Thorns & Fire, page 28
‘Nothing of note,’ Wren said dismissively.
‘Embers . . .’ he warned. Kipp was always full of schemes, and if his charge was getting caught up in something dangerous, he needed to know.
‘You had your secrets, and now I have mine,’ she replied. ‘Now hurry up. Zavier, Dessa and I have booked one of the workshop rooms.’
‘Another Warsword has gone missing,’ Cal told him as the two warriors stood guard outside the alchemy workshop.
‘What?’ Torj whirled to face him. ‘Who? When?’
‘I got a letter from Thezmarr this morning . . .’ Cal said slowly. ‘It’s Vernich.’
‘Vernich?’ Torj stared at his former protégé. ‘Vernich’s retired. He’s been in some fishing village for years.’
Cal shrugged. ‘I only know what I’ve been told. Apparently Esyllt keeps in touch with him and never heard back. When he sent some Guardians to investigate, they reported that his place was empty, and there were signs of a struggle . . .’
‘Fuck,’ Torj muttered. Vernich had always inspired controversy with his harsh brand of training methods and generally nasty demeanour, with Kipp bearing the brunt of his brutality as a shieldbearer. However, the war had shown everyone a different side of the older Warsword.
Torj pinched the bridge of his nose as shock rippled through him. Vernich Warner, the oldest of the three original Warswords from the shadow war, the warrior known as the Bloodletter, was missing.
Sighing, he said, ‘I know you have a complicated history with Vernich, but . . .’
‘He’s one of us,’ Cal finished with a nod. ‘Kipp forgave him during the war, and if he could do that after what Vernich did to him, then who am I to hold a grudge?’
‘Truth be told, I don’t know who I feel sorrier for,’ Torj replied. ‘Vernich, or the morons who made the mistake of capturing him . . .’
Cal laughed at that. ‘True. He’s a hard bastard, that’s for sure. Audra’s got people out looking. I’ve never seen her so fucking angry. Apparently, she developed a soft spot for him over the years—’
A scream of rage pierced the air, cutting Cal off.
Both Warswords burst into the workshop, and Torj didn’t know where to look first. Countless alchemy tools and bottles were suspended in the air, with Zavier standing in the middle, his face turned to the ceiling, his palms outstretched – summoning magic. On the far side of the room, Wren was shielding Dessa with her body, Torj’s dagger in one hand, a ball of lightning crackling in the other—
‘Zavier,’ she called, a note of panic in her voice. ‘Zavier, you have to calm down—’
But the Prince of Naarva gave another shout, and half the items in the air came crashing down. Glass splintered, flames burst into life in one corner—
‘I can’t save him,’ Zavier choked out. ‘Why can’t I save him?’
Cal was at his side, trying to bring him out of whatever trance he was in, shaking him by the shoulders.
‘I’ve failed them,’ Zavier murmured, sending more paraphernalia flying across the room.
Torj was at Wren’s side in a matter of strides, covering her body with his, blocking any flying debris from hitting her and Dessa.
‘Cal . . .’ he warned, as more glass shattered.
‘He won’t stop,’ Cal called desperately. Even with Zavier’s arms clamped to his sides with Furies-given strength, his summoning power raged on.
‘We have to sedate him,’ Dessa said from behind Wren. ‘It’s the only way.’
Wren was nodding, already reaching for her belt.
‘I can’t save him. I can’t save him,’ Zavier was still chanting.
Producing a vial, Wren tried to make a move for the prince—
‘You’re not going near him,’ Torj told her, snatching the potion from her hands. ‘Does he ingest this?’
For once, Wren didn’t argue; she simply nodded.
Flipping a table to act as a barrier between Zavier and his fellow alchemists, Torj strode right for him. ‘Get his mouth open,’ he ordered Cal.
His former protégé did exactly that, holding his charge’s nose until he gasped for air. Torj forced the small vial to Zavier’s lips and emptied its contents into his mouth.
Everything suspended in the air around them fell as Zavier slumped to the floor in Cal’s arms.
