Page 7 of Ocean of Ink
Wren’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Yet again, Wren’s judgment had been wrong, unlike her brother's. Heron was always right. If he trusted Ivanhild, then she would too. And she would start right now.
Wren walked over and shut the drawing room door. She turned on her heel. Ivanhild’s watchful eyes gleamed like emeralds in the flickering candlelight.
“I believe my brother’s death was not an accident. What do you say to that?”
“I say that your brother didn’t exaggerate your curious nature.” Ivanhild looked at the painting, then back at Wren. “And that you’re probably right.”
“The investigation of Heron’s death concluded quickly after it began,” Ivanhild told Wren as he pushed a trunk out of the way of the sofa. Wren sat down, candlestick in hand, and Ivanhild pulled up a chair from the corner of the room.
“And what was the exact determination?”
The flame of the candle warmed her face. She welcomed the heat as the house had grown cold without the hope of Heron’s return.
“As I said yesterday, it was deemed a cryptura attack. But Heron knew better than to wander in the Whispering Woods. He wouldn’t have succumbed to such a fate willingly.”
Wren did her best not to think of her brother being feasted upon by the darkest creatures above the Tides. Cryptura were the monsters every child in the Seven Havens grew up being warned about. They stalked the forests of every island, but were most prominent on the Whispering Isle, where the academy was located. Wren heard that the academy had tried to rid the woods of the creatures when they first built upon the island, but only succeeded in pushing them back with a large stone wall.
“Do you think someone coerced him to leave the grounds?”
Ivanhild nodded. “Or they killed him, then disposed of his body to make it look like a cryptura did it.”
Wren shrank into the sofa. The cruelty it would take to do such a thing was unimaginable.
“Heron told me several times that the academy was a dangerous place. I’d thought he meant for me specifically, but now…” she trailed off.
“It is dangerous,” Ivanhild agreed. “The students are willing to do anything to get ahead, and the professors are no different. But killing a student, especially one of the caliber that Heron was, is unheard of.”
“Did you know of anyone who might want to hurt him?”
Her brother had a strong sense of justice that often made others uncomfortable. He believed there was a bold line between what was right and what was wrong. If this academy was a place that dealt in shades of gray, they may not have liked Heron’s black and white perspective.
Ivanhild shook his head. “He was well-liked by many people. I can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt him.” He ran a hand over his beard. “However, toward the end of the semester, I spotted him in conversation with a few students that tend to deal in darkness more than others.”
Wren sat up taller. “Oh?” She wished she would have brought her journal with her, but she didn’t want to risk it being snatched by one of her parents if they found her.
“The most worrying acquaintance of his was Castien Valengard.”
Wren’s eyes widened. “As in the Prince of the Lucent Enclave?” She had never met him, but tales were spread all over the Known Islands about his Gift of strategy and the dangerous ways he used it. He was on track to become the next emperor. There was little question of him being voted in.
“The very same.” Ivanhild let out a weary sigh. “I saw them seated together in the dining hall a few moons ago and I knew, IknewI should have said something.” His guilt was so strong it took Wren’s breath away. She sank her fingernails into her palms.
“Even if you’d warned him, Heron was headstrong,” Wren consoled him. “There was a greater chance of him not listening than him heeding your warning.”
Heron was not rebellious, but rather, he had a moral code that dictated his every move. If he thought it fit into his principles to speak to Castien, then no one would be able to stop him.
“I should have at least tried,” Ivanhild said in a choked voice. “But I thought he knew. Heron saw through most people. I presumed he had his reasons that I shouldn’t interfere with.”
“He did,” Wren whispered, putting together more pieces of the journal.
The dates in the journal lined up with what Ivanhild said. Heron started writing about the Order around the same time he was spotted with Castien. Given Castien’s reputation for scheming, it was not a reach to think he was in the Order.
Wren watched Ivanhild’s tortured expression over the flame of the candle. The professor appeared to have not known about Heron’s involvement with the Order. He might not be aware of the society’s existence at all. Which meant that Heron’s trust of him only extended so far. Hers would end here as well.
“Did he say something to implicate anyone for his death in his journal or letter to you?” Ivanhild asked once he had composed himself.
Wren shook her head. She’d spent most of her life lying. It would not be difficult to do so now.
“No. His journal was rather indiscernible, and his letter to me was nothing but an apology for not coming home.”
