Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(110)

“What are you waiting for?” Vance said, looking between the commander and the guards. “Kill him.” Then he wrapped an arm around Wren’s shoulders, preparing to walk her back to the gate.

Commander Duncan held up a hand, staying the guards, and frowned at Vance’s turning back. “We should question him, should we not, Lord-Smith Vance?”

There was tension in his voice—he clearly did not like being ordered around on his own turf, but Wren’s father was the highest-ranking person here. He was not only nobility, but he was also heir to his house. Even Leo couldn’t claim that same status, despite being royal.

Julian, on the other hand, could.

“He’ll just spew lies and misinformation,” her father drawled, and Wren was surprised at his apparent lack of interest. It was almost like he didn’t want Julian to talk. Did he suspect Wren’s involvement with him somehow?

“All the same, given what has happened here, we should at least hold him until—”

“I’d rather take the word of my daughter and a prince of the realm over some traitor’s brat.”

Julian’s attention had been fixed on the ground during this entire conversation, sparing Wren the decision of whether or not to meet his eye…. But he raised his head at Vance’s words, specifically “my daughter.”

He stared between them, lips pulled back in a sneer. All this time they’d discussed Locke Graven and the House of Bone, and she’d never told him her connection. That she, too, was theoretically in line to rule her own house.

“Better to kill him here and now and put his head on a spike. Send a message to those who would target us. Their assault on the fort was an act of war, and we will treat it as such. There is only one way to deal with treason.”

Commander Duncan appeared like he wanted to argue but didn’t. The guards around them looked ready for blood, given that they’d lost several people to Julian’s original attack. Galen was there, too, and his face was pale—shocked, no doubt, to have the prince he’d betrayed back in his midst.

“He’s not just some ironsmith,” Wren blurted. Julian’s gaze snapped to hers, his eyes wide. Pleading. He had protected his identity the entire time she’d known him because he was heir to his house and there were people who would use that against him. His own uncle had turned on him, and Wren was about to reveal it to the entire fort. But what other choice did she have? Stand aside and let him die? “His name is Julian Knight. He’s heir to the House of Iron.”

Julian looked down again, but there was tension visible in his corded neck muscles. He wasn’t disappointed or hurt. He was livid.

Let him be.

She’d take the rage of the living over the silence of the dead any day.

“How do you know that?” her father asked sharply, and Wren was forced to look him in the eye.

“H-he and I, we rescued the prince together. He was my guide. And then”—she swallowed, hating herself for what she said next—“once we’d gotten Prince Leopold to safety, I tied him up and left him behind. He must have gotten free and followed us.”

Her father’s expression was unreadable, but she saw a barrage of emotions flicker through—surprise, distaste, and then something almost like fear. Wren knew he’d have questions for her. Many questions.

“Lock him up,” he said. “No one is to speak to him until I do.” Then his arm tightened like a vise around Wren’s shoulders as he led the way to the fort.

Julian was dragged off to a cell without a backward glance, and though Galen insisted that Leo needed rest, Wren’s father demanded Leo and Wren speak with him immediately.

“My rooms will work just fine,” Vance insisted, steering Wren toward the stairs. “Have some food and drink sent up, won’t you, Galen?”

The man looked unhappy at being reduced to the level of a servant, but then he glanced at Leo, who looked dirty and exhausted, and straightened his spine. “I shall bring it up myself.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Wren’s father cut in with gracious equanimity. “A servant will do just fine.”

And just like that, a line was drawn in the sand—and Galen was on the wrong side of it. Wren couldn’t help but feel smug. It was what the traitor deserved.

Galen turned on his heel and made for the kitchens, waving at a pair of servants as he passed, who followed behind.

“I won’t be so easily dismissed, Lord-Smith,” said Commander Duncan, coming up on their other side, a shrewd look on his face.

“Of course not,” Vance said easily. “However,” he continued, releasing his hold on Wren to step nearer the fort’s commander, “given there is almost certainly a spy in your midst, I think it’s best if I take over the preliminary investigation. If you were to sit in and rumors were spread… It may come out bad for you, Commander. Let me handle things for now. See if we can’t suss out the perpetrator. Then you will have full command once more.”

Like Galen, Commander Duncan did not look pleased. But rather than bluster and shuffle away on Vance’s orders, he stood there, hands clasped behind his back, and watched them disappear up the stairs.

Servants had preceded them to her father’s room—which was actually a series of rooms, meant for visiting nobility—lighting the fire and setting out a pitcher of water and cups.