Torj didn’t waste any time. He was back at Wren’s side in seconds, scanning her for signs of injury.
‘Are you alright? Did he hurt you?’ he demanded.
Wren shook her head, dazed. ‘He . . . he just lost it. One minute he was telling us how the work on his opus wasn’t going to plan, and the next . . .’ Her hands were trembling.
Torj looked to Dessa. ‘Are you hurt?’
Wren’s friend wore a similar expression of shock. ‘I don’t think so . . .’
‘I’m taking him to Farissa,’ Cal said from where he stood by the door, Zavier still unconscious in his arms. Cal’s face was pale, stricken with the guilt that Torj knew all too well.
‘You couldn’t have done anything differently,’ Torj told him.
Cal only shook his head.
‘Tell Farissa we gave him valerian root essence,’ Wren said, voice wavering. ‘If she agrees, I think he should be sedated for the rest of the night.’
‘I’ll go with them,’ Dessa announced, following as Cal carried Zavier from the workshop.
Torj watched Wren take in the destruction around them. ‘Word of this can’t get out,’ she murmured. ‘Both Zavier and me having trouble controlling our magic? The People’s Vanguard would use it to unite the rest of the midrealms against us.’ She crouched down in the mess, retrieving Torj’s dagger with trembling fingers and offering it to him. ‘I think it’s time I gave this back to you.’
But Torj closed his hands over hers and pushed it back to her. ‘No. I think it’s time I taught you how to use it.’
CHAPTER 45
Torj
‘Balance kept is ground never lost’
– The Guardian’s Handbook: Principles and Practises of Personal Protection
‘I TOLD YOU it wasn’t designed for hands as small as yours,’ Torj said, surveying Wren as she held his dagger. ‘The weight and balance are wrong for you.’
‘I thought you were going to teach me. Not stand here complaining,’ Wren replied.
‘I will, but you should really use a different dagger. We could get you one made.’
‘I like this one.’
‘Stubborn woman.’ Torj shook his head. ‘Show me your grip first, then.’
They stood in the grounds just beyond the greenhouses, in a clearing on the edge of Evermere Forest. Wren wore her usual simple gown, and while Torj had been tempted to tell her that trousers would be more practical, he decided that when it came to the poisoner, he had to pick his battles wisely.
Wren held the dagger out in her right hand, fingers curled around the grip. ‘Like this?’
‘Keep your hold firm, but not unyielding,’ he told her, his callused hand enveloping hers as he adjusted her fingers on the hilt. The simple touch sent a familiar ache through his chest. ‘Too tight and you’ll compromise your own ability to move and adapt. Too loose . . .’ He knocked the blade from her grasp easily, catching it by the tip with his free hand. ‘And you’re weaponless.’
The move brought him closer than Torj had intended, and her subtle intake of breath didn’t escape his notice. He tried to ignore the intoxicating scent of her, his rough palm tingling where it pressed against hers as he returned the dagger. ‘A dagger is good for when you’re too close to throw your poisons and potions, and when you’ve already been physically overpowered.’
‘Is my boot the best place to keep it?’ she asked. ‘You change between keeping it there or sheathed at your side.’
‘It matters less for me,’ he explained. ‘People expect a Warsword to be armed to the teeth. If I have one in my belt, I likely also have one in my boot. You, however, have the element of surprise, the advantage of being underestimated . . .’ He gestured to her skirts. ‘Keep it where it’s comfortable and within easy reach. In your boot or strapped to your thigh beneath your layers is usually best.’
Wren nodded. ‘I’ll get something fashioned.’
Torj loved watching her mind work. He could see the plans forming in the furrows of her brow. ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself there,’ he told her, suppressing a smile. ‘Show me your grip again.’
She did. Torj tried to knock the blade from her grasp again, but Wren held firm.
‘Good!’ He shifted and looked to her feet. ‘Now your positioning. It’s the same principles you’ve learned before, but everything flows from a solid foundation.’ He nudged her stance wider with the toe of his boot.
Wren took to it easily. ‘Thea drilled this one into me while you were gone.’
