Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

WREN

Olivier could dance. That was a surprise.

He was precise and careful, and perfectly mannerly in how he held her, but all the same, he whirled Wren around the dance floor with an ease which made her head spin and an unexpected laugh bubble up in her throat. She almost forgot where she was.

Wren had always loved to dance, although her only partner, apart from the dreamlike spirits in the forest, had been Elodie. But all the same it was a joy, something they had shared, whirling around the upper room in their tower, especially when Wren was little. She hadn't realised Elodie was teaching her courtly dances, something which was most useful now. Perhaps Elodie hadn't realised either. Those dances were all the queen knew. Even when she was pretending not to be a queen anymore.

For a moment, in the music and the opulence of the ballroom, Olivier helped Wren feel graceful and elegant, and almost let her forget the host of eyes upon her. She had walked into the ballroom and immediately felt judged, and found wanting.

Anselm danced with her too, as did Roland, although that was a slow and sedate affair, more like a procession than a dance. A formality, as it turned out, because her father didn't return to her again.

She kept looking for Finn but there was no sign of him yet. Even if he had arrived, the instruction that she should avoid him only made her innate sense of defiance grow. She worried about him constantly. Anselm assured her that he was fine, that he was reporting in and there was nothing to concern her. That didn't help. He said it a little too earnestly for her to believe him. Anselm was a consummate politician, she knew that. He would say whatever was necessary. She wanted to see Finn and the more she thought about it the more determined she became.

Music filled the vast chamber, marrying with delighted chatter and laughter. It was almost as if this was a perfectly normal thing, to be here, to dance, to celebrate…

Celebrate Elodie's trial.

Oh nobody said it. How could they? But Wren couldn't help thinking it. And every time she did the joy seeped out of her, leaving a seething mass of dark anger.

‘Princess?' Olivier murmured, concerned. ‘Are you all right?'

He was kind, for all his austerity, she realised. He believed in duty and honour, but that didn't make him cruel.

‘Just… just worried.'

‘Have no fear,' he told her, slowing their pace. ‘Come, we can take refreshments and rest a while. Anselm will keep anyone untoward away.'

He glanced for his comrade and as their eyes met, Wren saw something flicker in his expression.

‘Have you known Anselm long?' she asked, as guilelessly as she could.

Olivier led her from the dance floor, towards Anselm. ‘Since we were boys. We were squires together. When I first came to serve the Aurum, gave it my vows and surrendered my old life, he befriended me.'

‘And Finn?'

She shouldn't keep asking people about him. She knew that. But she missed him and hearing the stories of his life here, his friendships, helped.

A smile flickered over Olivier's lips. He knew where this was going then. She was not at all cunning, she knew that, and her need to know about the man she loved undermined any pretence at being clever or sophisticated. ‘Yes, Finnian as well. He is a credit to the Grandmaster. You have no idea how wild he was when he arrived here.'

Oh, she did. Not exactly perhaps, no details. But the wildness was not gone from Finn. It had been suppressed, and put to better use. She saw it every time, still buried deep in his tempestuous blue eyes. Great light, she missed him.

Anselm bowed as he approached and fetched her a glass of the sweet wine. Only accept a drink from him or Olivier, she had been told. No one else.

So many rules.

Someone cleared their throat behind her and she turned sharply to see the Earl of Sassone bearing down on her. It was far too late to run and she was standing there with his son and no excuse to be anywhere else.

‘Your highness,' he beamed at her. ‘You look radiant. What a joy to see you here.'

The gown was the colour of rubies, and Wren wore a choker studded with them around her neck. A small posy of rosebuds had been tucked above her left ear and, after all the poking and prodding from the various ladies-in-waiting under Lynette's supervision, she had finally been deemed presentable.

‘Thank you,' she murmured and glanced at Anselm, but he stared ahead like a statue.

‘Hardly any trace of the forest left to you. The royal blood of Asteroth will always out, or so they say.'

That was what she was afraid of. But all the same, she lifted her chin and gave him a defiant look.

‘And have you spilled a lot of it?' she asked.

Someone choked on a laugh, Anselm she suspected, but he didn't show it when both Wren and his father glared at him.

Sassone smiled at her, a thin, hard expression she really didn't like. It was too calculating. ‘You have your mother's wit,' he replied. ‘Although she cannot be expected to use it much longer. I suppose you will learn to quell it more cleverly when the crown is yours.'

