by Claire Luana
“How did they die? If you don’t mind me asking?”
Wren hesitated. She did mind. The question cut to the core of her, the place where sorrow and fear and anger had swirled together so long that she didn’t think she knew how to separate them anymore. But Hale had been kind to her, and she didn’t want to alienate him. “My mother died in childbirth. With me. My father was a logger in the Ferwich mountains. We lived out in the foothills. His foot was mangled in a logging accident a few years later, and… I think the pain bothered him a lot. So he drank to numb the pain. I hardly remember a time growing up when he wasn’t at work or drunk. My older brother basically raised me.”
“You have a brother?”
“Had a brother,” Wren said, more harshly than she meant to. “Hugo… Hugo and I were doing okay, the two of us. My father got violent when he drank, but Hugo was always there to protect me, to take the worst of it. We planned to leave and come to Maradis as soon as Hugo turned eighteen and could become my guardian. But my father was getting worse, and we needed money, so Hugo started working. He was a big kid. Like you were, I bet,” Wren said, her eyes wistful. “Big enough for the logging crews. Big enough to be crushed to death when a limb of a falling tree struck a snag and landed on him.”
Hale placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Wren hardly felt it. The bright August day was replaced in her mind’s eye with towering cedar trees, misty gray rain, and a red flannel shirt bundled in the foreman’s hands, offered to her father at the door with condolences and a tipped hat. As if anything, let alone such meager offerings, could make up for the loss of her entire world.
“I’m so sorry, Wren.”
She shook her head to clear the memory, banishing it back to the corner of herself where she kept it tucked away. “My father died the same day. So I came to Maradis.”
“What? How?”
How. Such an innocuous question. She may have been beginning to trust Hale, but she doubted she would ever trust him enough to share the truth. A half-truth, then. “He… got raging drunk. Picked a fight. He was killed.” The word tasted like salt and blood on her tongue.
“That’s awful,” he said. “How old were you?”
“Ten.”
“Gods. What did you do?”
“I stayed in one of the Sower’s orphanages for a few months. But… then I had to leave.”
“Why?”
She shook her head, closing her eyes to the horror of the memories that threatened to bubble forth. “I think that’s enough for one day. We should keep on task here.”
Hale nodded, understanding and sympathy in his eyes. “Like Sable said. We’re family now,” Hale said softly.
Family. As Wren looked at the shadow of his profile, the dimples that pricked his cheeks, she realized she wanted that more than anything. But in the past, such things had been too good to be true. Was she a fool if she thought it could be real this time? She cleared her throat. “Lead the way.”
“His office should be under here,” Hale said, advancing to the edge and peering over.
Wren followed suit. “So… we drop down to that balcony?” The effervescent excitement she had felt minutes earlier as they dashed up the stairs was dimming, replaced by her usual hesitation and reserve. Were they really going to break into Kasper’s office? The balcony seemed farther down than she had expected.
Hale saw her hesitation and flashed his dazzling grin. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
She took a deep breath and blew it out. This would be her only chance to discover what was in that drawer. Hale was right. She climbed over the edge, wishing she had chosen pants that day. She clung to the wrought-iron fence as she lowered her body down towards the balcony.
“Steady,” Hale said as she extended her arms to dangle over the edge. The iron railing groaned and shifted, unsettling her. With a cry of surprise, she dropped to the hard stones of the balcony.
Hale vaulted over the edge and dropped besides her, as nimble as a deer. “Are you all right?” he asked, brushing her hair back and pulling her to her feet. “Anything hurt?”
“Just my pride,” she said, dusting off her dress.
Hale peered through the glass squares of the double doors into Kasper’s dark office. “It’s empty. Let’s just hope it’s unlocked.” He turned the handle, and the door swung inward on silent hinges.
“We’re in luck.” She smiled.
He gestured through the door. “Ladies first.”
She padded into the room, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. They needed to be careful not to disturb anything.
“Light a candle,” she said. “Let’s try the drawer first.”
