Thorns & Fire, page 31
‘Fuck,’ Wilder hissed, staring at the black ribbons swirling within. ‘I haven’t seen it in years . . . And I’d hoped I never would again.’
Torj grunted in agreement. ‘You and me both, brother. But here it is. Shadow magic, in the flesh.’
‘We knew they were using it in some form . . . but it’s different, seeing it for yourself,’ Wilder said slowly.
‘Should we take it with us?’ Torj considered the bottle. He didn’t want to touch the damn thing. He’d dealt with enough darkness to last a lifetime. ‘We don’t know how volatile it is . . .’
Wilder seemed transfixed by the substance. ‘It’s too dangerous to leave here. I’ll take it to Audra as soon as we’re back.’ He wrapped the glass in a discarded rag and pocketed it, before turning to survey the rest of the laboratory. ‘What are we looking for, exactly? Let’s get it and go.’
Torj rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’ve never seen it in a vessel,’ he admitted. ‘Only what it looks like when it’s been used on weapons. But it’s got a strange shimmer to it, and it smells like oranges.’
Wilder stared at him for a moment. ‘Smells like oranges? Got it.’
Torj continued his exploration of the workroom, rifling through piles of parchment for clues, noticing that one of the crucibles was still warm to the touch. ‘They can’t have left here too long ago,’ he said to Wilder.
‘I’d come to the same conclusion,’ his friend replied, passing his hand over a stove. ‘The furnace is still hot.’
Carefully, they navigated the landscape of ongoing experiments, careful not to trigger any reactions. Scouring the clutter, Torj wondered if working in chaos was an alchemist trait in general. He was picturing Wren hunched over her bench when he detected the faintest hint of citrus in the air.
Following his nose like a hound, he reached the back of the workroom, where a greying sheet covered something. He reached for the fabric—
‘Elderbrock?’ Wilder called, a note of alarm in his voice.
Torj whirled around. ‘What is it?’
Wilder was pointing to the ceiling, where vapour was billowing from the vents. ‘Time to go, I think.’
Torj ripped the sheet away from what turned out to be a crate of vials. He recognized the substance instantly. ‘This is it—’
‘We gotta go,’ Wilder called, not taking his eyes off the increasing clouds of vapour pouring from the vents.
Torj wrenched the lid from the crate and, shouldering his hammer, grabbed as many vials as he could, stuffing them in his pockets.
‘Torj! Now!’
Torj launched into action, sprinting towards the door with his friend. They wove through the various stations, not caring about disturbing the equipment this time, knocking over several cauldrons in the process.
‘Fuck,’ Wilder shouted. ‘I can feel that stuff on my skin. I—’
A thunderous sound shook the whole room.
And Torj looked up in time to see the solid iron door to the antechamber crash closed.
CHAPTER 50
Wren
‘Between the storm and silence lies the breath that changes the world’
– A Recent History of the Shadow War
IN HER ENTIRE life, Wren had never seen Farissa smoke. But when she, Dessa and Thea finished explaining their theory, her former mentor stuck a pipe between her teeth, lit whatever was in its bowl, and inhaled deeply. Farissa braced herself against the mantle above the hearth and closed her eyes, exhaling a stream of smoke before she faced them.
‘To be clear, you believe that it’s not Delmira as a place, nor a particular strain of plant that made your original cure work, Elwren?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You believe that Delmira’s rebirth and your inconsistent results with the counter-alchemy are a result of storm magic?’
‘Yes,’ Wren answered, Thea and Dessa both echoing the sentiment behind her.
Farissa chewed on the end of her pipe thoughtfully. ‘It’s possible,’ she ventured.
‘It explains everything,’ Wren said. ‘When I first arrived in Delmira after the war, it was all yellowed lands and little life but for some greying heather and a few trees. Everything else seemed like a wasteland.’
‘And you were there for five years, correct?’ Farissa asked.
‘Yes. And nothing grew there, I swear it. I would have written to you, I would have—’
‘You are not on trial, Elwren,’ Farissa said gently. ‘I’m merely thinking aloud.’
