Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(14)

“Silence,” Svetlana hissed. “You, Lady-Smith Wren Graven, have no one to blame but yourself. You are rash and reckless, and I am confident that whatever predicament you found yourself in was entirely of your own making. The fact of that matter is, you abandoned your reapyr. You have dishonored the valkyr order, your Graven bloodline, and the House of Bone. Your actions cannot be ignored or excused, and I cannot allow such shame to fester under my roof.”

Wren’s vision was closing in. This was more than just failure….

“You are no longer welcome in Marrow Hall. You are no longer welcome in the Bonelands. You will travel south at once and serve as a bonesmith tribute at the Breachfort.”

“The Breachfort?” Wren repeated faintly. The Breachfort was the main fortress along the Border Wall. While it had once been a dangerous frontier, since the end of the Uprising, it was a backwoods posting, a place where third-rate smiths went to earn a meager living or where noble families sent their embarrassing children and spare heirs as “tributes” to serve in obscurity.

This was more than just punishment.

This was exile.

“Guard the Breachfort and the Border Wall the way you have guarded your own selfish interests, and perhaps you will not disgrace yourself utterly.” Lady-Smith Svetlana nodded her chin at the ground. “The blade.”

Wren held Ghostbane before her in a shaking hand. Her fingers refused to move.

She looked at her father again, pleading silently. There was no response. She looked at Inara, who wore an intent expression Wren couldn’t place. Had this been her goal all along? Had she meant for things to go this far?

The blade landed with a thump onto the snow.

New-made valkyrs and reapyrs stood on either side of her, but Wren remained standing alone.



* * *



She refused to pack, even though the ship would leave first thing the following morning.

It was called Castaway, and Wren couldn’t help but wonder if it was the universe laughing at her in general or her grandmother laughing at her in particular. She had always known Svetlana had no love for her, as a granddaughter or as a bonesmith novitiate. She had been cold bordering on cruel for all of Wren’s life, never really looking at her unless it was to call out or criticize. Still, a part of Wren had believed her father would shield her from the worst of it. But he hadn’t. His own place in his mother’s heart was tenuous. It seemed that no one was good enough for her, save for the dead.

She was pacing when a soft knock came at her door, and she whirled. She knew who it would be.

“I can explain,” she said, hands raised in placation as her father strode into the room.

His face was darker than Wren had ever seen it, the spark in his eyes gone. “I told you to be careful!”

Her mouth fell open in outrage, despite her fear. “You also told me to be spectacular!”

“I told you to pass spectacularly, not to fail so.”

Wren’s mouth snapped shut.

Her father looked around the small room. He decided not to comment on the mess she had made, her clothes strewn about and her bags open and unpacked. “You let a Fell best you for the first time ever during the most important test of your life?”

Wren swallowed. “She tricked me. There was a pit—a cavern, really—and she set a trap. Then they just left me there. I…” She trailed off. In truth, she’d barely survived, but that seemed unimportant now.

“Sabotage and subterfuge have always been a part of the Bonewood Trial.” He straightened, his gaze roving her critically. “I thought with all the nonsense you pull, you’d be well equipped to handle such hijinks.”

“Hijinks?” Wren spluttered. “I fell into a fifteen-foot-deep mass grave filled with at least ten corpses and their tier-three ghosts! I am the only valkyr novitiate that could have made it out of there alive—and I barely did.”

He was unimpressed. “You are not a valkyr novitiate anymore.”

A surge of impotent frustration rose up. “Father, please. You have to talk to her for me. You—”

“It’s too late, Wren,” he said simply. “I told you Lady-Smith Svetlana was looking for any reason to fail you. You have never been your grandmother’s favorite.”

The bluntness of it hurt more than it should have—it was no surprise to her, but it was unfair nonetheless.

After all, the circumstances of Wren’s birth weren’t her fault.

Wren was conceived during the Iron Uprising. Apparently, her father had dallied with a fellow soldier while defending the Border Wall, and Wren was born as the war came to a close. Her mother had died in childbirth, and Vance had returned home to Marrow Hall with Wren in his arms. That in and of itself might not be enough to earn her grandmother’s ire… except for the fact that he’d been betrothed to the king’s daughter at the time.

The resultant scandal brought their engagement to a swift and bitter end, along with her father’s—or, more accurately, Wren suspected, her grandmother’s—royal ambitions. Everything Lady-Smith Svetlana Graven did was for the glory and prestige of the House of Bone, and Wren’s existence was a strike against that. A constant reminder of it. Vance had disappointed his mother—first by coming home without Locke, heir to their house and her obvious favorite, and second by having an affair that resulted in fathering a bastard child on a random soldier.