Page 39 of Cursed Crowns
“Forgive my oversight, Your Majesty.” Tor dipped his head in shame, and not for the first time, Wren wanted to launch herself onto the dais and pummel the king in his perfectly sculpted face.
“Willem Rathborne is the reason your brother’s dead,” she said instead. “And, as it happens, I have already taken care of that problem for you. He went up in smoke, like the rest of the Vault.”
Alarik’s smirk was mirthless. “Have you come for a reward?”
“I’ve come for my grandmother. But since you got my letter, you already know that.”
“Every beast in my palace knows that,” said Alarik drolly. He gestured to the hulking white bear slumbering by his throne. “Even Borvil, and he’s in hibernation.”
“How much do you want for her freedom?” said Wren. “Name your price.”
Alarik’s smirk grew, revealing the pearly glint of his canines. “There isn’t enough money in the world, Wren.”
“There must be something you want,” she pressed. “Everyone has a price.”
Alarik stood up, his tallness exaggerated by the dais as he looked down on her. “I want my brother back.”
Wren shifted uncomfortably. He had chosen the one thing she couldn’t grant him, just to watch her squirm. “I’m sorry about what happened to Ansel. If I could go back—”
“But you can’t, can you?” said Alarik, a strange hunger glowing in his eyes. The ice bear stirred in his sleep, as if alerted to the shift in his master’s mood. “There is no witch that possesses such power. Is there?”
“No,” said Wren slowly.
He came down the steps toward her. “Butyou are an enchanter. Amanipulator.You can change things.”
“Yes....” Wren had a bad feeling about that ravenous look in his eyes, the sudden urgency in his voice.
Alarik stopped on the step above her. There was nothing between them now, no soldiers or beasts, just the clouds of their breath. “The old witch hasn’t said a word since we set sail from your country. She won’t speak. Will barely eat. The only time she opens her mouth is to spit on my soldiers.”
Wren bit back her smile. “Banba can be a little cantankerous.”
“And what are you? Impulsive. Reckless. Loyal to a fault.” Alarik cocked his head, snaring her in his bright gaze. “Your note revealed you, Wren. And now here you are, confirming my suspicions.”
The accuracy in the king’s descriptions stung—not to mention the way he fired them at her like arrows—but Wren was careful not to show her hurt. “Loyalty has no limit,” she said steadily. “Not the truest kind.”
The hardness in Alarik’s face softened and for the briefest moment he looked just like Ansel. Human, almost. “That is another thing on which we agree.”
“My grandmother will only get worse with time,” said Wren. “You’rebetter off releasing her before she starts biting the soldiers. That’s when the real trouble starts.”
“I can’t release her,” said Alarik. “You see, I need a witch.”
“What for?” asked Wren warily.
“King’s business.” He fixed his sleeve, lingering over a cufflink shaped like a wolf’s fang. “However, an uncooperative witch is as useful to me as a rotten barrel of meat. I admit I have been considering feeding your grandmother to my tigers for her insolence. At least to make use of all that gristliness.”
Wren froze. “You wouldn’t.”
Alarik quirked a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
She looked to Tor. His expression was grim.
“And since you say she’ll only get worse with time...” Alarik went on.
“Trade with me, then,” said Wren, seized by a sudden fit of desperation. “I propose a switch.”
Alarik stilled. “A switch.”
“Wren,” said Tor, breaking his stony silence.