Page 13 of Ocean of Ink
“You will make a lovely council member, though, I am sure,” Duchess Alder continued. “Someone as kind as you is bound to make the Wild Holm a better place.”
Wren fought to keep a serene smile on her face. She wanted nothing to do with the Council. Politics was never something that interested her. Heron was the heir. Wren was supposed to live in a cottage on the edge of the estate. She’d drink tea, eat honeycakes, and tend a small garden. A quiet life alone is all she had aspired to since she was ten years old.
Sorrow crashed into her like the waves against the shore. Heron had assured her that her dreams would come true once he returned from the academy. He had been the only thing standing between her and her parents’ schemes to elevate their status by marrying her off.
“Thank you, Duchess Alder. I will do my best,” Wren replied once she had gathered the words.
More people climbed the dunes. The sun was hovering over the horizon, just barely risen. Above it was the Adiran star, telling all that the Tides were safe for a little while longer. That was why the burial rite was taking place here. The Salt Hills were only exposed during Eventide. Those who died outside of the safe season were either buried on family land or burned so their ashes could be scattered upon the sea. It was considered a blessing to be laid to rest during Eventide, though Wren had yet to determine why in her study of the Wild Holm’s history. It was not as though the Tides cared if someone was thrown into them.
“I’m certain you will. You’ll have my support, should you need it. Do come by for tea whenever you please.”
Wren’s smile turned brittle. Oh, how she despised politics. Heron had not been given to the Tides yet, and this woman was already trying to manipulate her. Wren wasn’t meant for this life. She hadn’t trained for it. Heron had encouraged her parents to turn their attention elsewhere. But she should have known better than to hope for a peaceful future. It was foolish to dream while trapped in a nightmare.
“Thank you for the invitation. I must see to other guests, if you’ll excuse me.” Wren curtsied and spun away before the wretched eel of a woman could say more.
Wren searched the crowd of yellow for someone who wouldn’t be miserable to hold a conversation with. At the top of the tallest hill, she spotted Ivanhild. The casket that her brother had been brought home in was next to him, the jewels refracting rainbows beneath the sun’s rays. Ivanhild had been tasked with the transportation of Heron’s remains. He rode in the carriage with the casket and then dragged it up the hill by himself. Not once did he complain or so much as grunt with the exertion.
Wren’s calves burned as she crossed the dunes to get to him. Her bare feet sank into the sand up to her ankles. Each step was a fight. When she finally crested the hill, there was a thin sheenof perspiration coating her skin. The winds coming off the Tides did their best to dry it.
“Lady Kalyxi,” Ivanhild greeted with a bow of his head.
“Professor.”
Wren’s eyes dipped to the casket. Yellow petals littered the top from where visitors had dropped flowers. She stared. Her eyes burned in the salty air.
“Your traditions here are beautiful. More pleasant than Stonemouth,” Ivanhild commented.
Wren’s gaze lifted. She blinked a few times.
“What are your traditions?” She had read very little about other islands, since most of her studies were centered around the Wild Holm. Lord Floriant said that it was important for her to learn about her home before she dove into the history of others. Much of her knowledge of other islands was based on issues that had occurred when they clashed with the Wild Holm.
“Our ancestors believed that the predators of the land should have a taste for our blood. It would make them thirsty for it. This would result in more dangerous hunts for the next generation, and as such make them stronger than the former,” Ivanhild explained. “When someone dies, their body is taken into the forest and thrown into a ravine for the animals to devour.”
Wren pressed her gloved fingertips to her lips.
“I am glad to have been raised on the Wild Holm,” she said when words failed her.
Ivanhild managed a smile. “It suits you better than Stonemouth would, that is for certain.”
Wren scanned the crowd. Her parents were on a nearby hill, distracted with a line of people jostling their way into the duke and duchess’s good graces.
“The politics here do not suit me, though,” she confessed. “I am afraid I am not prepared to be an heir.”
Ivanhild’s guilt-ridden grief squeezed the air out of her lungs.
“I’m sorry.” The two words would have meant nothing if not for Wren’s ability to feel the emotion that came with them.
“What’s done is done,” Wren said, but the words scratched like a blade in her throat. Heron’s body lay at her feet, but still she expected him to run up the hill at any second.
“If I can be of service to you in any way, do tell me. It is the least I can do.”
Ivanhild’s offer was exactly the opening Wren had hoped for. She’d intended to speak with him in a more private place, but she couldn’t waste any more time. Eventide wouldn’t last forever.
“There is something,” Wren began. Ivanhild’s gaze weighed heavily on her. “I want to go to the academy.”
Ivanhild jerked his head side to side. “No, I apologize, Lady Kalyxi, but I cannot allow that. Your brother would have my head.”
Wren pointed to the casket. “My brother isdead. He was studying to become the best heir. Now I must do the same.”
