Thorns & Fire, page 2
‘We were fooling ourselves, thinking this could work.’
‘You made me someone I’m not. I’m a fucking Warsword, Embervale. I’ll always be a Warsword.’
‘I’m exactly the man you thought I was.’
His absence made her feel how she’d felt in those early months after the war had ended – when she was bone-weary, when all hope seemed to have been sucked out of the world around her, even though it was finally free of darkness. Worse, now a new darkness had taken hold of the world, taken hold of her, and she couldn’t seem to defeat it.
‘I don’t understand,’ she told her sister, staring into the alchemy samples that had been the bane of her existence for a fortnight. ‘The solution I gave Zavier worked. It saved his life! Yet two weeks later, I still can’t replicate it . . . What am I missing?’
‘Have you considered that what you’re missing might be sleep?’ Thea grumbled.
‘No one else at Drevenor is sleeping, Thea,’ Wren replied sharply. ‘Everyone here is doing what they can to understand the threat, to prepare us for what’s to come. Every adept and sage in this academy is working as we speak, perfecting advanced forms of alchemy that will aid us in any conflict.’
As an adept, Wren would not be competing in another Gauntlet, but rather contributing to the field of alchemy itself. An opus. Each adept was to work on one – a major project within their particular area of interest, which they would present to the masters at the end of the semester in order to graduate to the rank of sage.
With Farissa’s guidance, Wren had chosen to recreate the counter-alchemy she had invented as a novice – the potion that had saved Zavier Terling, the long-lost Prince of Naarva, who was currently being crowned on the far side of the kingdom.
‘Wren,’ Thea said evenly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and pinning her with a pointed look. ‘All I’m saying is that you can’t work yourself to death. You’re the one who solved this puzzle last time. You will be the one to solve it again.’
Wren braced herself against her workbench with a huff of frustration. ‘I’m not sure that I can . . .’ It was the first time she’d admitted it out loud, but over the past fortnight, she’d questioned if the first time had been a fluke. Her doubts only continued to fester, particularly as more was revealed about the substances the so-called People’s Vanguard had weaponized.
In the aftermath, the academy masters had studied each and every trace of enemy alchemy left behind on weapons and bodies. It was the largest sample they’d had to work with, which meant Wren and Farissa had been able to analyse its properties in a way they hadn’t before.
What they’d found had terrified them.
Darkness. Shadow. Remnants of the previous war, laced with poison and chemicals, their deadliest elements combined. A fusion that explained the enemy’s ability to mute the magic of royals and Warswords alike.
Power like this had swept across the midrealms before, and they had barely survived. Were men so hungry for dominion that they would burn the world to ash around them to achieve it? Was history doomed to repeat itself?
A bitter taste filled Wren’s mouth. She knew the answer to that. And she was partly to blame. It had been her work from the previous war that had led the enemy’s discoveries . . . The manacles flashed in her mind. They were her invention, something she’d prided herself on – a unique form of alchemy designed to target specific properties in the blood, specific people. Now, magic wielders like her were those targets.
Wren wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but the triggering scent of burnt hair tickled her nostrils. The smell brought bile to the back of her throat, and she gripped the edge of her workbench as a cold sweat broke out across her skin.
Breathe, she told herself. You’re at Drevenor. In your room. Her gaze swept the bench for something to ground her. Mortar and pestle. Crucible. Harvesting knife. She listed the objects she saw, and slowly, air began to fill her lungs once more.
Taking a sip of water to soothe her dry throat, Wren peered out the window. The ivy-clad iron gates and the academy motto – Knowledge is the victor over fate. The mind is a blade – seemed to mock her. She dropped her head into her hands. ‘I’m failing.’
‘Wren,’ Thea scoffed. ‘What a load of horseshit. You did it before. You’ll do it again. But for the love of Thezmarr, eat something. Rest. And for all our sakes, take a fucking bath.’
‘I’m not that bad.’ That was a lie. She passed a hand over her face, knowing exactly what she looked like. Dark smudges loomed beneath her eyes; her bronze hair was even more unkempt than usual in its messy knot. Black ink stained her fingers and was splattered across her apron and gown.
