They were the House of Bone words, their most sacred purpose and rallying cry. Colm and Eiryn had passed the trial. They shared a grin, their shoulders rounding in relief before they moved to the side.
Then came Kalisen and Ginevra.
Leif and Imogen.
Finally Inara and Ethen.
“And Smith Sonya,” Svetlana added.
Wren’s head jerked up, and she stepped forward too, but her grandmother’s cold look stopped her short.
“Ready your blade,” Svetlana said, and all three went to their knees. “Rise, valkyr and reapyr… and reapyr.”
There was a buzzing in Wren’s ears as Svetlana spoke the rest of the words, and she could only watch numbly as her reapyr and the valkyr who had betrayed her accepted their victory.
“I would like to call special attention to Smith Inara,” Svetlana continued. Wren’s stomach twisted while Inara flashed her perfect white teeth. “For not only finishing the Bonewood Trial first among her fellow valkyr novitiates but for acts of bravery above and beyond the call of duty and for getting two of our precious reapyrs home safe.”
She gestured to one of her retainers, who stood on the ground next to the dais. He hurried forward, placing something on Inara’s head—a champion’s wreath, crafted from linked finger bones and dipped in gold.
Wren had never seen one before, though she’d heard tell of them. She glanced at her father—surely this was the sort of thing he’d been hoping for her to achieve. Something spectacular.
The three of them stepped aside, leaving Wren alone in front of the dais.
Silence fell once more, and it seemed to grow and shift, like a ghost gathering its strength.
She couldn’t take it anymore. “Lady-Smith Svetlana, I—” she tried again, but a raised hand was all it took to make the words die in her throat.
“Your blade,” Svetlana said. Hope flared inside Wren’s chest. They were so very nearly the words she wanted to hear…
She withdrew her dagger, uncertain. She dared a look at her father, but his expression told her nothing. Did he know what was coming? If he did, and it was bad, he’d try to warn her, wouldn’t he?
“Onto the ground,” Svetlana continued.
Wren moved to kneel, hardly daring to breathe, but a harsh burst of cold laughter made her falter.
“Oh no, not you,” Svetlana said, whatever humor had flickered there already gone from her face. “The blade.”
Wren’s fingers clenched convulsively on the hilt of Ghostbane. She glanced at Inara. Even she looked uncertain about what would come next.
Despite their bet, Wren had never really intended to part with the dagger because she had never intended to lose. Ghostbane was her most prized possession, the only gift her father had ever given to her.
But Wren pushed past that sentimental attachment to consider what Svetlana’s words truly meant. Every valkyr had a bone blade dagger, either inherited from a family member or gifted to them by the House of Bone when they began their training.
Without it, Wren wasn’t a valkyr… or a valkyr novitiate.
“But I need it,” Wren said blankly, still clutching the weapon.
Lady-Smith Svetlana was unmoved. “No, you don’t.”
Those words woke Wren up. “Yes, I do,” she said, taking a step forward. “My lady, please, you have to let me explain—”
“Wren,” came her father’s voice, sharp with warning.
Wren ignored him. “Grandmother,” she said daringly—desperately. She had never addressed the head of her house so informally before, and certainly not in public, but Svetlana was her father’s mother, her blood, and Wren needed the woman to remember that. Svetlana had always been a distant presence in Wren’s life, a figurehead, not family, but it was all she had left. “Please.”
Svetlana’s eyes flashed. “Bone blade daggers are for Bone House valkyrs, and you are not worthy of such a title.” The words cracked like a whip, shattering Wren’s barely held composure. “Not only did you fail to finish the trial with your reapyr, but you left her to traverse the Bonewood alone. If it weren’t for Inara, I shudder to think what might have happened.”
“If it weren’t for Inara, we never would have gotten separated in the first place,” Wren said furiously. “She was the one who—”
“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.”