. Then it was her turn to offer a tale of woe. She told them of the day she had chased a squirrel into the Weeping Forest, only to get stuck up a tree. Too embarrassed to call for help, Wren had had to wait for Shen to find her. He’d arrived at midnight, scaling the trunk with infuriating ease only to find her curled up in the bough.

This time, Alarik roared with laughter.

‘What about the squirrel?’ said Tor.

‘Must youalwaysprioritize the animals?’ huffed Wren. ‘I was the one picking twigs out of my hair for days!’

They all shook with laughter. Wren was glad of the lightness that journeyed north with them, filling the cramped carriage with enough warmth to stave off the evening chill. They traded their tales back and forth, letting the minutes slip seamlessly into hours, until the sun surrendered its fight with the moon and melted from the sky.

They stopped in a small trading town to stretch their legs and fill their bellies. Along with the coachmen, they ate in a tavern half the size of Wren’s bedroom, wolfing down rabbit stew with creamy potatoes, carrots and parsnips, and for dessert – which Wren insisted on – they shared an entire cherry pie. After, Alarik went to freshen up while Wren poached a discarded lamb bone from the kitchen. But when she returned to the carriage, Elske was already munching on one.

Tor, who was leaning against the door, offered her a conspiratorial smile. ‘Great minds …’

Wren tucked the bone into her cloak. ‘For later, then. You can never have too much of a good thing.’

‘No,’ said Tor, holding her gaze. ‘You can’t.’

Wren looked up past the carriage, to where the stars were twinkling. There was a chill in the air, but the stew had warmed her. Or perhaps it was the company.

Over dinner, they had decided to travel through the night. Wren knew the road ahead would be rockier than the one behind as they navigated the northern marshes and the surrounding farmland. ‘We’ve still got hours to go,’ she said now, almost apologetically. ‘I’m sorry it’s taking so long.’

Tor leaned in. ‘This time last week I was chasing seven feral snow leopards through the Fovarr Mountains, trying to catch them before they maimed the mountain goats. Now I get to sit across from you in a warm carriage, laughing so hard, I can hardly breathe. Where do you think I’d rather be?’

‘Well, you do love your beasts,’ said Wren. ‘And your country.’

‘I love other things, too.’ He held her gaze, his eyes starlit as the sky. ‘Other places. Other people.’

Wren swallowed thickly. Guilt prickled in her cheeks. The knowledge of what she had done with Alarik in that blizzard – how they had kissed until their breath ran out – was still gnawing at her insides.

Tor’s face fell. ‘Freezing hell, Wren. You don’t have to look so frightened.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Wren, quickly. ‘It’s just … There’s something I need to tell you. About me. And Alarik—’

‘What about Alarik?’ said Alarik, striding out of the tavern.

Wren spun around. ‘I was just wondering how long you were going to spend fixing your hair.’

‘Only half as long as it takes you to tell a story.’ He winked as he brushed passed her. ‘Now finish that one about the time you fell into a vat of honey in Ortha. I hear laughter aids digestion.’

---