Thea snorted. ‘It’s like you’ve never heard of soap. Or a hairbrush. And that’s saying something, coming from me.’
Wren pushed the loose, dishevelled hair from her eyes and glanced around at the pile of unopened letters by the door, the half-eaten bowl of stew and stale bread sitting atop her trunk of supplies . . . Guttering candles and a smoky oil lamp illuminated the medallion she’d won by passing the Gauntlet, discarded on the windowsill by her box of poisoner’s trinkets, long forgotten. Gods, there were even cobwebs in the corners of the room. She supposed she had let things get out of hand.
Thea wrinkled her nose at the vials of blood on her work surface. ‘It’s probably not helping that you’re bloodletting yourself so regularly for these experiments. I’ve offered a million times.’
‘I’m fine, Thea.’ Wren flipped through her notes again, agitated. ‘For now, all I need is to get back to work.’
Wren could feel her sister’s eyes on her as she sorted through her concoctions, as she spilled more ink on her apron and as she swore under her breath . . .
‘It’s alright to miss him, you know,’ Thea began cautiously.
Wren’s gaze snapped up to hers. She opened her mouth—
‘Don’t you dare say “who,”’ Thea warned.
Sparks crackled at Wren’s fingertips without warning, and she fought to keep her already broken magic within the confines of her body. Now more than ever, it was a living thing inside her, as restless and chaotic as she felt, always clawing to be let loose.
‘I can feel it, you know,’ Thea commented, pinning her with a knowing look. ‘The lightning singing in your veins.’
‘Of course you can feel it,’ Wren bit back. ‘We’re family. We share the same blood, the same power.’
Thea raised a sceptical brow. ‘Tell me you have it under control.’
‘I have it under control,’ Wren replied flatly.
‘Then why haven’t you talked about the Bear Slayer? Asked about him?’ Thea pressed, her face lined with concern. ‘There’s more to this than either of you are letting on, but every time he’s mentioned I can feel a storm gathering around you . . .’
‘Then it’s a good thing he’s far away.’ Wren hated how raw her voice sounded, how vulnerable. She gestured to the potions on her bench, determined to return her focus to her work and her desperation to succeed. ‘What am I supposed to do, Thea? If I can’t do this, then why am I here? What’s the point? How many people will suffer?’
Thea stood, moving forwards to grip her shoulder firmly. ‘The devastation will pass. I promise. I have felt those things before, and I came out the other side. You will too. You’re far from worthless. We’ve all watched you go from strength to strength. You’re allowed to wobble. You’re allowed to have a gloomy day. But this is not your forever. This is not the day to base all other days on.’
Her sister’s words were of little comfort when Wren found herself in what remained of the great hall the next day, waiting for Farissa. Sunlight filtered through the shattered stained-glass windows, casting broken rainbows across the floor. The debris had been swept away in the wake of the battle, but the deep gouges and scorch marks remained. The hair on Wren’s nape stood on end as she anticipated the scent of smoke, only to find that it had at last cleared. But something more sinister lingered in its place: spilled blood and the potent chemical tang of a darker kind of alchemy.
I hereby pledge myself to Drevenor.
The oath danced on the tip of her tongue as she took in the torn tapestries hanging above the dais where she had graduated from novice alchemist to adept only weeks before. For a moment, she wondered if she was destined to walk among the ruins for ever. Heir to a fallen kingdom, survivor of a war-torn fortress, student of a ravaged academy . . . Perhaps she was cursed.
When Farissa approached, she was sure of it. ‘I cannot hold them off any longer, Elwren. The masters want answers. Thezmarr and the rulers want answers. How soon until the elixir is ready to replicate?’
Wren tried not to let her shoulders cave in. She fought desperately to keep her throat from closing as she met her former mentor’s gaze. ‘Farissa, I—’
But her voice cracked. Horror filled her as burning tears blurred her vision and her storm magic surged, as though it sensed the fracture in her armour. She felt lightning beneath her skin, a current she could surrender to so that the maelstrom of the past, her failings of the present, couldn’t drag her down, couldn’t break her apart.
