Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(25)
“For our undead captives,” she said softly, gesturing to the row of bone-barred holding areas, their grotesque shapes producing shadows that danced in the torchlight.
Wren had heard stories about the early years after the Breach, how they had studied and experimented on this new, more powerful breed of undead. How they had sought to understand them. From those early tests came the undead scale and everything they knew about the walking corpses that rose from the Breach.
The cells, however, took up only a small portion of the space.
There were beds lining the far wall, with trays of tools and baskets of linen that put Wren in mind of a hospital. Her eyes lit on some bloodstained rags, and she wondered if they had treated people here during the war… and why those people hadn’t been brought to the infirmary on the upper levels. Was it simply overflow, or something else?
Beyond the beds were what looked like storage areas. There were casks of wine stamped with the Twin Rivers seal, a famous winery east of the Wall that had been forced to close its doors after the Breach. There were baskets of wool from Highmore’s coastal flocks, crates of Adamantine fox furs, and ceramic jars of ironberry preserves.
All highly coveted items that were, allegedly, impossible to get west of the Wall.
There were also items that clearly went in the opposite direction. Silver instruments, golden trinkets, and even some bone talismans meant to ward off undead.
Odile strode into the center of the cavern, and Wren followed, lifting the torch to better take in the size and scope of the place. “I guess it’s not just the guards who buy and sell to the Breachsiders?”
“Not just them, no.” Odile seemed to be waiting for something. What, condemnation? Considering what Odile had told Wren about her own family living east of the Wall, the fact that Odile would try to help her old friends and neighbors in any way she could made perfect sense. Judging by the items piled around, Odile might be single-handedly supporting their economy as well.
“Does Commander Duncan know about this?”
“I think he prefers not to know—about anything that has happened down here in the past or what may continue to happen. He suspects some of my black-market dealings, of course, but he and the majority of the garrison benefit from it. They don’t care how I get them ice wine from the Cartesian Valley—only that it’s still cheaper than importing it from Maltec or Andolesia. But there are other things that move under the Wall that they might be less pleased with.”
Wren looked at the infirmary-style beds again and at the bags of apples, packets of salt fish, and sacks of grain. “People, you mean?”
Odile inclined her head. “People, objects… information. It’s important that we don’t entirely lose touch with what’s happening east of the Wall, so I make sure to keep on top of rumors and gossip.”
“Like what?” Wren asked eagerly.
“Not all of it bears repeating, but with undead roaming freely across their lands, I’m sure you can imagine the sort of thing. Some of it is nonsense, and some of it is intriguing—but some of it is dangerous, too. Until I know fact from fiction, I prefer to keep most of it to myself.”
“That makes you, what, some kind of gatekeeper?”
“I guess you could say that. Information is harder to control, but as for everything else… I have the only key and am the only person who can manage the lock. Well, myself, and now you.”
Wren returned her attention to the woman. “Why are you showing me this?”
Odile shrugged, a determinedly nonchalant gesture, but there was tension in her shoulders. “If anything should ever happen to me, it’s important somebody knows their way around. And now you know more than one way out of the fort. Just in case.”
Wren frowned, but nodded, getting the distinct impression she was missing something but afraid to pry lest Odile shut down again.
“I’m supposed to be staying out of trouble,” she said instead, trying to lighten the mood.
Odile’s serious expression didn’t change. “Sometimes trouble finds us, whether we’re looking for it or not.”
* * *
Finally, after weeks of anticipation, His Highness arrived.
Excitement thrummed in Wren’s veins as she returned from patrol, the sunset casting dark shadows over them as they passed under the gate.
She had never met a prince before, thanks to her years of intensive valkyr training and the fact that the Valorians rarely deigned to make the trip north to Marrow Hall. The last time they had done so was to honor her uncle Locke after the Uprising, when Wren had been a baby. Typically, her father and grandmother journeyed to their seat in Port Valor instead. The odds of her proving anything to a puffed-up, spoiled royal were long indeed, but it was the most interesting thing to happen since she’d arrived.
“You’re late,” snapped the steward. They had barely dismounted before he was on them. “Make yourselves presentable. We head for the dining hall at once.”
The guards tugged and straightened their uniforms as best they could. Wren hadn’t gotten dirty, exactly, but she was still armed and armored, with black smeared around her eyes and on her lips. She was a bonesmith, after all; she might as well look the part. If only she had a reapyr’s robes, then she’d be everyone’s worst idea of the House of Bone.
The steward hustled them toward the servants’ entrance to the dining hall, intending for the latecomers to sneak in unnoticed, but when Wren moved to follow them, he halted her progress.