Hale obliged and brought the candle over to the desk. They knelt, opening the bottom drawer where Lucas and Wren has discovered the bottle. Her heart twanged when she thought of Lucas. How was his investigation progressing? Had he discovered anything?
Hale held the candle over the drawer while Wren poked and prodded. She felt the outside of the drawer and then the inside, measuring its size. The inside was definitely smaller. The edge of the bottom seemed worn where it met the front of the drawer as well, like someone had been chipping at it.
She looked on the desk for something she could pry it open with. “Grab me that letter opener.” She pointed.
Hale obliged, handing her the implement like a diligent sous-chef.
Wren inserted the knife, and with a deft flick of her wrists, popped the bottom out.
Hale whistled. “You were right,” he said.
A letter rested at the bottom of the drawer, a nondescript piece of vellum folded in thirds. The rest of the secret compartment was empty.
Wren lifted it out, and Hale lifted the candle.
She unfolded the letter. It was written in a wide, looping cursive.
Guildmaster,
It is out of my respect for you that I write this plea. Your recent actions have convinced me of its necessity. You reach too high, you reach too far. For no good reason that I can see, you threaten to unravel all the work we have done, to reveal the secrets that are our truest currency. It cannot be. It will not stand. I entreat you once more to turn from this foolish path and back to the course decided by our forefathers. This is not your choice. You are but one man. And man is fallible. It pains me dearly to remind you of such, but let me be clear. The guilds are far more important than any one man. They came before him, and they will continue after him, perhaps sooner, rather than later. Do not force my hand.
Your brother, C.
Wren and Hale looked at each other over the flame of the candle, eyes wide.
“This is from Callidus,” Wren whispered excitedly. “He threatened Kasper. This is what I need. This could prove me innocent!”
Hale looked unconvinced. “Are you sure it’s a threat? It’s a bit vague.”
“Well, he’s not very well going to write: I will murder you. Of course it’s a bit vague. But look at this! The guild is far more important than any one man. It came before him, and it will continue after him? Perhaps sooner? Do not force my hand? That’s a threat if I’ve ever seen one!”
Hale nodded. “What does he mean, our truest currency? Is this about the Gifted? Would Kasper really reveal that? For what end?”
“I don’t know,” Wren said. “Perhaps Sable can help us puzzle it out.”
Wren took the letter, folded it, and tucked it in the bodice of her dress.
Hale raised a roguish eyebrow. “Lucky letter,” he joked.
Wren snorted, opening her mouth to retort, when she heard the jingle of keys in the door.
Wren and Hale looked at each other in panic, looking back towards the balcony. It was across the room. They’d never make it in time.
The door was already opening. Light streamed through.
“Forgive me,” Hale said. Then kissed her.
Hale surrounded her, filling her senses to the brim. His lips were soft but firm, parting her own in skilled rhythm. His muscled arms wrapped around
her, pulling the length of her body against his, backing her against the desk. He smelled musky and sweet, like leather and toffee, the sugary taste of wine and oranges still on his tongue.
Surprise warred with outrage for a moment until she realized what he was doing. Giving them an excuse for being here.
“Blooming hell!” an accented voice called in surprise as the door opened fully.
Hale pulled back, still pinning her hips to the desk, leaning one arm down to brace himself as he looked at the unwelcome intruder.
“Can’t a man get a little privacy?” Hale asked with a growl.
“Hale? You scared the sugar outta me.”
Hale pulled Wren to her feet, turning to the guard at the door. He kept his hand firmly around Wren’s waist, which was just fine with her, because she feared that without it, her knees would give way. Not from Hale’s kiss, but from fear. If Callidus found out she was in here… if he was declared grandmaster… she didn’t want to think of what he could do to her.
“Sorry, friend,” Hale said, his incorrigible demeanor resumed once again. “Can’t find much privacy today; the Guild filled to the brim as it is. Thought we’d be left alone in here.”
“Have a little decency, man. Getting your kicks with the old guildmaster still warm in his grave?” The guard’s shoulders had relaxed as soon as he recognized Hale, the two men seemed to know each other.
