Page 25 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

Torj

‘Scholars still debate whether the centuries of rule in Tver were maintained more by their magic or their masterful political alliances with prominent families’

– The Midrealms Chronicles

W IFE ... T HE F URIES certainly had a wicked sense of humour tonight – or Kipp did, at the very least. Torj had never seriously considered what he was giving up by becoming a Warsword.

The knowledge that Thezmarr’s most elite warriors never took wives – or husbands – had seemed inconsequential back then; he had never wanted to settle down anyway.

But as the word had left his lips on several occasions that evening.

.. Wife . My wife. He’d realized he liked the sound of it, the taste of it.

But that future had never belonged to him. It had been a dream, nothing more.

It didn’t stop him sliding an arm around Wren’s waist and leading her from the terrace, or from admiring the elegant slope of her neck, wrapped in that striking choker.

‘Farissa told me that Lord Hullet’s study is on the third floor, by the library,’ he told her, guiding her through the sea of opulence and finery.

Having shown their overnight passes to the guards, they ascended the sweeping staircase to the first floor, Torj noting several sentries stationed at the doors to various suites.

‘Come on, Dessa...’ he muttered as he felt a pair of eyes on them.

He paused to brush a lock of hair behind Wren’s ear, hearing her sharp intake of breath at his touch. Gods, he was pathetic. He’d vowed to himself that he’d keep his distance, but at the flimsiest of excuses, he’d got as close to her as possible, driven mad by his need for her.

A loud crash sounded from below, and suddenly the guards were rushing to the balustrades, peering down.

‘Pick me up,’ Wren hissed.

‘What?’

‘Pick me up – make it look like you’re taking me to bed,’ she said with more urgency. ‘We’re lingering here too long.’

Torj swept her up in his arms, staring deep into her eyes. ‘As you command, wife.’

‘Stop calling me that.’

Hiding a smile, Torj made for the next flight of stairs, and the next.

It wasn’t hard to pretend he was utterly captivated by the woman he carried; it certainly wasn’t hard to convince the guards they passed that he desperately wanted to take her to bed.

Guards and guests alike gave them fleeting, knowing smiles as they passed, and Torj wished the night was heading in the direction they assumed.

However, as they reached the next landing, Wren practically leapt from his arms and stared at a pair of double doors before them. She blinked. ‘This is the library?’

Torj pushed a door open. ‘Apparently so.’

Wren gasped as she entered behind him, and even Torj had to admit it was an impressive sight. There were shelves of books as far as the eye could see, a private collection to rival that of Drevenor’s archives.

‘Unbelievable,’ Wren muttered.

‘The study is at the far end,’ Torj told her. ‘I hope you’re still good at picking locks...’

‘How do you know I can do that?’

Torj scoffed as they headed towards where Kipp had told him the study was. ‘How many of your poisoned victims were found within a room locked from the inside?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Wren replied, already twirling her hairpin between her fingers.

Torj suppressed a smile. For so long he had abhorred Wren’s other life, had resented that she felt the need to take justice into her own hands, but there was something intoxicating about seeing her in her element.

When they reached the study door that matched Farissa’s description, Wren took her hairpin and a thin piece of wire to the lock. It was a sight to behold – a beautiful woman dressed from head to toe in finery, crouching before a silver latch.

Torj heard the lock click, and a smug smile graced Wren’s face as she pushed the door open.

‘What are we looking for, exactly?’ she asked, surveying the large oak desk. It was meticulously organized, unlike the workspace of someone else Torj knew.

‘Anything that could indicate correspondence from Drevenor. A letter with an academy seal, a familiar name – even familiar handwriting,’ he replied.

‘No one outside of Drevenor is supposed to know what happened, and yet Audra received information that secrets were being sold here. If we find one of Farissa’s false leads, it will confirm who the traitor is. ’

Something rattled, and he looked up to see Wren testing the drawers. ‘All of these are locked. Keep a lookout.’ She was already brandishing her hairpin and wire.

Torj kept another smile to himself. Gods, he loved her confidence, her complete mastery of herself in situations like this, and how she was never afraid to give an order, even to a Warsword.

Glancing at the door, Torj rifled through books and pieces of parchment while Wren worked on the drawers.

‘False bottoms,’ she announced, not even looking up as she lifted the first layer of contents.

‘There might be hidden compartments at the back as well,’ Torj offered.

