‘But what about beyond all that?’ Ezer asked. ‘What if a Sacred refuses to obey?’
Izill frowned. ‘Well … there’s a tale they tell us all when we are younglings, to help us understand the value of keeping the gods’ laws. The story of Wrenwyn the Wrong.’
Ezer’s ears perked up and she paused, mid-bite of her brown-sugared oatmeal. Izill had forced her to pile on three heaping spoonfuls, clucking over her weight like a mother hen. ‘I’ve heard of Wrenwyn. It’s a favorite of mine.’
Izill raised her brows. ‘Where?’
Ezer nodded and said with a full mouth, ‘My uncle Ervos told it to me when I was a child.’
Izill frowned, either at the way she ate, or her knowledge of Wrenwyn.
Ervos had told her the tale as a birthday present, when they hadn’t the funds to buy something tangible. But Ezer knew better than most children just how valuable stories could be.
How they lasted longer than flowers or sweets or lovely little trinkets.
How they so often took on a life of their own.
‘Strange,’ Izill said. ‘It’s a tale they tell us all as younglings. One as old as the walls themselves. But … well, I suppose some parts of an old Sacred story may have made it into the Outside, after all these years.’
Ezer wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
‘Here.’ Izill pursed her lips and passed her a napkin. ‘Wrenwyn’s story is a strange and dark tale, my friend.’
Ervos had said the same thing. It was more of a story to scare young children into remembering to say their prayers and stay in the Five’s favor.
But the story hadn’t scared her at all.
It had fascinated her.
Ezer nodded and said over a mouthful of scrambled eggs, ‘A terrible fate she met in the end.’
Izill’s eyes lit up. ‘Youdoknow it. Did you know her final resting place was somewhere near the Sawteeth?’
At that, Ezer laughed. ‘It’s only a story, Izill. Wrenwyn wasn’treal.’
Izill smiled. ‘Perhaps to an Unconsecrated, raised beyond these walls. Here, we believe it’s ancient truth. At least, the parts that matter.’
‘I guess we’ll never know,’ Ezer said. She considered the breakfast spread before them and decided on a piece of buttered toast next. ‘Tell me your version?’
‘Of course,’ Izill said. She leaned forward, eyes wide, like she’d been waiting for years to find a new set of ears to tell this specific tale.
And as Ezer listened to her new friend speak, suddenly she was transported back to her Ravenminder’s tower, the stones around her eaten away by salt from the sea, a raven perched upon her narrow shoulder.
And an uncle that was still alive, telling her this tale for the very first time.
‘Wrenwyn was one of the first Sacred younglings.She was a beautiful princess. Like you, Little Bird.’
‘I’m not beautiful,’Ezer had protested, reaching up to touch her thick and angry scars.‘And I’m certainly not a princess.’
‘And who are you,’Ervos asked with a patient smile,‘to decide what is beautiful – what is noble – to me?’He’d picked up a crown of dried white flowers, one he’d made himself to celebrate her turning nine, and placed it upon her dark curls.‘The story of Wrenwyn is as old as the mountains are tall. Someday, it may teach you something that I cannot.’
Ezer closed her eyes and listened to Izill tell the rest of the story.
‘Wrenwyn was the youngest of three,’ Izill began. ‘Her magic was lovely, for Wrenwyn had the ability to make the realm dance. She could grow vines with her fingertips, call a field of delicate flowers to sprout between cracked stones. She could make the ground shift, could reshape a river with a swirl of her hands. She was gentle and kind and pious, keeping the gods’ laws like every good Sacred should.’
Ezer had always thought the idea of Wrenwyn was an inspiring one.
Not because of all the times she obeyed.