“It’s not like he’s in here with us,” Hale retorted.
His tone grated on her, reminding him of who he was pretending to be. No, who he was. Who was she to say that the kindness he had shown her wasn’t the act? She didn’t like that anyone might think Hale’s over-the-top flirtation had actually worked on her.
She straightened and squirmed, trying to move away.
His hand tightened on her waist in warning.
She stilled.
“I’m not one to spoil anyone’s fun, but the Guildmaster was explicit. No one is to come in or out of this room. I only came in when I heard voices.”
“Guildmaster?” Hale’s voice was low.
“Aye, they just announced it. Callidus is the new Head of the Confectioner’s Guild.”
Wren’s heart sank, and she felt Hale’s body deflate next to her. They knew it had been a long shot for Sable to win, but the reality of the alternative still stung.
“Very well,” Hale said, pulling Wren with him. “I’d be much obliged if you don’t mention this to our new guildmaster. Or Grandmaster Sable, for that matter. I’ll make sure to snag you some of that fresh-hopped ale you like the next time the Distiller’s Guild delivers some to make it worth your while.”
“No problem, Hale,” the guard said, giving the man a little mock salute. Hale clapped him on the shoulder as they breezed through the door and down the hallway.
Wren let Hale lead her down the stairs, only letting go of her when they were safely down to the second level.
“Callidus is Guildmaster,” Hale said. “Flame it.”
Wren felt the crinkle of paper against the skin between her breasts and pulled out a corner of the letter. “Maybe not for long,” she said.
“I need to find Sable,” Hale said. “She’ll be into her wine by now. I can’t let her say something she’ll regret. She still needs to work with these people.”
Wren thought the comment an odd one but let it go. “I’ll contact Lucas,” she offered. “Show him the letter.”
With that, Hale was gone, eating up the stairs two-by-two with his long strides.
Wren stood for a moment, dumbfounded, the memory of Hale’s kiss lingering on her lips. Deep within her, relief welled to the surface. Because while being wrapped in Hale’s arms was objectively pleasant, the kiss hadn’t stirred her soul, hadn’t lit her afire from the inside. Thank the Beekeeper. She wasn’t falling for Hale. Her fondness for him was… sisterly. She let out a little relieved laugh as she headed down the stairs. This was no time for romance. A pair of flashing gray eyes flickered in her mind’s eye, and her stomach twisted. She banished the thought. This was no time for romance.
Chapter 17
Wren slipped out the front door of the Guildhall, leaping down the huge stairs. The afternoon was warm and Guilder’s Row was filled with the hum of voices and the clop of carriage-horse hooves. A flock of messenger boys flew from the Guildhall behind her, carrying news of the new Head of the Confectioner’s Guild and invitations to tomorrow night’s gala.
Callidus. Callidus sitting in Kasper’s chair, a hard nib of cocoa replacing Kasper’s marshmallow. Callidus, able to bring the full power of the Guild to bear on his singular mission: framing her. Wren sighed. She shouldn’t have let herself dare hope that Sable could win. Despite Wren’s Gift, perhaps because of her Gift, it seemed that every turn of fortune was bad. One would think that someone who could spin good luck from sugar should be able to secure a bit more of it for herself.
She pressed her hand to the bodice of her dress, feeling the reassuring texture of the paper against her skin. It was more precious than gold now. Her only evidence connecting Callidus to the crime. Besides the cupcake that was, which also connected her.
At the end of Guilder’s Row, she paused to get her bearings. An ochre building stood across the square, topped by a red tile roof and fronted by three huge arched doorways. The carriage doors adorning each curving arch were made of warm wood with twisting iron hinges, lovely in their function. The Temple of the Sower whispered of silky ears of golden grain and abundant autumn harvests, but to her, that whisper chilled her soul.
A cold sweat pricked across Wren’s skin despite the heat of the afternoon sun. This is not the orphanage, she told herself. Lucas’s brother Virgil is not Brother Brax.
