All of this will make you unspeakably angry, yet you will—can—do nothing but swallow the rage down. Still, you are used to this, brewing anger in your core like a poison. You have learned how to harness it. How to sharpen it into a weapon.
You’ll remind yourself of your plans, that your marriage to the King will not last forever. You and so many others are working to bring him down; you only have to endure this so long. Occasionally, this will be enough. The rest of the time it’ll offer you no comfort at all.
You will begin whispering your Birth-blessing word to yourself, clinging to the hope it suggests. And at night and in carriage rides, you will thumb the torn scrap of your friend’s message so many times its ink has long since worn away, though the imprint of the word it contained is embedded in the grooves of your fingertips, embedded in your heart.
Love, love, love.
You will wonder at its meaning. At how a thing can be at once so beautiful and so soul-crushingly cruel.
And every moment of the week before you marry a Demon King, every single moment, you will think of her.
TWENTY-TWO
WREN
QUIETNESS. THAT WAS THE FIRST THING that struck her. Quiet, after coming from what felt like just seconds ago a roar of action and noise, screams and rushing flames and the multi-pitched singing of pain.
Wren smelled incense. Felt the softness of blankets on bare skin. The air flowed with warmth and low chanting: daos. If shamans were here, and it was calm, then the battle was over.
Relief cascaded through her. Then—worry.
She opened her eyes to find the grand space of Lord Anjiri’s throne room. Sunlight spilled through the tattered screens, painting buttery patterns on the floor. A group of shamans knelt nearby.
“Welcome back, Lady Wren,” one of them said. The others continued chanting, weaving their magic.
Wren’s voice was a rasp. “How long…?”
“Two days. Don’t worry. Your friends are safe.”
“That makes it sound like others aren’t.”
“It was a battle,” the shaman replied. “Casualties were unavoidable.”
“How many?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the details, my Lady. The ten of us have been at your side since General Lova and I found you. But I’m sure once your father returns from his inspection, he’ll be able to give you a full rundown—”
“My father is here?”
Wren sat up too quickly. Even with the enchantments, pain swelled to life in her shoulders and hips and ankle. She hissed, eyes watering. Head swimming, she threw aside the blankets and got to her feet. Though her right ankle was still tender where it’d been crushed from her fall, it was healed enough to put weight on, and she pushed out a breath to steady herself.
“Lady Wren,” the shaman said patiently, “you must take it slowly. You’ve been out a long time.”
“Even more reason to rush,” Wren retorted. “I need to check on everyone. Make sure things are in order.” She examined herself as she spoke, unabashed by her nakedness; she’d grown up with maids primping and polishing her. A web of bandages crisscrossed her body. She skimmed her fingers over pale pink scars and fading bruises. The shamans had clearly worked hard.
Wren called to a couple of Hanno maids working over a wooden basin. “Jumi, Hai-li—I need clothes. Anything practical will do.”
“Yes, Lady Wren,” they intoned, hastening at once to where supplies had been piled up against the walls. The Hannos must have moved from their war-camp and were using the Orchid Hall as their base.
So Marazi really was theirs.
The maids helped Wren into a cotton tunic, trousers, and soft leather boots. Ignoring their requests to do something with her hair, Wren absentmindedly swirled half of it back from her face and went to her weapons. They were laid out on a satin cushion. Like her, they’d been cleaned. Wren swung them onto her back.
“Lady Wren,” the shaman tried again as she went to leave, “your father ordered us to keep you here. He’s concerned for your health.”
“You mean he wants me to be rested for the next battle. Thanks to you and your shamans, I’m healed and well rested. Please, you all should rest, too.” As he began to protest, she added, “That is a command.”
The shaman sighed. “Very well. At least let me offer you this.”
He pushed out his hands. After a moment of pained concentration, a gust of warm air flew from his palms. It eddied around Wren in a golden ripple, lapping at her bare skin. Immediately, she felt energy flood her body. Her pain dulled to a low hum. She smiled, about to thank him when the shaman gasped, crumpling suddenly to the floor.
Wren jolted forward, but he held up a hand.
“Please,” he croaked. “All is well.”
There was a guilty clot in her chest. “Thank you for your efforts.”
“It is our duty to serve you, Lady Wren. You do not need to thank us.”
Wren headed down the staircase, discomforted by the shaman’s words. They brought to mind what Ahma Goh had told her at the Southern Sanctuary.
That was why your shaman friend’s death offered you such intense power. You didn’t take his life—he gave it to you.
The more she understood about her Xia magic, the more Wren suspected her father’s intentions. Had the other shamans guessed them, too? They’d have heard what had happened to Hiro by now, and, like Wren, would surely be putting the pieces together.
And here were ten shamans who’d spent two days keeping alive the girl they might soon be forced to give their own lives for.
Lova and Nitta were uncharacteristically quiet as they rode alongside Wren through the ruined streets of Marazi, surveying the changes the battle had wrought upon the city.
While most of Marazi’s soldiers had surrendered when Wren had forced General Anjiri to call off the battle, some refused to back down, leading to a protracted, messy conclusion. It hadn’t been until sunrise the next day that the Hannos had secured the city. Lord Anjiri was being held in the prisons of the Orchid Hall, along with his closest advisers and demon families known to be affiliated with the King. Many had fled before they could be captured.
“This is the worst of the fire damage in the Old City,” Lova was saying now, indicating the district they were passing through, which was barely more than a rubble-strewn wasteland.
“Merrin supervised the rescue,” Nitta added. She was sitting in front of Lova on Panda’s back. “He worked so hard, and with barely any help, what with—”
She cut off abruptly.
Wren glanced sideways to see Lova draw back from where she’d whispered something into Nitta’s ear.
“I—I mean,” Nitta continued quickly, “what with the aftermath of the battle and everything. It took that whole first day to get the fire under control. We’d have lost far more of the city if it hadn’t been for him.”
They crossed the bridge that led from the Old to the New City before heading toward the maze of buildings that made up the New City’s southern district. Lova led them off the main road. “This way,” she said.
Wren pulled Eve to a stop, noticing a strain in Lova’s voice. “Why?”
Nitta laid a hand on Panda’s neck; the horse was snickering, sniffing at the air.