Of all things, it was his voice that came to her, that filled her mind.
‘We survived. You and me. Together.’
A gentle hand guided her by her elbow. ‘Come with me, Elwren.’
In the more intimate setting of Farissa’s private quarters, seated at the small table by the bookshelves, the older woman said with unflinching frankness, ‘You’ve been unable to replicate it, haven’t you?’
Steeling herself against any further emotional breakdown, Wren gave a single nod of confirmation, shame flaming her cheeks.
If Farissa was shocked or angry, she didn’t show it. Instead, she sighed. ‘Drevenor demands a lot from its students. You more than most. Alchemy is all about transformation, knowledge and learning, and somewhere along the way, I have failed to guide you.’
‘Farissa, it’s not your fault—’
The older woman silenced her with a look. ‘You have been treated like a sage here, when you are but a newly graduated adept. I think because of the war I forget how young you are.’
‘I’m thirty—’
Farissa gave a wry smile. ‘And so? You think you should have all the answers? You think that every facet of this complicated world is your responsibility alone to bear? That you can stop a war on your own?’
‘I can try.’
‘Yes, you can try, Elwren . . . But you can also ask for help.’ The Master Alchemist leaned back in her chair. ‘The midrealms as we know them are changing. Kings and queens can be stripped of their magic . . . Warswords who were once the ultimate beacons of strength can be felled by a potion. And at the heart of it all is this.’
Farissa held up a familiar glass vial of iridescent liquid.
‘The mind is a blade, Elwren. Let’s see what ours can do together.’
Wren brought her research to Farissa’s quarters, and hours later, the two alchemists had reviewed every page of notes, every sample, every ingredient Wren had trialled. The robust bookshelves were almost bare, with countless volumes pulled from their stacks only to be rifled through and set aside on the floor.
Looking more than a little unhinged, grey fly-aways framing her face, Farissa surveyed the assorted vials. ‘You’re certain this is everything you used?’
‘Yes. I’ve checked everything to the point of madness,’ Wren told her, eyes gritty as she stared into the fire. The crackling hearth failed to soothe the sinking despair in her chest.
But Farissa paced around the table, picking items up, reading their labels and placing them back down, clicking her tongue in frustration, as though the answer were staring them right in the face.
‘We’ve been over it a hundred times,’ Wren said gently.
‘And we’ll review it a hundred more if necessary.’ Farissa picked up an empty jar. ‘Remind me what was in this?’
‘The binding agent,’ Wren replied. ‘The powdered leaves of that plant from Delmira. I discovered later that it was actually a common silvertide rose. They’re a hardy climber; they grow all over the midrealms.’
Farissa nodded. ‘Master Norlander would be pleased with you. Isolating the leaves is a well-established use for such a plant in lifelore.’
Wren made a noise of agreement, reaching for another book—
‘Wait,’ Farissa said suddenly, tipping the jar to dislodge any remnants. Only a fine dust remained. ‘You brought these leaves from Delmira?’
Wren’s brow furrowed as she slowly turned back to the older woman. ‘Yes, originally. And then once I identified what the plant was, I sourced it from the greenhouses here . . .’ She trailed off.
Farissa chewed her lip. ‘And you harvested the original leaves yourself?’
‘Yes, though the academy’s crop was in a far healthier state.’
‘What was the original growing site like?’ Farissa pressed.
‘Like everywhere else in Delmira: barren, poisoned land . . . Just a small patch of weeds in the cracked earth near my cottage. Honestly, I was surprised anything was growing there at all.’
‘And yet . . . you used it in your work.’
Wren folded her arms over her chest defensively. ‘And it was effective. Is it wrong to hypothesize that the same species of rose grown in far more nourishing conditions would serve as an even better binding agent?’
‘It’s not wrong,’ Farissa allowed with a small smile. ‘But did it do as hypothesized?’