A tug of regret threatened to drag Torj under – that he hadn’t been here for her, that someone else had taught her in his place – but he squashed those feelings down. ‘Thea did a good job,’ he said instead.
‘I’d expect nothing else,’ Wren replied. ‘Now what?’
Torj guided her arm into a defensive position, hyper-aware of how she tensed at his touch. There was a time when she would have melted into him at such a moment. ‘Have you ever heard of the warrior’s second?’ he asked.
‘Only once. You mentioned it, when you talked about . . .’ She trailed off.
‘The soul bond?’ he finished for her with a note of regret. ‘Well, it’s something we’re taught as shieldbearers. When you’re fighting for your life, there’s a surreal moment, right before one opponent claims victory. It’s the intake of breath before the slice of a blade, or the swing of a hammer . . . The warrior’s second where we make our actions count, make them worthy of legend. I hope you never have to use your warrior’s second, but if you do . . .’ Torj demonstrated a sharp upwards motion. ‘In a close fight, you’ll likely be rivalled for strength, so it’ll be rare that you’re attacking from above. Mostly, you’ll be wanting to use uppercut movements. Show me.’
When she lunged, he caught her wrist – gently, always gently with her. Instead of releasing her, his Warsword instincts took over and he pulled her closer. Suddenly she was pressed against him, her dagger arm trapped between them, and the familiar softness of her nearly broke his composure.
‘This is why you need to be lighter on your feet.’ His voice came out rougher than intended as he tried desperately to focus on the lesson rather than how right she felt against him.
But he’d lost the privilege to let his touch linger. He stepped around to face her, missing her warmth immediately.
‘Try again, and remember to avoid striking bone where you can. The blade can get stuck, and if you don’t have the strength to pull it out, you’ve just lost your weapon. Not to mention – really pissed someone off.’
Wren laughed, and the sound lifted the weight on Torj’s chest, if only for a moment.
‘Mirror me,’ he told her, leading her through a series of simple movements, watching her determination build with each repetition. She’d always been a fast learner; it was one of the countless things he admired about her. As good a teacher as he was, he wished he could be half as efficient at mending what he’d broken between them.
‘You’re better than I expected,’ he admitted. ‘You weren’t with Thea that long.’
Wren smiled sadly. ‘I guess I never told you about Dancing Alchemists, then?’
‘Dancing what?’ Torj asked, stepping back and pausing their lesson for a moment. Another laugh escaped Wren, and he found himself smiling back at her.
‘It was a game Thea, Ida, Sam and I used to play back at Thezmarr when we were younger,’ she explained. ‘It basically involved throwing knives at each other’s feet and jumping out of the way.’
‘What in the midrealms was the point of that?’ he blurted.
Wren grinned. ‘To avoid losing a toe?’
Torj chuckled. ‘Good to know the alchemists of Thezmarr were just as foolhardy as the shieldbearers.’
‘It was Thea’s idea,’ Wren offered with a shrug.
‘I don’t doubt it.’
Torj showed her all the basic techniques with a dagger – blocks, strikes, footwork patterns. But with each exchange, the air between them grew heavier with unspoken tension. Every correction became an excuse for contact, every demonstration a dance of desire that simmered just below the surface, despite the hurt that was buried beneath Wren’s determination – the hurt that he had put there.
Torj forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. ‘In close quarters like this, your enemy’s sword is useless. But a blade like this . . .’ He guided the dagger in her hand in an upwards motion that could pierce between an opponent’s ribs. ‘That’s dangerous.’
Like the way you’re looking at me now, he thought as Wren’s stormy eyes met his.
‘When you fight with a dagger, you need to be efficient. Every movement should have a purpose, no wasted motion,’ he told her. Unable to resist, he closed the short distance between them in two fluid steps. One hand caught her blade while the other settled at the small of her back. His traitorous heart raced. ‘Like that.’
Her breath hitched. ‘Very efficient.’
‘Do you want to try?’ he asked, using every ounce of willpower he had not to pull her into his arms.
‘No,’ she said, stepping away, allowing the cold to sweep in. ‘I think I’ve got the hang of it for now.’
