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…”
“If you find it, you’ll have to let me know,” Wren said. “And my grandmother, while you’re at it. When she looks at me, all she sees is my mother—though she never even met her.”
While Wren had the same eyes as her father, with pale bonesmith irises and stern, straight brows, it seemed that there was little else to connect them. His hair was a light ash-brown, thick with curls, his nose proud and prominent, and his olive skin easily tanned. Wren’s hair, meanwhile, was silvery blond and scraggly, her nose small and delicate, her skin more likely to burn than brown.
Odile’s lips quirked. “Lady-Smith Svetlana is better at seeing faults, I think, than family traits. Though the two are often one and the same.”
Had that been a joke? “My father said you were my uncle’s reapyr—that all of you served together here at the fort.”
“Is that all he said about us?” she asked. “About me?”
Wren shrugged. “He said you’d look after me.”
Odile looked disappointed, for a moment, before she snorted. “Forgive me,” she said, seeing Wren’s startled expression. Odile shook her head—again with that same rueful smile.
“I assumed you’d be expecting me…，” Wren said awkwardly. How else had she known Wren’s name?
“Oh, I was. Your father sent me a letter.” She paused. “It’s just so very typical of him. Charging me with your care when he’s done such a piss-poor job of it himself.”
Wren reared back in surprise, but Odile wasn’t done.
“The man spends half his time gallivanting across the Dominions, leaving his only child behind in that frigid, barren crypt they call Marrow Hall, and then when the time comes to see you safely settled in your career, he lets his mother ship you off to the Breachfort? The only child of the heir of the House of Bone?”
“I f-failed the tri—”
“Do you want to know who else failed the Bonewood Trial?” she interjected. “Locke Graven.”
“What?” Wren gasped. According to everyone she ever spoke to, Locke Graven was the perfect son, heir, and valkyr. He led the final charge that brought the terrible, bloody Iron Uprising to an end. He was practically a saint, his name said with more reverence than the Gravedigger himself—the closest thing the House of Bone had to a deity.
Odile smiled. “He was a year ahead of me, but even then, he was the darling of our house. He was top of his class, popular and beloved. But kind, too.” She looked wistful again, before her soft smile turned sardonic. “That meant he was always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to be the hero. Apparently, during the trial, one of his weaker classmates fell prey to a pair of geists, and Locke stopped to save him, making him miss the dawn cutoff. Of course, his actions only further endeared him to his mother and the rest of the house. His failure meant another year of study until the next trial, but there was no further punishment. I think she was only too happy to keep Locke close, especially with her husband dying only months earlier. I suppose it worked out well enough… We passed together the following year, and were paired up. We served for two years before the Breach, when we were shipped east.”
Wren scowled. She had been stripped of Ghostbane and banished, while Locke just got a pat on the head and another year of adoration at home?
Odile nodded, seeing Wren’s angry expression. “Lady-Smith Svetlana bent every rule in the book when it came to her precious Locke. She bent a few for Vance, too, despite never quite forgiving him for living when her firstborn died. Still, she didn’t exile him for the mess he made of that royal betrothal, did she? No, because she needed an heir, and he was all she had left. But now here you are, paying for the sins of your father, and somehow it’s up to me to protect you.”
Wren just gaped at her. No one had ever spoken so plainly, so bluntly, to her in her entire life. Her muscles went lax with an immense surge of relief. She felt understood, suddenly, and not so very alone. Her knees buckled, and she dropped into the nearest chair.
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s bullshit.”
There was a pause, and then Odile laughed—a deep, full-belly laugh. “Well said, young Graven. Well said.” She cocked her head, surveying Wren a moment, then got to her feet, making for the sideboard. There was a clinking sound. Then she turned back around with a bottle and two glasses.
“Yes, it is bullshit,” she said, pouring a good measure of clear liquid into each cup. Wren took hers, sniffing experimentally, and felt her eyes tear up at the familiar pungent scent. It was alka, a spirit distilled in the north and her father’s preferred alcohol. Odile, meanwhile, had tossed back half of hers in a single gulp. She sighed, leaning back in her chair once more. “But who are we if not loyal servants to our house, hm? So I will do my duty. I will look after you and keep you as safe as I—”