Wren drew in a breath and felt the shadows in the back of her mind stir with amusement. The sound of the whispers they brought with them almost drowned out the music. Othertongue lingered at the back of her throat but she swallowed it down.

‘I'm not planning on wearing a crown,' she told him.

Sassone roared out a laugh, ignoring all the faces turning to look at them, and Wren felt her face flush. ‘No choice in that matter, your highness. Sooner or later. Sooner, I'm sure. It'll all be decided in no time. The guilt of your mother is beyond doubt. Rest assured, it is only a matter of time until that crown sits firmly on your pretty head.'

Did he hear himself? How could he talk to her like that?

The whispers were getting louder, the shadows singing to her. How easy it would be to shut him up, and shut him up for good. No one should speak to her like that. No one.

She curled her hand into a fist at her side and felt the darkness twist closer around her fingers, like a weapon.

‘Wren,' Anselm murmured. ‘Are you all right?' He stood beside her, his hand on the hilt of his sword, glaring at his father. ‘Do you need anything?'

She forced herself to shake her head. ‘Some air, perhaps. If you would escort me.'

Anselm held out his arm for her and she forced herself to walk away. She could barely control the darkness now, but she had to. Right here in the middle of the ball, with everyone looking, she could not afford to lose control.

She was glad she didn't have to interact with so many strangers. Their stares were bad enough. They had come from everywhere, and all to see Elodie punished. To celebrate it, in the same way Sassone was already celebrating it.

The music had stopped and some sort of commotion was happening at the far end of the ballroom. She looked around for Roland, only to see him heading that way with serious intent. Lynette was hurrying back towards Wren now, trying to appear to be moving nonchalantly and without purpose. Only her haste gave her away, and the way her hands were suddenly knotted together in front of her. Her expression was fixed with concern.

What was wrong? Because something was definitely wrong.

An excited murmur rippled through the crowd.

The crowd parted to reveal a smaller group, stunningly attired for a ball, each of them beautiful and ethereal. Pale-haired and otherworldly, they moved like predators amid the people of Pelias, a royal court that Wren already thought cut-throat. The Ilanthian visitors put them to shame in a second.

Roland intercepted them, bowing with an elegance she would have thought impossible.

That was when she saw Finn, standing beside the Ilanthian woman at the forefront of the group. Her leaping heart stuck in her throat.

He wore typical Ilanthian court clothing. A black high-collared tunic hung open with sash in an iridescent blue which matched his eyes angling across his bare chest. It highlighted the pendant around his neck, one she hadn't seen before, a delicate twist of coloured glass on a thong. He looked darkly handsome beside the pale colouring of the woman, and positively decadent in those clothes.

Wren dragged her attention to the woman wearing the cream and gold sheathlike gown. His cousin, she had to be, and though clearly older than him, she wore her years lightly. Her hand rested on his arm, almost possessively, and Wren frowned. She didn't like that. Didn't like the tight expression he wore, or the way his eyes hunted her out across the crowd.

She started forward, but Anselm's hand stopped her.

‘Something's wrong,' said Olivier softly. ‘Very wrong. I can feel it.' He scanned the assembly looking for anything untoward, as if sensing something no one else could see.

Finn's voice rang out, strong and certain. If Wren hadn't seen that concern a moment earlier she would never have guessed it had been there now. ‘Grandmaster, it is my honour to present the ambassador of the Ilanthian court of Sidonia and her officials.'

It sounded so formal. Like a rehearsed speech. Not like Finn at all. He didn't even look like himself. Not really.

‘Of course,' Roland replied. ‘The regents' council is most happy to welcome—' He stopped, as if his voice caught in his throat. Wren saw his shoulders tighten in a way that could only indicate he was preparing for an attack or…

Another figure stepped through the assembled Ilanthian visitors, pale and beautiful as the rest of them, but more so, outshining men and women alike. He wore clothes like Finn's, beautifully tailored, the colours picked with care and deliberation to look like exactly what he was, a prince. He didn't bow, but inclined his head curtly. Not exactly polite but far more so than Wren would have expected.

‘Grandmaster de Silvius,' said Leander, the crown prince of Ilanthus. ‘The pleasure is all ours.'