‘Nothing changed in that time,’ Wren reiterated.
‘I’m not sure that’s true . . .’
Wren’s gaze shot to her former mentor. ‘What?’
Farissa gave her a sad smile. ‘You changed, Elwren, and that is just as significant. However, what I’m interested in is the rate of growth. For five years after you first used storm magic in Delmira, nothing changed, nothing grew. And yet the meadow here, past the gardens . . . You used your magic there only days ago and already you have seen its impact?’
Dessa stepped forwards, her voice eager. ‘We think Wren’s storm power has grown stronger over the years, so its effects are more intense – accelerated, even.’
Farissa nodded. ‘It has been known to happen. As a wielder matures, so does their magic.’
‘I have another theory,’ Thea said, twirling one of her star-shaped blades between her fingers.
‘You do?’ Wren asked, turning to her in surprise.
Her sister grinned. ‘Perhaps the effects of your magic can also be more powerful when the place in question has some sort of significance to you.’
Wren’s face flushed, and she silently swore she’d never tell Thea another thing.
But Farissa looked thoughtful. ‘Also possible . . . Thea, what about your magic? Have you seen any similar results?’
‘I usually leave a trail of torn-out monster hearts in my wake, not flowers,’ the Warsword answered. ‘So no, not that I can recall.’
‘Then you should—’
‘We already got her to use her magic on some nearby land,’ Wren assured her. ‘If it’s anything like mine apparently is, we should know within a day or so.’
Farissa refilled her pipe and lit it once more. ‘Then, Elwren, I believe you have work to do?’
Wren nodded, her mind already racing as she reached for the door.
‘I’ll gather the masters,’ Farissa said. ‘They’ll be ready when you are.’
For the first time in months, Wren knew exactly what she was doing. Dessa and Thea helped her gather everything she needed from the conservatory and bring it to her room. One of the academy workshops would have been preferable, but she couldn’t risk prying eyes or interruptions. Once she was settled, she consulted her notes on the variant that had saved Zavier’s life and organized her equipment: crucibles, vials of blood, shallow dishes containing the dark alchemy she wished to counter. She harvested tooth-edged leaves from the Delmirian silvertide rose and ground them up in her mortar and pestle, her mind flitting from one possibility to the next. It hadn’t been a single plant her storm magic had affected. If she could enhance the other natural components of the cure . . . there was no telling how powerful it would be against the enemy.
While she worked, Dessa and Thea played cards on her bed. The quiet hum of their presence didn’t distract her, but served as a reminder of their support, their love. While it made her heart ache for Ida and Sam, it also made her grateful that she’d known them, and that even without them, all was not lost.
The nape of Wren’s neck prickled.
She looked up, expecting to see someone watching her, but Dessa and Thea were immersed in their game.
Turning back to her workbench with a frown, Wren checked the crucible she had over a small burner. The concoction within was simmering, just as it should—
A shiver raked down Wren’s spine and she startled, whirling around.
Dessa was laughing gleefully at the hand she had just played, but Thea, with her warrior instincts, had noticed and was looking around suspiciously.
‘What is it?’ she asked, getting up to check the doors.
‘I . . . I just had a strange feeling,’ Wren murmured. Her fingers tightened around the vial she held, her earlier ease evaporating. The prickling at her nape intensified, spreading across her shoulders and arms. She shifted at her bench, eyes darting around the room, searching for the source of her disquiet.
‘Strange how?’ Thea pressed, her eyes bright with concern.
‘I . . .’ Wren’s voice trailed off as a new sensation overtook her. A faint golden glow began to emanate from her skin, visible only in the shadows cast by her sleeves. She clenched her fist, trying to quell the light, but it pulsed stronger, in time with her quickening heartbeat.
‘What are you doing, Wren?’ Thea asked.
Wren glanced from the gilded glow across her skin to her sister. Thea’s blank expression told Wren that she couldn’t see it, which made Wren wonder if she was finally losing her mind . . .