In the end, it was practicality that propelled her feet forward. She worried the letter’s ink might smudge in the slick humidity of her bodice. She needed to find Lucas.
The inside of the temple was brightly lit with gas chandeliers. Soaring pillars of ochre stone met above her head amongst colorful frescoes depicting scenes of the gods and their home of Mount Luminis. The Sower, first among the gods, plowing fields to provide for humanity, and his wife, the Beekeeper, the goddess worshiped by her guild, collecting nectar and pollen from the flowering things of the earth. The Carpenter and the Seamstress, providing shelter and clothing for humanity, and the Midwife and the Brewer, presiding over swelling life and birth and celebration. And then there were the panels with the gods who presided over death—the Piscator and the Huntress with her hellhounds, keeping balance in the world, pulling those who did wrong into the furnace of hell. At least the Huntress was truthful about the death and destruction she brought. It seemed a more honest thing.
The neat rows of pews stood empty. Wren’s sandals were quiet on the tiled floor, formed of a swirling mosaic of undulating waves of grain. As she walked up the temple’s expanse, she couldn’t help but feel the pantheon of gods watching her from above. At the foot of the stairs to the dais were two long tables set with votive candles. Flickering wishes fervently prayed. Wren resisted an urge to blow them all out. She had learned a long time ago not to waste any energy on belief.
Between the tables was the statue Lucas had referred to: the Sower in all his bronze glory. He was depicted as a broad man holding a wooden plow over one shoulder. His other hand was outstretched with a little pile of seed in it. His face looked hard, his eyes vacant. Perhaps the artisan had shared her opinions of theology.
She pulled Lucas’s silver button from the pocket of her dress, worrying it with her thumb absentmindedly. The Sower stood at least eight feet tall. But she thought if she stood on her tiptoes, she could likely deposit the button in his outstretched hand.
Wren sighed. Better not stand around here like an imbecile. Better to be done with it. She hitched her dress and jumped, trying to release the button at the right moment. It tumbled through the Sower’s fingers, clattering onto the tiles.
“A valiant effort.”
Wren whirled. Behind her stood L
ucas. But… not Lucas. She cocked her head in fascination. Not Lucas was a few inches shorter, perhaps, less lean muscle and more densely made. His face was a bit squarer and his eyebrows were a bit bushier… but besides that it was Lucas, the broad smile, the easy air of confidence, the long nose and salt-and-pepper hair. It was uncanny.
“Virgil.” Not-Lucas held out his hand to shake her own. “You must be Wren.”
“You look so much like him,” she said dumbly.
“We get that a lot. The four of us are like peas in a pod. Luckily, our sister, Ellarose, diverged a bit for the better. Can you imagine a lady with this nose?”
Wren laughed, finding herself relaxing. Virgil wore the sienna robes of the brothers of the Sower, but his similarity to Lucas was comforting.
“I thought there were some ridiculous number of brothers? Seven?”
“True, true. I see Lucas has divulged all our secrets.”
“Hardly.”
“The oldest four brothers were by my father’s first wife, Queen Clemente.”
“Queen?” Wren’s brow furrowed.
“Yes, the king’s wife is typically referred to as a queen,” Virgil quipped.
“King?” She felt faint, her thoughts like a puff of powdered sugar.
Virgil rubbed his jaw as he realized his mistake. “I see Lucas has not divulged all of our secrets.”
“Is your father King Imbris?” Her voice sounded distant.
“Yes.”
“And Lucas’s…” This could not be. Lucas. Her Lucas… who had been a balm to her fears, who had made her feel like perhaps there were good men in this world. He was spawn of that king?
“Yes.”
She whirled away from him, pacing up the row of flickering wishes and prayers, her heart in her throat. How many of those problems could the king solve if he turned his attention from padding his pockets to improving the lives of his people? She suddenly felt the eyes of the Sower and the king upon her in this place, men and gods with too much power, too much control over her life. Men and gods who could end her, destroy her in an instant, leaving not even a remnant of her life upon this earth.