Torj hated the distance, hated the pain still lacing her words. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ she told him firmly, handing his dagger back. ‘We’re done here.’
CHAPTER 46
Wren
‘The thicket’s thorns ask no permission to protect what blooms within’
– Elwren Embervale’s notes and observations
WREN WAS SITTING on her bed, having stared at the same page of her textbook for over an hour. Zavier was still in the infirmary. When he had woken from the initial dose of valerian root, he had had another episode, resulting in a healer being injured. Farissa had told Wren they would keep him sedated until he was no longer a threat to others or himself.
Dessa had been withdrawn ever since, and Torj . . . Torj still made her heart hurt. Wren winced as she tried to palm the grit from her bloodshot, puffy eyes. She was so tired of crying. So tired of feeling broken. Her head was throbbing, and she was considering making up a sleeping draft when her door creaked open.
With her vision somewhat blurred, she sent her poison-tipped hairpin hurling at her uninvited guest.
‘Fuck!’ Thea shouted, jumping several feet in the air from where the weapon in question had embedded itself between her feet. ‘You haven’t lost your touch, Wren.’
At the sight of her sister’s familiar grin, Wren couldn’t help it; she fell apart. Fresh tears tracked down her face and she let out a sob.
‘Wren . . .’ Thea murmured, her grin fading instantly as she rushed to the bedside. ‘What’s wrong? What happened? Who do I need to kill?’
Wren threw her arms around Thea’s neck. ‘It’s good to see you, Thee.’
Thea squeezed her tightly, and despite the armour she was wearing, Wren felt the warmth of her, felt the gentle hand cradling the back of her head and stroking her hair.
Wren was usually the first to break away from an embrace. Sometimes the contact became too much, made her feel too vulnerable, like she might crack if she was given the support to do so. But she had already cracked, had already broken, and Thea was here to see her in all her messy glory. And so Wren clung to her sister for a few moments longer, the tears still falling.
At last, she peeled herself away and palmed at the wet tracks on her face. ‘You’re here.’
Thea surveyed her, gaze lingering on the dark circles Wren knew shadowed her eyes, and the swollen red tip of her nose. But her sister didn’t ask, not yet. Instead, she nodded. ‘I would have been here sooner were it not for Queen Reyna. She’s been a royal pain in my arse ever since I met up with her and Wilder. I practically had to drag her here.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ Wren said, her voice threatening to crack again. ‘I . . . I need you.’
Thea made a show of looking her over again. ‘Clearly.’
A hoarse laugh bubbled out of Wren at that.
Thea pushed a pile of books off the bed, the tomes thudding to the ground. She settled herself on the other end of the mattress, shoving a few pillows behind her and looking to Wren with surprise. ‘You must be out of sorts if you didn’t round on me for not treating the books with respect.’
Wren motioned to her blotchy face. ‘Clearly,’ she echoed back.
Thea stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankle, and pinned Wren with a knowing look. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t about Delmira and the political nightmare unfolding around us.’
‘No.’
‘The Bear Slayer?’ Thea guessed. ‘He’s standing guard out there like the midrealms’ moodiest statue. Hardly said two words to me. Do you want to talk about it?’
The thing between Wren and the Warsword was beautiful, like the rose she had been so desperately trying to propagate . . . But it was not without its thorns, and it had left them both bleeding more times than she could count.
‘Eventually,’ Wren told her. She got up and went to the washroom. After splashing cold water on her face, she returned to Thea. ‘It’s been a while since I sparred properly.’
Thea grinned. ‘Then say no more, sister. Let’s go.’
Wren rummaged through her trunk of clothes and found some leggings and a form-fitting shirt. She made quick work of stripping out of her dress and apron and into the new garb while Thea perused her workbench. When she had laced her boots and fastened her cloak, she reached for the door. ‘Coming?’
Thea surged forwards, and Wren soon realized it was to place herself between Wren and Torj, who was indeed standing guard outside. He was as handsome as ever, even with the dark smudges beneath his eyes and his broad shoulders caving slightly forwards.
