And then, when Shrike had resigned himself to carving through the crowd to find the man he wanted, the throng parted to reveal a singular figure dashing towards him.
Shrike dropped his misericord and threw his arms wide just as Wren crashed into him.
~
Chapter Fourteen
For Shrike, the pain of split flesh and cracked ribs felt well worthwhile to have Wren’s arms flung around his shoulders and those beautiful bespeckled lips open beneath his own. His hands clenched in Wren’s cravat, slippery with gore, streaking scarlet in their wake.
The roar of the crowd filled his ears. Whether in approval of his victory or his embrace, he knew not. Nor did he care. He had Wren. He needed naught else.
“My lord?”
An unwelcome voice pierced the general tumult, sounding nearer than Shrike had expected. He broke away from Wren with great reluctance and turned to find the queen’s toad-mouthed herald had returned with a half-dozen of her knights.
The herald bowed. “May I offer you our congratulations upon your triumph. Her majesty commends your courage.”
Shrike stared at the herald, then glanced back at the queen’s bower. He could just make out her figure standing at the prow of her balcony. Her white hands braced against its scale-barked rail as she leaned out towards him.
“I thank her majesty for her consideration,” Shrike forced out as he returned his attention to the herald. “With her permission, I would withdraw from the field.”
“But of course!” said the herald with a great twirling of hands.
Shrike served him a nod, then at last turned to Wren, still in his arms. Wren looked rather bewildered at the exchange. Shrike could hardly blame him.
“Do you wish to remain?” Shrike asked in a low voice. Low enough that the herald would have to venture much nearer to overhear, and as they had remained at arm’s length from him, Shrike doubted they wanted to come within range of his sword, with a half-dozen knights or no. “There will be a great revel. Feasting. Dancing.”
Wren looked not at the herald, nor the knights, nor the queen, nor the wild throng already rejoicing all around them. Instead his eyes searched Shrike’s, then dropped to the wound in Shrike’s side. “I think we’ve more pressing concerns.”
Shrike could have danced upon such a wound if Wren had asked it of him. But truth told, he felt some measure of relief.
“Do the fae have surgeons?” Wren asked abruptly.
Shrike blinked down at him. “Chirurgeons, d’you mean?”
“Yes,” Wren replied after a moment’s pause. “Who do you go to when you’re wounded?”
“No one,” said Shrike. “I come home to myself and do what I can.”
Wren appeared far more aghast than Shrike thought warranted. “You can’t mean to stitch yourself up.”
“I’ve done it afore.” Shrike shrugged, wincing as it pulled at his wounds. “I’ll do it again.”
Wren hardly looked convinced. He set his jaw as if he meant to argue the point, but with a sigh, he replied, “Very well. Blackthorn, then, I suppose.”
Shrike smiled and took his proffered arm to lead him from the battlefield, ignoring the astonished expression of the toad-faced herald in their wake.
The crowd parted for them. Like the herald, few dared approach. Some swerved into view with flagons and horns filled with wine, proffering toasts with the victor, but a glance from Shrike set them back on their heels, and they satisfied themselves with drinking to him rather than with him.
Soon enough, though not so soon as Shrike might’ve liked, he and Wren reached the forest’s edge and plunged into it down quieter paths towards Blackthorn. Despite his wounds, the long walk felt shorter with Wren at his side. Only the occasional hoot of an owl broke the snow-muffled silence of that wintry night.
Blackthorn’s briars withdrew from Shrike’s approach much as the revelling crowd had done in the Court of the Silver Wheel not more than an hour past. He staggered across the cottage threshold and leaned one hand against the wall beside the hearth to catch his breath. Before he could bend down for the poker, Wren had snatched it up and stirred the fire to life again.
Shrike left him to it and began unbuckling his armour. He gently tugged Wren’s favour out of its place over his heart, winding it around the hilt of his sword for safe-keeping, and set both aside as he shed his boiled leather. Blood had soaked into his gambeson and tunic beneath and dried into a dark crust. Peeling it off tore into his wound afresh, but Shrike had grown inured to such pain over the centuries.
A sharp gasp made Shrike jerk his head up to regard Wren, who’d gone quite pale.
“Are you hurt?” Shrike asked, a bolt of panic in his tone turning the question into a demand. If any of the Court had laid a hand upon Wren, he’d flay them for boot-leather.
