Page 79 of Iron & Embers (The Ashes of Thezmarr #1)

CHAPTER 79

Wren

‘There is nothing so poisonous as that which the mind conjures’

– The Poisoner’s Handbook

A S W REN AND her companions descended into the dark depths of the tunnel, the air grew thick with the scent of wet stone. Any faint light from the forest canopy vanished behind them as the path wound deeper still.

‘Any guesses as to what’s next?’ Zavier mused, turning another corner, where torches illuminated the path ahead.

‘A flood of poisoned water?’ Wren offered. ‘A cursed mountain drake?’

Zavier snorted. ‘What about an arachne nest?’

‘Or plague of some kind?’

‘That’s not funny,’ Dessa said sharply. ‘We’ve already been abducted, tortured and nearly killed by our own peers.’

Wren exchanged a look with Zavier, and they stifled unhinged laughter.

The number of torches increased as they moved further into the strange cavern, casting a golden glow across what greeted them at the end of the tunnel. The passageway widened into what appeared to be a sprawling maze of stone, its corridors stretching out before them – an array of options, all likely housing their own unique brand of doom. Columns of ancient granite loomed overhead, their surfaces etched with markings Wren didn’t recognize, languages and runes she didn’t understand.

‘Where is everyone?’ Wren murmured, staring into the maze, her skin crawling. She’d been sure some of the cohort would have caught up with them by now, and that they themselves might have happened upon Selene, Alarik and Gideon...The ninety-second intervals between teams were a mere eye-blink in the scheme of the horrors they had faced so far.

The trio followed the stone path, sticking close together as the maze offered various twists and turns – diversions from the main route, or so it felt. With each step, Wren scanned her surroundings, her senses alert and honed to a keen razor’s edge, her blood still roaring in her ears from her exertions in the forest.

It was only when they came to a strange circular opening in the labyrinth that they drew to a stop. Slowly, they approached the centre.

‘Do you think this is the heart of the maze?’ Dessa asked quietly. ‘Does this mean we’ve finished the Gauntlet?’

The floor was covered in elaborate carvings, which were almost dizzying to look upon.

Unease roiled in Wren’s gut. ‘I don’t—’

Something clicked. Wren lurched, arms flailing as the floor shifted, turning beneath them like a dial. Both Dessa and Zavier stumbled as well, the three of them fighting to stay upright as the centre of the labyrinth turned.

A strange mist released from the carvings.

‘Cover your mouth and nose!’ Wren shouted as the white fog drifted up between them.

But she was too late. A smoky, bittersweet smell tickled her nose.

Dessa surged for the archway on the far side. Wren grabbed her arm. ‘Dessa—’

‘I can hear my father,’ she rasped, struggling against Wren’s hold. ‘He’s calling me, he needs me—’

To Wren’s shock, Zavier, too, was moving towards another arched tunnel that had appeared beyond the centre.

‘Zavier? What are you doing?’

‘My brother...’ he murmured, reaching the threshold as though in a trance.

Still holding on to Dessa, Wren listened. She could hear no one calling her friends, could hear nothing but the drip of moisture down the stone walls and the hiss of the vapour as it was released at their feet.

Suddenly, Dessa shoved her, and Wren went toppling back. Dessa disappeared into the tunnel beyond. Wren whipped her head around in time to see Zavier glance back at her before he, too, sprinted into the passage before him, calling out to his brother.

Wren got to her feet and paced the circular space, wondering where the rest of the cohort was –

Then, she heard them.

Sam.

Ida.

Anya.

‘Wren!’ Sam called from one of the tunnels. ‘Wren, where are you?’

Sam was nearby. The note of panic in her voice spurred Wren into action.

Without thinking, she surged for the passageway just as her friends had done before her. She sprinted down the path, cool air whipping around her, her bun coming loose from its pin.

It was dark in the tunnel, but she didn’t care. She ran, her friends’ and her sister’s voices growing stronger with every stride.

‘Sam!’ she shouted, heart hammering against her sternum. ‘Ida! Anya! I’m coming!’

As Wren rounded another corner, she skidded to a halt, a broken sob on her lips.

For there they stood.

Sam and Ida, wearing their grey Thezmarr aprons, baskets of herbs and flowers hanging from the crooks of their elbows.

And Anya, her green eyes bright, her scythe held loose at her side.

‘Come with us,’ Anya said, smiling as she motioned towards the other end of the tunnel.

Ida reached for her. ‘You’re finally here...’

‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Sam added.

Tears stung Wren’s eyes. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she croaked, stumbling towards them. ‘I’ve missed you all so much.’

‘We know,’ Anya replied, her voice gentle, more than it ever had been in life. ‘You don’t have to miss us any more. We’re nearly there.’

‘Where?’ Wren asked, closing the gap between them.

‘Far away from this awful place,’ Ida told her.

