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“I hardly have much else to do in my room other than read.”

The older woman chuckled into her hand, looking for a moment exactly like her sister. It made Wren want to cry. Why had it taken so long for her to witness her aunt’s laughter? When would they be able to simply be family, not fighters?

“I suppose I owe you an apology on that front,” Vienne said, as they continued through the slowly brightening forest. “But you are too impulsive and virtuous for your own good. It gets you into too much trouble, Wren. I had no choice but to keep you restrained for the sake of the rebellion. Verlanti has gained too much power in the last few years. There needs to be a balance.”

“And here I thought you only cared for the elves.”

Her aunt frowned. “While I was born here, my duty is to the Kingdom of Myths.”

“You don’t talk much about your guild,” Wren drawled, hoping Vienne would speak more on the secret organization that pulled the world’s strings from the shadows.

“Information is dangerous.”

“True. Are all your advisers part of the Kingdom of Myths?”

Vienne smiled. “Some, but not all.” An answer without really answering.

They lapsed into silence as they rode for a time.

“It was foolish to attack Lord Idril,” Vienne added after a while.

Wren shifted in her saddle. “He told you it was me?”

“Of course not. He’s much too proud to admit to such a thing. But I knew it had to be you. No one else would dare do such a thing.” Her aunt paused, looking uncomfortable. “Anneke would have been proud.” Her voice was gruff.

Wren badly wanted to talk to her aunt about her mother—and about how she could bear to work with the monster who had enslaved and destroyed her—but she didn’t know which words to say. Which questions to ask.

As if sensing Wren’s accusations, Vienne’s gaze shuttered and her lips pressed into a thin line.

The rest of their journey was silent, and by the time they reached Othos the streets were bustling with morning markets, but everyone seemed to be on edge.

Wren made sure her hair was covered and cast her gaze around to try to work out where Prince Cathal had been murdered. She looked for blood upon the cobblestones, or a section cordoned off with soldiers. But there was nothing.

Since Vienne hadn’t mentioned the prince’s death to her, Wren kept her question to herself. No need to reveal more than she should.

They arrived at a nearby inn and handed their horses to a stableboy. They didn’t enter the building but walked down the alley to a house of worship that hosted a tall stone tower. Her nose twitched and she suppressed a sneeze as they entered the building. The sweet incense was a bit much.

Vienne led her through the columns that circled the main cathedral to a small doorway that opened onto stairs. She suppressed a groan as they began their climb. Their steps echoed around them. Wren almost dropped down on her knees and said a prayer of thanks as they reached the landing.

Her aunt opened the door and Wren followed, glancing over her shoulder. The place gave her the creeps. It felt too confining. Like a trap.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said, closing the door behind them. She glanced around the room. There were several chairs, a table between them, and a full bed to her right covered in brightly colored linens.

No one else was there.

Dread crept down Wren’s spine. Did Vienne intend to imprison her here?

“No more excuses,” Wren growled. “I’m done being left in the dark.”

“I agree.” Her aunt wandered over to the narrow window, peering down at the street below as if looking for someone. Then she turned her sharp gaze to Wren. She leaned a hip against the white stone wall and crossed her arms. “Vadon have agreed to ally with us against Verlanti.”

Wren froze.Vadon?The southern kingdom?

“They’re just as bad as the Verlantians,” Wren muttered, disbelief and anger rising in her throat like bile. Rowen had been Vadonese, but he’d been raised by his grandparents on Lorne. Cal and Aileen had been forbidden to marry back when they were younger because of the prejudice of cross caste marriages, so they’d fled to the isles seeking refuge.

“They’re bigots,” she hissed.

“Not any more than Verlanti or the isles,” Vienne retorted.