Page 49 of Burning Crowns

‘Why is it that you favour the stories where bad things happen to me?’

‘Because I am a brute, Wren.’ Alarik flashed a wolfish grin.

‘Finally, a bit of self-awareness.’ Wren clambered in after the king. Tor and Elske followed, and they set off again,travelling into the darkening night. The stew had made Wren sleepy, and with Elske warming her feet, she soon found herself drifting off.

Hours passed, a swathe of clouds moving in from the west and snuffing out the stars. Midnight came and went, and then the first brushstrokes of dawn cast their pallid light in the sky. When the carriage hit a rock in the road, Wren was jostled awake. The scar on her wrist was stinging and her head was aching. She couldn’t remember her nightmare but she didn’t feel rested. She looked down, to where the king’s right boot brushed against her leg.

Alarik was fast asleep across from her, with his arms folded across his chest and his head lolling against the side of the carriage. A lock of blond hair curled across his forehead, making him look unkempt. Younger, somehow. The king was smiling in his sleep. It was not a smile Wren had seen before. This one was softer, truer. It whispered of happier times.

Somewhere outside, a nightingale was singing.

Wren was struck by the strange intimacy of this moment, of seeing King Alarik wholly unguarded for the first time.

She looked away, only to catch Tor’s eye. He was awake, too.

Watching her watch Alarik.

Rotting carp.

Wren’s cheeks burned. ‘Good morning,’ she mouthed, a little sheepishly.

‘Almost,’ he whispered. He glanced towards Elske, sprawled fast asleep at their feet.

Wren smiled, patting the empty seat beside her.

Tor raised his eyebrows. Wren knew it was an impossible invitation. For one thing, there wasn’t enough space with Alarik’s feet kicked up on the bench.And for another, to sit side by side in the semi-darkness would be a lesson in restraint neither of them would likely pass.

Tor raked a hand across his jaw, considering it. Then he folded his arms, leaning back against the seat.

Wren laid her head against the window, waiting for him to fall asleep first, but the soldier easily outlasted her, and as she drifted off once more, she wondered, idly, if he ever slept at all.

When Wren woke again, the sky was blue, the morning sun flooding the carriage with golden light. She winced as she opened her eyes, trying to get used to the glare.

‘Morning,’ said Alarik. ‘Did you know you drool a lot in your sleep?’

Wren furiously scrubbed her chin with her sleeve. ‘Shut up. I do not.’ She looked to Tor. ‘Do I?’

Tor stalled. ‘Definea lot.’

She flung a cushion at him.

He flopped backwards, pretending to be wounded.

Wren thumped on the carriage roof. ‘Time to stop for breakfast! I’m starving!’

At the next village, they had breakfast in a local tavern. While the coachmen snatched an hour or so of rest, Wren went for a walk in a nearby field, where she threw sticks for Elske. The wolf padded along beside her, watching the flying sticks dispassionately.

Wren looked down at her. ‘Wilful little thing. Don’t you play fetch?’

‘Not unless you throw a slab of meat,’ called Tor, who was stalking through the long grass, looking at the wildflowers.

‘This is supposed to be fun for her,’ said Wren.

‘Then why don’tyougo and get the stick?’ said Alarik, picking up a twig. ‘I’ll even throw it for you.’

Wren snatched the stick from him. ‘Actually, I can think of a better use for this. Why don’t I—’

‘Watch your mouth, for once?’ said Alarik, before heading back to the carriage. ‘Didn’t your grandmother teach you that?’

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