Wren didn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Not truly. Not since she’d lost herself in the Bloodwoods all those years ago in the Bear Slayer’s arms. But now, she let her tears fall, feeling them track through the grime on her face. She let that dam within burst, grief spilling over its banks in a colossal wave.

A whimper escaped her as she looked upon her friends, her sister. They had not aged a day, not even after half a decade. Those years had been robbed from them; they would never be as old as she was, and Wren struggled to breathe against the weight of it all, unable to fill her lungs with enough air, no matter how hard she gasped.

‘All will be well, Wren,’ Anya said. ‘You just have to come with us.’

Ida’s smile was nothing but kindness and reassurance. ‘It’s not far...’

Wracked with sobs, Wren shook her head. ‘You’re all dead. You’re not really here...’

Sam was still smiling. ‘But we are.’

‘No,’ Wren rasped, choking back her cries. ‘You died five years ago. And I have grieved for you ever since.’

With trembling hands, she palmed away her tears, her heart pounding against her ribcage like a desperate prisoner seeking escape, each beat reverberating in her ears like the drums of the war she’d survived – the war that held her last memories of them all.

There on the spiked walls of Thezmarr, she saw the brutalized severed heads of Sam and Ida: eyes plucked out, faces streaked with blood, cries of terror frozen on their open mouths.

Anya’s broken body flashed before her next, the light leaving her sister’s eyes.

Each inhalation was a struggle, Wren’s chest rising and falling in erratic spasms. ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ she told them hoarsely.

There were countless concoctions, thousands of plants that could produce hallucinations, that could bring one’s darkest moments to the surface. This was one of them; Wren knew it in her bones. And yet she couldn’t help but drink in the sight of them, whole and unharmed.

It had been so long. So painful without them.

‘You’re not real,’ she whispered, pressing a hand to her aching chest before reaching for her belt of potions.

All her dried iruseed was gone. But she needed something far more potent to bring herself out of this mirage. Wren grasped desperately for something, anything, to anchor her fraying mind.

That presence in her chest, that kernel of shared magic pulsed, a calling from somewhere far away.

She had to go back.

Her fingertips found a small vial she hadn’t dared use yet. A powerful combination of powdered guarana, ephedra and cassine...

Fighting back the overwhelming urge to collapse, to double over into her grief, Wren poured the fine dust onto the back of her hand and inhaled it sharply.

Sam, Ida and Anya watched her wordlessly.

Their forms suddenly flickered.

‘Goodbye,’ Wren murmured, not tearing her eyes from the women she’d loved and lost.

As she swayed, she could smell the lavender scent drifting from Sam and Ida’s baskets. She followed that pull within her chest, that strange power guiding her elsewhere, taking her home...

She pictured sea-deep blue eyes, a lock of silver hair.

And slowly, agonizingly, Wren began to claw her way back to the surface, fighting against the suffocating tide of grief and panic with every ounce of willpower she possessed.

Her friends and her sister faded. And as the darkness began to recede, Wren closed her eyes and grounded herself in her surroundings, using her senses as moorings to the present moment. The rich scent of damp earth. The coolness of the stone walls as she pressed her fingertips to them. The soft glow of the torchlight as she opened her eyes at last.

When she did, she was with Zavier and Dessa once more. Dessa was tipping a small vial of something clear to her lips.

‘We’re alright,’ her friend said. ‘You’re alright.’

Lavender , Wren realized. She could still smell lavender. Her eyes focused, meeting Dessa’s.

‘You told me it has a calming effect,’ Dessa explained, glancing over at Zavier, who was on his knees, wiping the sweat from his brow.

‘Hallucinations,’ he panted, spitting on the ground. ‘I preferred the torture chamber.’

Wren staggered to her feet, and together she and Dessa helped Zavier up.

There was a loud, metallic groan, and a few feet away, a new passageway opened. This time, when the light flooded the chamber and Wren blinked the world back into focus, there were no more Gauntlet trials beyond. Instead, she saw the great hall of Drevenor.

Together, the trio limped towards it.

Wren felt that same surge of magic in her chest. But it was not from within. It was from somewhere beyond.

And yet it was familiar. In a way that she knew deep in her soul.

Wren and her team burst into the hall. But it was not the masters she sought with her gaze.

Ignoring the long tables adorned with silverware and goblets, the cloches gleaming in the centre beneath the glowing chandeliers, her eyes went to the towering figure at the heart of it all.

Bear Slayer. Warsword.

Lightning-kissed. Storm-blessed.

Ancient power long forgotten...

It was him , she realized. She felt it in her life’s blood.

Forgetting the Gauntlet, forgetting the entire world around her, Wren surged for Torj Elderbrock and leapt into his arms.

His handsome face was bright with pride and triumph for her as he lifted her into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist.

And there, before the masters and her fellow alchemists, Wren Embervale kissed the man she loved.