Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(48)
He’d not abandoned their arrangement—that’s what mattered—so Wren took the opportunity to see to her own armor, undoing straps and buckles and rolling her stiff shoulders. Her arm wound could use a bit of cleaning, but she’d wait until Julian returned, then wash after.
That done, she turned her attention to the house itself. She extended her senses again, but there were no bones, dead or haunted, in the vicinity. But the way that ghost had moved earlier—nearly fearless in the face of the bones she’d pulled up to obstruct it—told her she needed to take extra precautions.
Like she had in the Bonewood, Wren withdrew a large pouch of bonedust and spilled it in a steady line around the inside perimeter of the house, everywhere except the door, which she’d finish once they’d both settled in for the night.
Wren was seated at the table and chewing on a rather uninspiring piece of dried meat when Julian returned.
He glanced at her briefly, armor and weapons held in his hands, before his gaze fell to the bonedust on the ground. He carefully closed the door behind him so as not to disturb the trail and noticed that the line was incomplete.
“I’ll finish after I’ve washed up.”
“I thought you said you didn’t sense anything nearby.”
“Right now I don’t. Doesn’t mean it won’t change, especially when I’m unconscious. I sleep like the dead,” she said with a wicked smile.
He was apparently immune to her charms. He looked confused. “The running water…”
“It helps, especially with any attack that might be coming from the opposite shore, but just because they can’t cross it doesn’t mean they won’t approach it at all.”
“Will this”—he gestured at the fine white powder—“work like the Wall?”
There was much superstition surrounding all the smiths and their various tricks and talents, but none so much as the bonesmiths. They had been oddballs and outcasts before the Breach made them indispensable not just to burials and funeral rites but to the very survival of the Dominions.
Wren figured it was a good sign that he was trying to understand the magic at play here, and maybe an explanation would put his mind at ease. “More or less. Ghosts hate dead bones, so they avoid them at all costs, and they’ll start to dissolve if they make contact with them. My bonedust is made with anchor bones—the bones that held the strongest connection to the soul, which also make them the strongest deterrent against the undead.”
“What about a revenant? A walking undead?”
Wren considered for a moment. “They still won’t like it, even if they can make themselves cross it. The protections extend beyond the dust itself—above and below—but either way, if one gets near, I should sense it.”
Seeming satisfied, he bent to add more wood to the stove.
Wren left him to it, walking to the shore and splashing a bit of water on her hands and face. Her eye black was greasy and difficult to get off without oil or fully submerging her face, so she left it for now, focusing on cleaning her cuts and some of the grime under her fingernails.
Afterward, she returned to the house and closed the door.
Julian had taken her place at the table while Wren used the remaining bonedust to finish the outline of the house and seal them in its protections.
“What if I have to, uh, relieve myself?” Julian asked abruptly, watching Wren make final adjustments.
Relieve himself? How proper. Wren smirked. “Be quick.”
He almost smiled at that, and Wren considered it a victory.
Her task done, she dug through her belongings until she found one of the blankets they’d pilfered from the bandits. She laid it out in front of the wood stove. Considering the size of the place and the radius of the fire’s warmth, they’d need to sleep side by side.
Julian seemed to realize it as she did, but he didn’t make any move to join her.
Looking up at him as she settled onto her makeshift bed, she quirked an eyebrow. “Given what I understand of the Haunted Territory, we’re not likely to be as safe as we are here anytime soon. Get your rest. The bonedust will do its job.”
“And what if there are more bandits?”
Wren shrugged, wrapping herself in her blanket. “That’s your job.”
SEVENTEEN
All in all, it hadn’t been one of Leo’s best days of travel. And honestly, that was saying something. He’d once rode in a manure cart for the better part of an afternoon in an attempt to make it back to the palace after an overlong stay at a local fair, and he’d been known to take a pony, donkey—even a large dog, once, though that had been for companionship more than anything else—if a horse was unavailable.
That being said, it also hadn’t been one of his best. The saddle had been hard and the ride uncomfortable, but he had endured worse.
Or so he told himself.
In truth, the day had started wrong from the moment he’d opened his eyes, burdened with a vicious hangover and the less-than-desirable knowledge that he was going to be kidnapped.
Still, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a hostage situation dampen his spirits. He was hardly the first royal to be held for ransom, and he doubted he would be the last.
They’d forced him to wear a smelly bag over his head for most of the journey—whenever they passed other travelers or identifying landmarks, as if he could do anything about it even if he did know where they were or where they were going.