Page 77 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

Wren

‘A Master Alchemist knows the crucible merely completes what careful preparation begins. Perfection or poison – both are determined before the first spark ignites’

– Transformative Arts of Alchemy

T HE ACADEMY INFIRMARY was quiet, with only a handful of beds occupied. Wren knew which belonged to Zavier immediately – it was the only one with the curtains drawn and a Warsword stationed outside.

Cal gave her a grim smile as she approached, Torj towering in her wake.

‘It’s time we woke the Prince of Naarva,’ she told Cal. ‘We have need of him.’

‘Is that safe? For him? For us?’ Cal asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

‘Farissa has cleared it,’ Wren replied, slipping behind the curtains, the Warswords following.

Zavier had wasted away. His face was gaunt and thin, lined with grief even in unconsciousness, his usual surly expression softened. He looked small in the infirmary bed, more childlike than Wren had ever seen him.

‘We tried to bring him round to get him to eat,’ Cal explained with a grimace. ‘But he was too upset. He kept screaming about saving someone and failing them. Farissa always ended up giving him something to make him go back to sleep.’

‘I see,’ Wren said. It was much the same as when he’d had his first episode in the workshop. ‘Do you know who he’s been talking about?’

‘His family?’ Cal guessed.

Wren reached for the jar of peppered broadleaf that Farissa had left for her on the table by the bed.

‘These act as smelling salts,’ she told the warriors behind her.

‘He’ll come around quite quickly and suddenly.

You may need to hold him down while I talk to him, and administer a calming draft if need be. Are you ready?’

Both Warswords nodded in confirmation.

Steeling herself, Wren removed the cork from the jar and waved the herbs under her friend’s nose. A bitter aroma wafted up from the glass—

Zavier bolted upright with a gasp, his eyes flying open, wild and unfocused. The sudden movement sent the metal bed frame scraping against the stone floor, the harsh sound echoing in the confined space behind the curtains. His chest heaved beneath the thin infirmary shirt, damp with sweat.

Wren took a swift step back, letting Torj and Cal move into position. They gripped Zavier’s shoulders, but he thrashed against their hold, his movements desperate but weak from days without proper food.

‘Breathe,’ Wren commanded, though her voice softened at the sight of his terror. ‘You’re in Drevenor’s infirmary.’ She held his stare, willing him to recognize her. ‘I need you to breathe, and I need you to listen to me, otherwise we’ll have to sedate you again.’

Zavier’s eyes darted between her face and the Warswords restraining him. The afternoon light filtering through the curtains cast strange shadows across his hollow cheeks while his fingers clutched at the sheets until his knuckles turned white.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ he rasped, his voice breaking. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. ‘I couldn’t save—’ He choked on the words, his whole body trembling.

‘Who?’ Wren asked gently, moving to retrieve Farissa’s supplies. The glass bottles clinked together as her hands shook slightly. ‘Instead of smashing everything in the room, why don’t you tell us who you couldn’t save?’

She lit the oil burner, and the warm glow of the candle flame cast dancing shadows on the curtains around them. The scent of lavender began to drift through the air, but Zavier’s breathing remained ragged.

‘My brother,’ he finally croaked. His eyes grew distant, focused on something none of them could see. A tear slid down his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice.

‘Zavier,’ Wren started, perching carefully on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, and he flinched at her proximity. ‘How recent was your brother’s death?’

‘He’s...’ His hands twisted in the sheets. ‘He’s not dead. But he’s lost...’ His voice trailed off, and he pressed his lips together as if physically holding back words.

Wren glanced at Torj, whose grip on Zavier’s shoulder remained, but had loosened. The Warsword’s expression was dark.

‘What do you mean?’ Torj demanded.

Zavier’s shoulders caved, making him look even smaller in the bed. ‘I’ve been trying so hard to reach him, to make him understand...’

The candle flame wavered, casting strange shadows across his face as he spoke, the scent of lavender drifting through the air but calming no one.

Something in his tone made the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stand up.

Zavier’s eyes met hers, and the raw pain she saw there made her want to look away.

But she held his gaze as he drew a shuddering breath.

‘My brother...’ he murmured again, and the words seemed to hang in the air between them, heavy with unspoken fear. The infirmary fell so silent they could hear voices drifting in from the courtyard outside, oddly cheerful against the weight of Zavier’s confession.

Wren realized she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. ‘So he’s not dead? But you couldn’t save him...? I don’t understand...’

His laugh was hollow, almost hysterical.

‘No, you wouldn’t. None of you would.’ He ran a trembling hand through his unkempt hair.

‘I thought—’ His voice cracked, and he had to start again.

‘I thought if I could prove his theory, or at least show him what was possible with human transmutation, then he’d. ..’

Cal’s hand tightened on Zavier’s shoulder. ‘He’d what?’

‘He’d be different.’ The words burst from him like they’d been torn from his throat, his breath rattling in his chest. ‘I thought that if I knew what he knew, I could reason with him. I thought if I could bring our mother back, I could bring him back... That I could save them both.’

The oil burner sputtered, startling Wren. None of it made sense to her, but dread was building in her stomach, a cold weight that grew heavier with each word.

‘The whole reason I came to Drevenor was to understand him.’ Zavier’s hands were shaking now, and he clasped them together to still them.

‘He’s an alchemist?’ Torj interrupted, his voice sharp with sudden understanding. ‘Was he a student here?’

‘He wanted to be.’ Zavier’s words came faster now, tumbling over each other like he couldn’t hold them back any more. ‘He was the real alchemist of the two of us. But I realized that if I couldn’t save him...’ His voice hardened. ‘I had to be better than him, skilled enough to beat him.’

The cold weight in Wren’s stomach turned to ice. ‘Zavier...’ She fought to keep her voice steady. ‘Why hasn’t he returned to Naarva? He has a crown waiting for him.’

Zavier’s laugh was bitter this time. ‘It’s not the Naarvian crown he wants.’ His eyes met hers, filled with such profound sorrow that she knew what he would say before the words left his mouth. ‘It’s yours.’

The candle guttered.

‘Zavier,’ Torj said, his voice dangerously quiet. ‘ Who is your brother?’

The prince seemed to shrink further into himself, but his eyes never left Wren’s face. ‘His name was Andor Terling,’ he answered, each word falling like a stone into still water. ‘But he goes by Silas the Kingsbane now.’