Page 27 of Cursed Crowns
“You’d be surprised,” muttered Wren. She turned to go when he stopped her.
“Wait. What if therewasanother way to get inside the palace?” Marino’s eyes darted toward the port. “Last week, I picked up a shipment of saffron in Caro. I’m trading it with an envoy from the palace. The new cook, Harald, is an adventurous sort. He wants to expand the tastebuds of the royal family. He’s going to meet me at the market.”
Wren turned her gaze to the teeming shore. “Aha! You’re going to stuff me into one of your spice barrels.”
Marino laughed awkwardly. “That’s a joke, right?”
“Oh. So that’s a no?”
“Only if you want to actually survive the journey,” said the captain. “But there may be room enoughbetweenthe barrels if you wait for the right moment.”
Despite the cold, a smile twitched on Wren’s lips. “I am a master at finding the right moment.”
While the crew of theSiren’s Secretprepared to dock, Wren hurried belowdecks. Mercifully, Celeste was still snoring in the captain’s quarters. Ignoring the ever-rising tide of her guilt, Wren withdrew a pinch of sand and spelled her into an even deeper sleep. “Thisbarelycounts as magic,” she whispered before grabbing a fur-lined frock coat from Marino’s closet.
By the time Wren set foot on the shores of Gevra, the last rays of sunlight had long since melted across the distant mountains. The port remained a hive of activity, market vendors hollering back and forth as they manned stalls that sold everything from fresh crab and lobster to bloodied slabs of beef and lamb. There were cheeses and loaves, too, pastries smothered in almonds and chocolate and berry jams, all of it creating a strange symphony of smells that lingered in the cold night air. Wren meandered between the lantern-lit stalls, keeping a wary eye on Marino as he unloaded his spices and carted them down to the marketplace.
There were beasts everywhere, but they didn’t startle Wren as they once might have. She had Elske to thank for that. She barely batted an eyelid at the snow tigers and leopards that prowled the marketplace, hardly noticing the arctic foxes that slumbered atop the awning. Most of the animals were tame, roaming freely by the sides of their fur-clad masters. Wren supposed they had Tor’s family of wranglers to thankfor that. Her heart clenched at the thought of seeing him again. She wondered what she would say—how she might thank him for saving her life. Or, if the moment allowed, whether she would just fling herself into his arms and kiss him senseless.
Stop that, she scolded herself. There was no time for that now.
Nearby, a tiger growled, banishing all thought of Tor entirely. These particular beasts were all on chains. They had been bred for war and belonged to the soldiers who were patrolling the port. They snapped at the other animals as they went by, occasionally growling at anyone who was talking too loudly or gesticulating too much.
Wren made sure to keep her head down. She had manipulated her appearance again, turning her hair red and, as much as it pained her, bending her teeth inward. She had even doused herself in Marino’s cologne to try to mask her scent, but the beasts in Gevra were as clever as their masters, and for all she knew, some of them could have been at Rose’s ill-fated wedding, when the twins had killed Rathborne and accidentally burned the Protector’s Vault to the ground.
A sudden waft of freshly baked bread made Wren’s stomach grumble. She withdrew a pinch of sand and sprinkled it over a passing wolf, warping the chain around its neck. It leaped at a wandering snow leopard, causing the marketplace to descend into momentary chaos. Vendors yelled as they cowered behind their stalls, while panicked customers tried to drag their own beasts away from the fight.
Wren used the distraction to pilfer a slice of rye bread smothered in fresh salmon. She devoured it in three bites before nicking some battered cod and shoving it into her pocket for later. She hurried away just as the harried soldier rechained his wolf.
At the other end of the marketplace, Wren spied who she was suremust be Marino’s palace envoy, Harald. He had arrived in a hulking iron sled emblazoned on both sides with the Gevran crest. It was being pulled by eight gray wolves. Harald was accompanied by two palace soldiers. A tall, black-haired woman with fishtail braids and a stocky bald man with a wide jaw were already loading the spice barrels into the back of the sled. Harald himself was tall and thin, with pale skin, a wide mouth, and a shock of bright red hair. Even though he was dressed in a heavy brown coat with a huge furry hood, he was speaking to Marino through chattering teeth.
Wren left the flickering marketplace and ducked behind a nearby stack of crates. When the last barrel of spice had been loaded onto the sled and covered with a black tarp, she flung a piece of cod into the middle of the wolves. They descended on it in a tornado of gray fur, growling and snapping at each other for first claim.
The guards lumbered around to investigate the sudden fuss, and Wren darted out from behind the crates and crept under the tarp. She squeezed herself between the spice barrels until she was tucked away at the very back of the sled, with her legs squished to her chest and her arms pulled tight around them.
She listened as the soldiers returned to their seats atop the sled, the wood above her creaking as they sat down. A moment later, Harald came back. He hopped up onto the sled and called a warm goodbye to Marino. The male soldier barked a command, and the wolves settled into formation. And then, all at once, they were off, the barrels jostling against each other as the sled pulled away from the marketplace.
Wren sat stiffly, mindful not to breathe too loudly. For a long time, there was only the sound of gravel shifting beneath them, and the howl of the wind as it slipped through the gaps in the tarp. Then the groundturned whisper-soft as the wolves tugged them onward, into the snow-swept countryside.
When Wren dared to peek out, night had fallen in earnest, the silvery landscape the same color as the waning moon. There were no lights for miles around, and for a long while it felt to Wren that theirs was the only sled in the entire country, and on it, the only people.
Sometimes, when the snow gave way to gravel, she heard the sound of horses clopping by, but there were few carriages on these twisting roads. She supposed the ice was too treacherous. Even the wolves had to slow occasionally to navigate it.
The ache in Wren’s back slowly spread into her legs. The rye bread had made her thirsty, but she was too scared to reach for the flask in her satchel. Up above her, the soldiers were silent as they rode, but every so often she would hear the cook attempt to make conversation.
It always went unanswered.
Wren kept her pouch of sand at the ready. She had come to realize that the ice in Gevra was not just treacherous to travelers, but to enchanters, too. If she ran out of her earth, where would she find more? There was nothing living here that hadn’t been smothered in inches of snow or covered in a layer of frost. She would have to use her sand cleverly and sparingly.
Finally, the sled began to slow. Wren peered out from under the tarp to find that dawn was breaking. There were no birds to announce it, nothing in the paling sky but heavy white clouds. All around them were glassy mountain peaks climbing up to touch the clouds.
Wren suspected they were in the heart of the Fovarr Mountains, but from her place at the back of the sled she couldn’t see Grinstad Palace. She could sense it, though, like a ghost looming over her. The windhad died. In its place came the sound of roaring beasts. Their growls got closer. Louder. Then there were gates, groaning as they opened, and the voices of more soldiers as the sled journeyed onward, onto the grounds of Grinstad Palace.
Wren caught a glimpse of it through the rippling tarp. It was an enormous sculpture of limestone and glass cut into the jagged mountain range, so it was hard to tell where Grinstad began and the landscape ended. It was every bit as impenetrable as Wren imagined, its narrow turrets glistening like fangs as they pierced the low-hanging clouds. The sled took a wide berth of the palace, arcing through snow-laden gardens punctuated with thornbushes. Wren assumed they were heading to the servants’ entrance at the back of the palace. All the better for her, she thought, as she flexed her toes, restoring feeling to them.
At last, the sled stopped.
She pulled her hood up and readied her sand, waiting to strike....