Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(61)
She met Julian’s gaze. He didn’t speak, his expression unreadable.
“I know it’s the reckless thing to do—” she continued, but he cut her off.
“But that doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing.”
Wren could only stare at him, stunned. “I thought you said I was mad.”
He shrugged. “You are. I also think you’re brave.”
TWENTY-ONE
They set out soon after. They needed to make the most of the daylight, and Julian figured they could make that bridge crossing before darkness fell. What they’d find on the other side, they couldn’t be sure, but they’d have to deal with the threats as they came.
The silence between them felt… less charged than usual. Less tense. Wren doubted they’d had their last argument, but she felt that perhaps they were starting to understand each other. They each had reasons for being here, and it extended beyond simple, selfish gain for both of them. Julian had a protective streak when it came to the people east of the Wall, a sense of responsibility that Wren suspected had something to do with the little sister he’d mentioned. He also had loyalty to whoever was calling the shots in the kidnapping—likely the regent—and believed that person wasn’t to blame for the attempted assassination. He wanted to get Leo away from the kidnappers who currently held him, so for now their goals aligned.
Of course, once they actually had Leo in their possession, things might change. Quickly. But focusing on that now was a waste of effort. They might never make it there, but they stood a better chance of surviving if they trusted each other in the interim.
As they left the cover of the trees, the ground sloped away from the forest, leading into a swath of low fields dotted with dead grass and patches of snow. Beyond were massive boulders and soaring bits of rock, obscuring the view of their destination. They had to cut through that landscape to make it to the bridge, which meant that the undead could be around every corner.
And Wren had thought the forest was bad.
At least they had daylight on their side, though the swell of dark clouds to the east told her not to remain too optimistic.
They took a break around midday at what was once a village, though the buildings were little more than foundations and rotted beams of wood poking out of the ground. This had surely been abandoned even before the Breach, and while Wren did find bones as she checked the area thoroughly, they were dead ones.
“It’s a mausoleum,” she announced, crouching before the marble structure. It was roughly the size of a wagon, heavily overgrown with creeping vines, its surface so dirty that it blended into the surrounding scenery. Mausoleums were a foreign concept brought to the island and made popular by the Valorians, a custom from their homeland. Traditionally, all bodies on the island had been buried. Since magic came from the earth, so did all life, and so that was where they were meant to return, giving their magic to future generations. It’s part of why the ghostsmiths’ necromancy was seen as so terrible. They were not only denying a dead soul rest, but they were denying future generations of their magic.
“What are you doing?” Julian asked as she tugged at the ensnaring greenery, searching for the handle.
“Don’t worry, these are properly reaped. Nothing but the dead in here.” She pulled, the door resisting but eventually opening enough to reveal the pure darkness within.
“Then why are you disturbing them?”
Wren had to give him credit; he’d have yelled at her the day before, but while his voice was tight with frustration, he kept his anger in check.
“Weapons,” she said shortly, glancing over her shoulder. “Not,” she said, cutting him off before he could speak, “the kind you’re thinking of.”
She wasn’t here looking for old iron swords. She was here for bones.
“All of these repel the undead?” Julian asked, looking uneasily over her shoulder.
“Well, the bone with the most power is the anchor bone—the one that holds the spirit. It’s the payment we take for performing funeral rites. They get to bury their dead without fear of haunting, and we get the material we need to make weapons and defend lives. Only the rich can afford to pay coin instead and keep the anchor bone, preferring to bury their loved ones intact. So, unless these people were very wealthy…” She leaned forward, peering at the neatly stacked bodies on three levels of shelves, then drew back and shook her head. “There are no anchor bones in here.”
“Doesn’t that make them no good?” Julian asked, watching as she reached inside.
“They’re not perfect, but they’ll do,” Wren said, sweeping her hand across the shelves. Her bonedust was most in need of replenishment, but she’d settle for some knucklebones in the meantime. They were the least useful of her weapons, but they still did damage.
Julian wore a thoughtful expression as he helped her close the door after she’d finished. “Did you ever consider being a reapyr?” he asked.
“No way,” Wren said at once. “I always wanted to fight.”
“Unsurprising,” he said dryly. “Are all valkyrs as reckless and foolhardy as you?”
“I mean… they try,” Wren said, and he actually smiled. A full-blown, teeth-bearing smile, and fuck if it didn’t make her smile in return. She was suddenly desperate to change the subject. “I did take some introductory reaping courses—we all have to. Learning about anchor bones and ley lines. I hardly paid attention. I just wanted a sword. Or two. My father is a valkyr, so it seemed the only path for me.”