A golden thread. That was the description of a soul bond manifesting. But . . . Torj had destroyed it. He had told her himself. And she had felt it – every agonizing second of it – when he had.
Still, the magic crept across her body, tugging something inside her, something familiar. Wren opened her mouth to respond to Thea, but instead, a gasp escaped her lips as a vision flashed before her eyes.
Dark stone walls. The acrid scent of chemicals. A feeling of suffocation – and Torj’s face, contorted in pain.
‘Wren,’ Thea said, more loudly this time. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘It’s Torj,’ Wren heard herself say, her voice tight. ‘Something’s happened.’
Thea’s expression hardened instantly. She didn’t question how Wren knew. She simply gathered her swords. ‘Where?’
Wren’s legs were unsteady as she stepped away from her work, the cure forgotten. As she took a step, she felt it – an invisible thread tugging at her chest, pulling her towards the door. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I can feel it. This way.’ She turned back to call to her friend, ‘Dessa? Can you please watch over these potions?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. In another thirty minutes you can take them off the flames and let them rest. Don’t let anyone in here. Don’t let anyone else touch anything.’
Dessa nodded. ‘Consider it done.’
The Embervale sisters left the academy. Feeling panicked as the foreign sensation grew stronger and more gold flickered in her vision, Wren turned to Thea.
‘I think we need to go to Highguard. We’re going to need a horse.’
‘Luckily I have one of those,’ Thea replied. ‘And he’s the fastest Tverrian stallion there is.’
Thea wasn’t boasting; her mount, ridiculously named Pancake, streaked across the grounds and onto the road to the city with both women in his saddle. Wren clung to her sister for dear life, unable to remember the last time she had ridden at a speed this terrifying.
Neither storm wielder spoke as the stallion hurtled towards Highguard. The scenery was nothing but a dark blur either side of them, the crisp night air stinging Wren’s cheeks.
At last, the torchlight of the city came into view, and Thea guided them through the gates. ‘Now where?’ she asked.
The cord grew taut within Wren. ‘Follow the road to Old Town.’
Highguard’s underbelly was as she remembered it, with its neglected buildings and dark side streets. Raucous noise from various taverns spilled out across the cobbles.
‘On foot from here,’ Wren said.
They dismounted Thea’s stallion and the Warsword tied his reins to a tethering post outside the Happy Harpy.
‘You’re not worried he’ll get stolen?’ Wren asked.
Thea simply scoffed. ‘I’d like to see someone try.’
As they moved down the street, the taverns’ noise seemed to fade, replaced by a strange, hollow ringing in Wren’s ears. The pulling sensation grew stronger with each step, urging her to move faster.
‘Wren,’ Thea murmured, a note of worry escaping. ‘Is Wilder with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Wren replied, following that strange tug to the left, past several storefronts. ‘Stay close.’
‘I always do,’ Thea replied, gripping the pommel of the sword at her belt.
As they hurried down the winding street, the glow on Wren’s skin intensified, and she felt her connection to Torj growing stronger.
This was it – the thing he had supposedly destroyed, guiding her to him. Soul to soul. It didn’t matter how it had survived or returned. All that mattered was that it helped her save him.
Flashes of his surroundings flooded her mind as she followed. Crucibles and moulds; a furnace and a drying rack for herbs. It was an alchemy workshop . . . but here?
She drew to a stop outside a rundown cobbler’s shop – the door was open, and it was empty.
‘Wren?’ Thea asked from the doorway.
Wren found herself standing at the top of a stone staircase that spiralled deep underground. A cabinet had been pushed aside to reveal the secret entrance, and she knew in her bones that Torj was somewhere beyond.
Thea made to take the lead, but Wren thrust out a hand. ‘Wait.’ She rummaged through her satchel and pulled out two masks, handing one to her sister. ‘Wear this.’
Both women tied the fabric around the lower half of their faces, and Wren checked the supplies in her belt.
‘Ready?’ Thea asked.
