Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(18)
The Breachfort was the main defense, and larger than Wren had expected, though less grand. It was roughly built, made of large stonesmith-hewn blocks without decoration or artifice. She reminded herself that when it had been raised, undead had been wandering freely across the Dominions, and it was required to serve a dire defensive purpose. The Border Wall, too, was similarly constructed, with function superseding form. This was truly a structure made for war, and the effect was brutish and bleak. A solitary Dominion flag, featuring falling stars on a dark blue field, snapped in the breeze.
Guards ranged along the fort’s battlements as Wren’s party rode through the western gate, though it was too high for her to see which way they looked—east, toward the Breachlands and the Haunted Territory beyond, or west, at the newcomers.
The courtyard, however, was a different story. Breachfort servants and stable hands milled about, staring openly at the arriving wagon, while guards halted in their training exercises or paused on the way to their postings.
Wren raised her chin instinctually—it wasn’t her first time being openly stared at—and busied herself leaping from the wagon and unloading her bags. She hadn’t gotten far before she and the others were directed to stand at the foot of the wide steps that led to the main hall and await Commander Duncan, the Breachfort’s leader.
Ralph and the wagon driver cleared out, and panic, sudden and fierce, pinned Wren to the spot. She had the mad urge to chase after them. Maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough to convince her father to let her stay. Maybe if she really begged, he’d take pity on her.
Commander Duncan descended the steps, an older man dressed as a steward standing beside him.
The commander was a tall, broad man with ruddy brown skin, who looked like he might have made an impressive warrior… once. Now his shoulders were rounded, his hair receding, and his belly straining against the buttons of his jerkin.
He still dressed as a soldier, but one who was off-duty, with tall boots, thick gloves, and a sword at his waist. Wren doubted he had seen any real action in years.
He didn’t bother with welcomes or pleasantries. The steward, a pale, reedy man with white hair, handed over a list, and Commander Duncan called out assignments.
The villagers would be heading to the guard captain to start their basic training, while the silversmith would report to the infirmary and the stonesmiths to maintenance.
“Lady-Smith Wren Graven, of House Bone?” he called out finally, easily identifying her in the crowd. “You’ll report to Smith Odile Darrow at the bonesmith temple.”
Ah, yes, Odile Darrow. Highest-ranking Breachfort bonesmith and former reapyr of Locke Graven.
Also, Wren was quite certain, her new babysitter.
SEVEN
The bonesmith temple was underground, at the bottom of a flight of stone steps. It consisted of a single workroom with a long table, its surface smooth black stone and scattered with various bone weapons in need of repair, jars of bonedust, and a couple of scythes with dulled edges or rusted grips.
Guttering candles were set in sconces or shoved into darkened recesses. The entire place was unnecessarily spooky, even for a bonesmith, and Wren tripped over several stacked chairs that were impossible to see in the darkness. She realized this space had likely once been a meeting room or council chamber, the long table meant to seat at least a dozen bonesmiths. Closed doors led into additional chambers, though she suspected they were no longer in use.
Only one door was open, a faint glow spilling out into the main room.
Wren edged around the remaining chairs, dumped her bags on the ground, and knocked hesitantly on the open doorframe.
“Yes?” came a woman’s distracted reply. Wren could just see her seated behind a desk, head bowed, her nose in a book.
Wren sighed, speculating how far Ralph had made it at this point, and wondering again if her father would take her back if she pleaded hard enough.
Instead, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Commander Duncan sent me. I’m your new bonesmith tribute.”
There was a pause, and finally the woman—surely Odile—looked up. Her pale-eyed gaze raked over Wren with surprising intensity. She blinked, then seemed to come back to herself. “Of course. Come in.”
Wren strode into the room, which was set up like an office, with a desk in the center, where Odile was seated, the surface littered with papers and leather folders. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with books, bones, and more candles, and there was a fireplace, darkened with soot and burning low.
Wren paused before the desk, the woman’s gaze still unnerving as it took her in. Finally, Odile smiled, but it seemed a resigned sort of expression, like she was amused at her own expense. She leaned back in her chair, hands steepled across her stomach. She was around Wren’s father’s age, her copper-colored hair sleek and cut in a severe line at her chin.
“Lady-Smith Wren Graven, I presume?” she said.
Wren nodded. “Call me Wren.”
“You certainly look like him.”
“Like Vance?” Wren asked, assuming Odile meant her father.
The woman’s smile tightened, and Wren recalled that while her father had said they’d served together at the fort, he’d never said they were friends. “I was thinking of Locke, actually.” Her expression softened, turning almost wistful, before she continued. “But I’m sure there is a resemblance to Vance in there too, somewhere….”