‘This isn’t my first break-in, Bear Slayer,’ Wren huffed.

While he searched the shelves, pulling out volumes and testing for a secret passage, Wren continued rummaging through the desk.

‘Here,’ she called, setting something down for him to see.

Torj frowned. ‘Royal ancestries?’ Leafing through the sheets of parchment, he saw nothing special about the lines of succession listed. ‘You can get these records anywhere...’

Wren pointed to something faded in the top corner of each page. ‘But they didn’t come from just anywhere.’

Torj held the parchment up to the light, where an imprint of Drevenor’s sigil had been pressed, the lettering and design raised.

‘It’s not a seal,’ Wren said. ‘But it’s as good as. This was made with an embossing stamp. My guess is that these documents were taken straight from the academy’s archives.’

Torj tried to absorb the implications, but couldn’t wrap his mind around why someone would risk revealing Drevenor’s secrets by sending documents one could obtain at almost any library throughout the midrealms.

‘Odd...’ Wren murmured, pausing over the lineage for Naarva. ‘Zavier’s been left off this. It’s incomplete.’

Torj peered over her shoulder, and sure enough, there were no heirs listed below King Mulder and Queen Yolena. ‘It could mean anything.’

‘It could,’ Wren agreed. ‘But it’s a link to Drevenor at the very least.’

They continued their search, the atmosphere growing tense around them, every creak of the floorboards amplifying their urgency.

Torj’s gaze snagged on something gold and gaudy in a hidden compartment. ‘What’s this?’

‘A paperweight?’ Wren took it from his hand, her fingers brushing his as she examined it herself. ‘It’s an ornament... of a laurel,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Like what they used on the novices at the welcome gala?’ Torj asked, remembering that night all too well.

‘There are many types of laurel,’ she replied. ‘A bit of a stretch in terms of a connection to Drevenor. Bored noblemen have all sorts of useless shit. We can’t take this or the documents with us.’

‘No, we can’t,’ Torj agreed, scanning the desk again.

Wren moved with practised efficiency, deftly sorting through more drawers and cabinets. ‘Did Farissa tell you what false lead to look for exactly?’

‘She did. But I don’t see anything close to its description here—’

Wren froze. ‘There’s someone in the library...’ she murmured.

Torj felt it too, a shifting presence beyond the stacks of books outside.

‘I’ll go and distract them,’ Wren told him. ‘You finish here.’

She was gone before he could argue. Torj tried to finish their search thoroughly, but the scars on his chest were prickling. He couldn’t focus on the task at hand when Wren was out there facing Furies knew who, trying to buy him time.

‘Fuck this,’ he muttered, glancing back to ensure they’d left no trace behind before navigating the maze of shelves. He rushed through the library towards Wren. When he turned the next corner, his eyes locked onto her immediately.

Beneath the towering bookcases, another man was holding Wren’s hand, his lips brushing against her knuckles in a lingering kiss.

A searing bolt of jealousy ripped through Torj, setting his blood on fire, narrowing his vision. His body coiled with barely restrained anger. The muscles in his jaw ticked and a primal sound built up in his chest, threatening to tear free from his throat.

Every rational thought he’d had leading up to this moment vanished. The apologies, the reasoning – all of it was consumed by the overwhelming need to claim Wren as his own, to erase any trace of another man’s touch from her skin.

He squared his shoulders, and the air around him seemed to crackle, a palpable energy that radiated from his frame as he moved towards Wren and her unwelcome companion.

Torj made his footsteps heavy and purposeful, his eyes never leaving the offending man’s face.

His hand twitched at his side, instinctively reaching for his war hammer, which wasn’t there.

Wren sensed him first, and when she glanced his way, there was no surprise on her features. Only cool detachment. The very expression he himself had failed to master only moments ago.

Nearly blinded by rage, Torj grabbed the front of the man’s doublet and lifted him bodily from Wren, ramming his back into the wall. ‘Take your hands off my wife.’

‘That’s hardly the way to greet an old friend,’ the nobleman said, his silken voice carrying a note of amusement.

Torj almost faltered as he came eye to eye with someone he’d once known well.

Darian fucking Devereux.

Torj’s grip only tightened. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘Come now, you used to call me brother,’ Devereux replied, completely unfazed despite his current position, where his feet were dangling above the marble floor. The bastard was lucky he was still in one piece. He’d had his hands on her, his lips on her—