Wren nodded. The invisible force was insistent, drawing her closer, guiding her to Torj. ‘Downstairs.’
Heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread, Wren allowed Thea to lead. She wasn’t so proud that she didn’t recognize the value of having a Warsword in her arsenal.
As they descended the stone steps, the acrid smell of chemicals grew stronger, mingling with the damp, musty air. Shouting echoed from below, and there was a distant sound of shattering glass. Wren unsheathed her poison-tipped dagger and clutched a bottle of wild draketail in her other hand.
The clang of steel rang out, reverberating up the stairwell. When Thea and Wren burst into the antechamber below, they were met with chaos.
An iron door lay twisted on the floor, torn from its hinges by either a Warsword or an alchemical explosion. There was too much smoke and madness to know for sure. Fighting had spilled out from a laboratory. Plumes of vapour evaporated as they touched the fresh air of the antechamber.
Thea threw herself into the fray at once, her blade a blur of motion, but Wren saw it instantly: though it should have been an easy fight, the alchemists’ knowledge of the space gave them a deadly advantage. Vats of acid were flying in the direction of Wilder, Thea and Torj – the latter cursing as liquid splashed across his boot and ate through the leather with a hiss.
The smell of burnt hair threatened to drag Wren back into the past, to a different battle. Her throat closed up, her stomach churning as that familiar panic set in—
‘Embers!’
That name was her anchor to him, and she followed it up to the surface.
Wren darted out from her cover, her mind racing through the contents of her belt. She threw her own concoctions with practised precision. A vial of widow’s ash smashed against the wall, releasing a cloud of concentrated spores that had a masked man screaming and scratching at his exposed arms, raw and red with an instant rash. Parcels of soot root powder flew from her hand, a dark mass blooming, temporarily blocking the Warswords from sight so they could advance.
When she got close enough, Wren unleashed a dusting of brugmansia powder, reduced to its hallucinogenic properties. An enemy alchemist inhaled it and staggered, his eyes going wide as he began swatting at invisible assailants.
Where the Warswords couldn’t swing their blades for fear of knocking the lethal potions and experiments, Wren wielded weapons of her own making. And she wielded them well. The coughing and shrieks around her were all the confirmation she needed that she was hitting her marks, that she was a worthy player in this fight.
Another band of masked alchemists swarmed in, alerted by their comrades. A glass sphere went hurtling towards Torj from across the room.
Wren didn’t think. She flung her hand out, lightning shooting from her fingertips, knocking the projectile from Torj’s path. Something shattered in the distance—
Wren’s heart seized as she watched it unfold. Her lightning was encased by the strange, shimmering substance that had spilled across the floor. A silvery, fluid-like essence began to separate from the rest, moving with an almost sentient quality. It started to glow faintly, pulsing in a rhythm that reminded her of a heartbeat.
Realization hit her like a blow.
The silvery essence represented pure magical energy, distinct from any royal blood itself. The enemy’s alchemy didn’t target the blood directly, but rather the magic intertwined with it. It was happening before her very eyes, penetrating the magical element, showing her just how her cure worked against it.
Wren threw another small bolt of lightning, watching the alchemy react. It wasn’t built on royal blood and bloodlines. It was built on the very fabric of magic itself.
Seeing what she was discovering, some of their opponents attempted to shatter the surrounding equipment and work.
‘We can’t let them destroy the workshop any further,’ she shouted, noting the array of volatile potions bubbling in crucibles. She couldn’t stand by and watch it destroyed, not when she needed it—
A lanky alchemist with a shock of white hair caught her eye. He was working furiously at a table, mixing reagents with trembling hands. Whatever he was concocting, Wren knew it couldn’t be good.
‘Thea!’ she called out, gesturing towards the white-haired enemy. ‘Cover me!’
As Thea nodded and moved to intercept anyone who might interfere, Wren sprinted towards the table. The alchemist looked up, his eyes widening in recognition. He reached for a beaker of swirling, opalescent liquid.
Time seemed to slow.