Wren approached the table, taking the empty jar and the one containing her new supply from the greenhouse. At what point had she switched from one to the other? ‘I . . .’
‘I should have asked you this sooner.’ Farissa heaved an enormous tome from her shelves and set it down on the table, flipping to the table of contents, scanning it intensely. Biting her lip, Wren’s former master turned to a page full of botanical drawings, pointing to one of them. ‘Was this the flower?’
Wren stared at the page, scrutinizing the likeness. ‘The leaves are identical, yes, but the bush wasn’t blooming when I harvested, so the petals . . . I’m not sure.’
Not taking her eyes from the page, the older woman rubbed her temples. ‘I think one of two things has happened here . . . Either you misidentified the species – an easy thing to do when you’re not at the original site and don’t have the full plant available for observation – or there was something particular about the conditions there that affected your supplies from Delmira.’
Wren’s stomach bottomed out. She had never even considered that she might have misidentified the plant, or that the ruins of her homeland might have properties that could somehow favourably impact the plant life there.
‘I was arrogant,’ she murmured, hanging her head. ‘I didn’t question myself. I didn’t interrogate—’
‘You made a mistake,’ Farissa cut in.
‘A mistake that cost the midrealms weeks of time,’ Wren argued. ‘Time that could have been spent putting an end to this madness, had I not been so stupid—’
‘Stop.’ Farissa’s gaze was sharp as it met hers. ‘I will not watch you descend into the endless pit of what could have been. We need to look forward to what can be done.’
Wren searched Farissa’s eyes for the same hopelessness she herself felt, but she found none.
‘From here, there’s only one path left for you, Elwren.’
The air around Wren rippled, and tiny arcs of lightning danced between her fingers. She felt its current through her whole body as she breathed, ‘And that is?’
Farissa placed a hand on her shoulder, her grip firm, fierce determination burning in the depths of her eyes. ‘You must return to Delmira.’
CHAPTER 3
Torj
‘Do you want our kingdoms to be a place of peace? Join us in our fight for a better world’
– The People’s Vanguard
WITH THE TRAITOR’S words still ringing in their ears, Torj and Wilder travelled swiftly across the golden plains of Tver towards the south-west coast. Both Warswords hid the telltale symbols of rank on their arms. Torj wore a cloak and hood, concealing his silver hair. His war hammer was wrapped in canvas and strapped to his saddle. There was not much to be done about the impressive stallions they rode but to dull their gleaming black coats with dust from the road. There could be no reports back to the People’s Vanguard about their approach, not if they meant to extract Queen Reyna safely.
Riding beside Torj, Wilder patted the twin swords he’d tied to his own bags rather than wearing them across his back as he usually did. ‘Just two average men taking in the sights, eh, Bear Slayer?’
‘Speak for yourself. Nothing average about me, Hawthorne.’
Around them, dusk had fallen, and Torj couldn’t stop his gaze from lingering on the gilded hillsides and sweeping valleys. The last time he’d set foot in this kingdom had been in the war years, during the battle for the castle in the capital of Notos. It had hurt to see the lands drenched in darkness and swarming with shadow wraiths; the conflict was bloody and brutal, leaving their victory bittersweet. The time before that had been to continue his search for his missing grandmother, and before that, when he had faced the cursed bears that had earned him his moniker.
It hadn’t been all that long ago that he’d imagined bringing Wren here, just the two of them, showing her where the great teerah panthers roamed and where fields of wild thyme bloomed as far as the eye could see. He’d always thought she’d like to see it. He was hit with a wave of anguish at the thought that now she never would – not by his side, anyway.
They rode through the night and into the next morning. The long grass was kissed with dew in the golden dawn rays. A cool breeze carried the scent of salt from the distant coast, mingling with the earthy smell of damp soil and sending a shiver across the stretches of untamed fields. The creaking of leather beneath Torj brought another flash of Wren to his mind – flush against him in this very saddle, her backside rubbing over the hard length of him, causing a burst of pleasure that was over all too soon.
