Page 39 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

‘My father and I have played this game for as long as I can remember, and we’ll play until one of us doesn’t walk away.’ There was a note of bitterness there that was gone in a flash.

‘Why are you here?’ Wren asked bluntly.

Darian’s sly smile was back. ‘To make our warrior friend sweat. Though would you blame me if I said I enjoy the pleasure of your company?’

‘Blame you?’ Wren scoffed. ‘No. Believe you? Also no. You want something. This is an academy for alchemy. We do important work here. It’s not a drop-in spot for bored noblemen.’

‘I’m well aware. And I’m not the only one,’ he replied, his voice turning serious.

Wren narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

Darian made for the door, coming face to face with the enraged Bear Slayer on the other side. It didn’t seem to faze him.

Now, he spoke to both of them. ‘My father and I weren’t the first to arrive here today. And we won’t be the last.’

Darian’s warning stayed with Wren long after she’d left the nobleman.

Whatever the reason, Drevenor becoming a meeting point for influential figures of the midrealms couldn’t be good.

In her experience, men like them only hungered for one thing: power, which meant that it was changing hands as she walked the academy’s very corridors.

Later, she was in the archives, palming the grit from her eyes as she pored over yet another history text on Delmira.

She had been reading since after supper and the words were starting to blur together, the blocks of text taunting her.

There was so much more to get through and so little time.

She had no concept of the hour, only that it was late and all the private study rooms had emptied hours ago.

The Bear Slayer was leaning against the doorframe, looking out onto the rows of shelves, always watching, always guarding.

But it allowed her the freedom to study the back of him unobserved: the broad expanse of his shoulders, the candlelight dancing across his silver hair, his tapered waist and muscular backside, his thick thighs—

‘Are you even reading?’ he asked, without looking back.

Wren’s gaze shot back to her book. ‘What else would I be doing?’

‘You haven’t turned a page in a while. You’re usually a fast reader, so I thought maybe something else caught your attention.’

She kept her voice even. ‘There’s nothing else of note in here.’

That prompted the Warsword to turn. Resting his back against the doorframe, he looked at her with a lifted brow. ‘You’ve never been a skilled liar, Embervale.’

‘That makes two of us. What are you suggesting?’

He gave her an infuriating smirk. ‘You tell me.’

‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ she said, training her eyes on the pages before her.

‘No? What’s the chapter about, then?’ Torj teased.

‘The close allies of the Delmirian royal family,’ she said quickly.

Torj was behind her in an instant, pinning the book open with a flattened palm. ‘ Historical events preceding the fall of Delmira ,’ he read over her shoulder. ‘I told you you’re a terrible liar—’

A knock sounded at the door, and Torj was already blocking her from view.

A harried-looking man in tattered robes peered inside the room. ‘Elwren Embervale?’ he asked.

‘Who’s asking?’ Torj replied, still shielding her with his huge frame.

‘I’m Magnus Crane. Chronicler and Historian of Drevenor. I need to speak with Miss Embervale. It’s a matter of great importance.’

Wren’s heart sank. For weeks she had managed to avoid the chronicler by slipping out back doors and ducking for cover within the alcoves. Her friends had bought her time and caused distractions, all so she wouldn’t have to recount the war to this stranger, but tonight she was out of luck.

‘It’s late,’ Torj said, his voice full of warning.

‘I have tried to see her during daylight hours, as you well know, Warsword Elderbrock. She is hindering the work of myself and several colleagues by not cooperating. We are working under the instruction of the High Chancellor.’

Torj folded his arms across his chest. ‘Make a damn appointment.’

But the man persisted. ‘I’d be happy to, if—’

‘Alright,’ Wren heard herself say. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

Torj whirled around to face her. ‘You don’t have to—’

‘I do,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Historian Crane is right. I’m hindering their work. I need to contribute.’

Torj’s eyes narrowed as he stepped aside, allowing the scholar inside the private study room. Wren motioned for the chronicler to take the seat opposite her.

Magnus Crane slid his books and parchment onto the table and sat down. ‘At long last,’ he sighed. ‘I’m eager to hear your recounting of the final battles in particular. It’s my understanding that you played a significant role in these violent affairs.’

Wren didn’t dare let her gaze slide to Torj; she simply told him, ‘You can wait outside, Bear Slayer.’

He looked surprised, if not a little hurt. ‘As you wish,’ was all he said, ducking outside the room and closing the door behind him.

Wren closed the book before her and clasped her hands atop its cover. ‘Tell me, Historian Crane, how may I be of assistance to you and the academy?’

The chronicler took out a quill and inkpot, as well as a fresh piece of parchment. Poised to transcribe Wren’s answers, he asked, ‘What was your background prior to the shadow war, Miss Embervale?’

Wren loosed a breath between her teeth. This she could answer easily enough. ‘I was an alchemist in training at Thezmarr.’

‘Apprentice to Master Alchemist Farissa Tremaine, if I’m not mistaken?’

‘That’s right,’ Wren replied with a nod.

‘And back then you went by the name Elwren Zoltaire, not Embervale, correct?’

‘That is correct. For many years that was what I believed my name to be. My sister Thea and I were raised at Thezmarr, given the name Zoltaire by our warden there. We didn’t know we were Embervales until later.’

Crane scribbled away, his quill scratching against the parchment hurriedly, flicking spots of ink across the table. ‘So you were not aware that you were the heirs to the Delmirian throne?’

‘No.’

‘And how did you discover your heritage?’

‘I thought you wanted to talk about the war?’ Wren countered, shifting uneasily in her chair.

‘Do you believe that your heritage is irrelevant to the war?’ Crane fired back. ‘You are a storm wielder, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Wren replied through gritted teeth.

‘And did that not play a role in the battles?’

