Page 60 of Cursed Crowns
Inga, who had been startled into action by the old witch’s warning, tugged Wren away from the bars.
“You will see me again!” shouted Wren. “I’m going to free you! And then we’re going home!”
Wren wrapped her arms around herself, seething at her stubborn grandmother as Inga marched her out of the dungeons. She was certain now that Banba held the secret she needed to bring Ansel back, just as surely as she knew her grandmother would never utter it to her. She would sooner freeze to death under the mountain than put Wren’s soul in danger.
“It’smysoul,” muttered Wren, as she plodded up the stairwell. “I can do whatever I want with it.”
Back in her chamber, Wren was surprised to find a fire crackling in the grate. A delicious heat swirled about the room, restoring the feeling in her nose. She inhaled the warmth, hoping it might ease the ache blooming in her chest. But as the snow-swept morning roared into a stormy afternoon, Wren’s uncertainty continued to gnaw at her.
Back in Ortha, there was nothing Banba wouldn’t do for Wren. In the winter, when food was scarce, she filled Wren’s dinner plate before her own, offering her the best vegetables from their meager stock, the biggest cut of mutton. Sometimes the only cut. At night, she swaddled Wren in her warmest cloak, her laughter chattering through her teeth as she threatened to fight the wind that howled through the cracks of their little hut.
Someday, these winters will be long behind us, little bird,she promised Wren.And you will have all the warmth and luxury that you deserve.
With her grandmother’s guiding hand on her shoulder, Wren had found her way to that luxury, but now Banba wasn’t there to enjoy it. She was still shivering, still fighting to take up her place in the world.
It wasn’t right. Wren couldn’t stand it.
If Banba wasn’t going to help her raise Prince Ansel from the dead, then she would have to find another way. She sat at her dresser and raked her fingers through her hair. “Ancestors, please help me come up with something, so we can get out of this wretched place.”
But the room was silent, save for the wind howling at the windows. Wren had left her ancestors back in Eana, along with her sister. And her good sense.
By the time dinner arrived, she was ravenous. It was a bowl of chicken stew, flavored with a medley of winter vegetables soft enough to melt on her tongue. To Wren’s surprise, the cook had sent up dessert,too, the stew arriving with a thick slice of carrot cake and a generous glass of frostfizz.
She downed the frostfizz in one go, hoping it would dull the sharp edge of her anxiety. The bubbles went straight to her head, the drink stronger than any she had tried in Eana. Feeling lazy and heavy-limbed, she sank down in front of the fire and devoured the cake, eating it with her fingers and licking them clean so as not to miss a single crumb.
Wren was so enthralled by sugar and flame—not to mention by the frostfizz dancing in her head—that she didn’t notice Tor until he was standing over her, repeating her name. “Wren. Wren?Wren.”
Wren snapped her chin up, blinking out of her daze. The soldier shifted into focus, his shoulders broad under the crisp lines of his navy uniform, the hard edge of his jaw clenched.
“Tor,” she said, on a breath of confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“You said yes. Why did you say yes?”
Wren staggered to her feet. “Yes?” she said, wobbling a little. “Yes to what?”
Tor’s hand shot out. He caught her by the elbow, pulling her into the heat of his body. “You said yes to Alarik.”
“Oh.” Wren understood then. He was referring to the bargain she had made over Ansel’s corpse, the unthinkable promise that Banba had refused to make. That explained the harrowed look on his face, his mouth pressed into a hard line, like she had already done something unforgivable. “He has my grandmother in chains,” she said, taking a step backward to glare at him. “Of course I said yes.”
Tor dragged a hand across his jaw. “Stars, Wren. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I don’t want my grandmother to die in Gevra.”Wren folded her arms, steel-eyed in the face of his judgment. “I was thinking that I would do anything to save her life. And I will.”
Tor was shaking his head. “You can’t play with the dead, Wren. I’m no witch, and even I know that.”
“It’s Ansel,” said Wren, using the name to calm the squall of nerves in her stomach. If she personalized the king’s request—thought of the spell in terms of the prince, rather than the darkness of the deed itself—then it didn’t seem so scary. So unforgivable. “It’s only Ansel.”
Tor frowned. “Ansel is dead.”
“For now.”
“No, Wren.” He turned to the fire, staring into the flames like he was watching the memory of the prince’s death play out all over again. “It’s too late.”
Wren studied the shadows on Tor’s face and felt the distance between them as though it were an ice chasm. How different things had been back in the library at Anadawn, when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Now it felt like Tor was a world away, the ghost of the fallen prince filling up the space between them.
Wren wanted desperately to cast it out. To turn back the moment of Ansel’s death and banish the pain that lingered in Tor’s eyes. Just one more reason to find the spell.
“Don’t you want to bring him back?” she asked. “If there was a way to do it, wouldn’t it make everything better?”