‘It did,’ she admitted, moving her hands under the table so she could pick at the skin around her nails. She already didn’t like where this was going, could already feel her magic growing restless and agitated beneath her skin, reminding her that she wasn’t as in control as she should be.

‘Farissa Tremaine has already accounted for much of your work for Thezmarr in the lead-up to the war. She said you were an integral part of weaponizing alchemy against the enemy. Would you say that’s accurate?’ Crane asked, changing tack.

‘I suppose...’ Wren replied slowly, trying to remember those earlier days before the real fighting had begun.

They were a blur to her. She had been so worried for Thea most of the time that her own contributions were murky.

‘I did a lot of work with sun orchid essence,’ she supplied, recalling the golden flowers that were a natural deterrent to the shadow monsters.

‘And you were in two battles? The battle of the Aveum plains and the final battle for Thezmarr?’ he pressed.

‘Three, actually,’ she corrected him. ‘I was also present for the battle of Notos. Farissa and I played a role there in attempting to seal the tear in the Veil.’

‘And it was here that the Daughter of Darkness abducted you?’

Wren’s hands trembled in her lap. ‘Anya was no Daughter of Darkness. She was the leader of the rebel force, yes, but she died defending Thezmarr and the people of the midrealms...’ Her voice quavered.

‘You do know that the Daughter of Darkness was in fact Jasira Fairmoore, Princess of Harenth, daughter of King Artos?’

‘Yes, I have heard that account. Though the recent history books refer to Anya by that moniker.’

‘Then they’re incorrect,’ Wren said, her temper rising. ‘Tell me that you’re not referring to her as such in your texts?’

‘It hasn’t been decided.’

‘There is nothing to decide,’ Wren snapped. ‘That’s historically and factually inaccurate.’

‘Let’s return to your role in the shadow war... How would you define your position during the conflict years?’

‘My position?’ Wren blinked. ‘I was apprentice to Farissa Tremaine, as you already stated. I held no other official title during the war.’

‘And yet you partook in the battles? I have several first-hand accounts of you wielding both storm magic and alchemy in the heart of the conflict, both on the Aveum plains and at Thezmarr.’

A rush of goosebumps prickled across Wren’s skin, her magic stirring once again in response. ‘I fought alongside my friends and family.’

‘And yet you have no military training...’

‘I was raised at Thezmarr. We knew fighting better than the rest of the midrealms combined. What exactly are you asking, Historian Crane?’

‘I simply want to portray the war accurately—’

‘Could have fooled me,’ Wren muttered, picking at her nails beneath the table.

The chronicler shot her an annoyed look and scratched something down on his parchment. ‘Do you have any personal records, diaries, or documents from the time that you’d be willing to share?’

Wren balked. ‘You want my...’

‘Personal documents, yes.’

She shook her head. ‘That won’t be possible.’

‘Are you intent on obstructing the progress of the war’s written histories, Miss Embervale?’ the chronicler chastised her.

She clenched her jaw. ‘Many of my personal documents were destroyed in the battle of Thezmarr. If you recall, much of the fortress sustained irreparable damage.’ She didn’t mention the notes and observations she’d kept since then.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Very well. How about you tell me of Samra and Ida – the two alchemists whose heads were found on the spikes of—’

‘Don’t.’ Wren’s blood ran cold. ‘Don’t speak of them.’

The historian’s quill paused mid-scratch across the parchment. ‘Elwren, if I am to paint an accurate picture, I need to explore every perspective. It’s my understanding that these young alchemists were captured at Thezmarr and tortured for information—’

Wren’s hands flew from beneath the table and slammed down on the surface, lightning sparking across her fingers and knuckles. The chronicler’s chair scraped back as he scrambled away in shock.

Images of her friends’ severed heads flashed before her – their eyes missing from their sockets, their mouths agape, screams etched on their faces. ‘I said, don’t. ’

Wren couldn’t breathe. The High Chancellor had also implied that Sam and Ida had been tortured for information about Wren and her alchemy designs, that it might have been her friends who had given up the knowledge of her work on the magic-suppressing manacles to the people who became the new traitors to the midrealms—

‘See here, Miss Embervale,’ the chronicler panted, his hand on his chest. ‘You said you would cooperate. I cannot record your version of events if I’m under threat.’

Wren reined in her panic. ‘My apologies,’ she murmured. ‘Sam and Ida... They were friends of mine.’

‘An account confirmed by several other interviewees,’ Crane said, sitting back down warily. ‘Which was why I thought you might be aware of why they were interrogated so thoroughly.’

Wren was going to be sick. Her magic roiled within her unchecked, unchallenged, and her heart was racing, pounding in her chest. The lightning that had crackled across her fingers was growing—

The door burst open, and Torj Elderbrock filled the frame. ‘This interview is over,’ he stated, moving to stand beside Wren and stare down the chronicler.

‘You have no authority here, Warsword,’ Crane argued, albeit with a paling complexion.

‘No?’ Torj challenged. ‘Fucking try me.’

Crane’s eyes scanned the towering warrior, and slowly, he began to gather his things. ‘The High Chancellor will be hearing about this—’

A blur of movement followed as Torj snatched a handful of the historian’s robes. ‘You tell the High Chancellor that if you badger my charge again – in fact, if you so much as look in her direction – I’ll finish what I started after the Gauntlet.’

Wren didn’t remember standing, but now that she was, her knees were buckling beneath her. Torj and the chronicler were hazy as the Warsword dragged the latter towards the door.

Wren’s lungs weren’t taking in enough air, and the walls around her were closing in, inch by inch, ready to crush her. Sam and Ida had been tortured because of her, tortured to their deaths, their heads mounted on spikes for all to see.

My fault. It was all my fault. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision was all white spots.

She heard Torj say something in the distance.

But it didn’t matter, because she was falling.