“You were there, weren’t you?” Wren dared to ask. “During the final battle?” Her father always shut her down when she brought it up, but she was intensely curious about it all.
“I was, I’m sorry to say,” Odile said, looking away. Her gaze landed on Wren’s swords, which she had yet to remove since her return from patrol. “Have you sharpened those since you’ve been here?”
They’d not been used, so she hadn’t bothered. “No.”
With a jerk of her chin, Odile indicated that Wren should unsheathe them. Her eyes caught on the empty scabbard Wren wore on her belt—where Ghostbane used to sit—but she made no comment on it.
Digging through the mess on the table, Odile found a pair of whetstones. While she worked on one, Wren worked on the other.
“It was the House of Iron’s last and best effort,” Odile said after several moments of comfortable silence, save for the steady sweep of stone on bone. “Virtually every ironsmith alive was mustering and preparing to march on the Wall, along with anyone east of the Wall who could hold a weapon. Negotiations had floundered. The king refused to risk foreign trade—which had only just started to pick up again after the Breach—for the sake of the House of Iron. You see, the ironsmiths didn’t want rescuing. They wanted help in their war against the Breach. They wanted to reclaim their lands, not leave them to the undead. They wanted us—bonesmiths—but the king refused to give us to them. Now they were ready to march in force, to tear the Wall down, to hell with the consequences.”
Wren’s hand stilled, until she remembered herself and continued her work. She didn’t want to draw Odile’s attention and end the story. She knew only the very basics of what had happened nearly twenty years ago: There was a battle, virtually everyone died—including her uncle—and the Uprising was finished.
“Your father, Locke, and I were part of an advance scouting unit. We knew they were mustering, but we didn’t know where or when they intended to strike. The Wall is long, and there are various vulnerable points. So, along with a contingent of soldiers, we attempted to sneak up on them. The only way to do that, we knew, was by traveling through the Haunted Territory.” She swallowed. “So we did. Our forces met there, which meant we were dealing with more than one foe. The ironsmiths, their soldiers… the undead. But it was more, even, than that. Something dark lives there. Something evil. What happened was a massacre. Locke, he—” She paused, glancing up before continuing. “He gave it everything he had. Your father and I survived because of him. As you well know, most were not so fortunate.”
Wren had heard vague tales of Locke’s bravery and heroism. How he had led the charge, mowing down undead to protect their own warriors. They were outnumbered three to one, but the bonesmiths were able to deter the undead, protecting their own forces, while the ironsmiths had no such abilities. Suddenly, the tables had turned, and while many on the Dominions’ side did fall to the revenants, they were able to win the battle first.
“It must have been terrible,” Wren said, trying to imagine a battle with the undead on such a scale. A battle with the living.
“It was like being torn in two,” Odile said, barely above a whisper. “I am a bonesmith, but the town where I was born is on the very edge of the Haunted Territory.”
“You were born in the Breachlands?” Wren asked, surprised.
“Well, they weren’t the Breachlands back then. They were called the Ironlands. But yes.”
“Were you born to an ironsmith family?” Smith abilities generally followed bloodlines, but when two smith bloodlines were crossed, one ability became dominant and the other recessive. There was no way to guarantee which would manifest most strongly, and recessive traits could pop up generations down the line. It was why most marriages within smith houses were carefully curated to ensure their magic persevered. Lucky Wren had turned out a bonesmith, or her grandmother might not have accepted her at all.
“No, but my father and older brothers worked in the mines.”
Wren’s stomach plummeted to the floor. “Did they…？”
“Die in the Breach? Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” Wren said quietly.
Odile waved her off, but her gaze had grown distant. Almost cold. “I’m not sure it mattered, in the end. If they’d not died during the initial incursion, they’d undoubtedly have fought and died in the Uprising afterward. Perhaps it was a mercy that I’d not had to face them while fighting on the other side.”
Silence filled the workroom. Odile looked down, then handed Wren her sharpened blade.
Suddenly, Wren’s dreams of glory, of making a name and proving herself, felt petty and low.
A messenger arrived then, interrupting the tense quiet. He bore a folded letter marked with the Breachfort’s own seal.
“That’ll be Commander Duncan,” Odile said, taking the letter and dismissing the boy. She broke the seal as she made for her study, and not being told otherwise, Wren followed. As Odile settled behind her desk, Wren sank into her usual seat in front. The fire was burning brightly, banishing some of the chill that lingered in the outer chamber.
Odile’s eyes flew across the page. Her expression was grim—or maybe it simply remained grim after their conversation about the war. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if she was steeling or recentering herself, and then she dropped the letter and grinned.
“I think we’ve found your chance.”
“To prove myself?” Wren asked eagerly. “Does this mean you haven’t been singing my praises on every report?”
As she’d hoped, Odile’s smile widened. “The Gravedigger will be nothing compared to the tales I’ve told of you.”
Still grinning, she handed Wren the letter. Wren took it, hastily scanning the page. “A royal visit?”
Odile nodded. “The third prince, Leopold, shall grace us with his presence, drain our meager resources, then continue on his grand tour of the Dominions. There will be meetings. Dinners. Inspections.”
“Of the fort?”
“And its defenses.”
Wren frowned. “You think I can prove myself to him? A prince?”
Odile tilted her head. “Can you think of anyone better?”
Besides her father? No, no, she couldn’t.
“How?”
“Leave that to me.”
NINE
Over the following days, Odile’s mood fluctuated between her normal, wry humor and something detached and forlorn. Wren blamed herself for asking about the Uprising, for bringing up painful memories. Whatever Odile thought of Vance, Locke had been her valkyr. They had obviously been close, judging from the way her gaze turned distant and her mouth soft whenever she spoke of Locke, and losing him had to have been difficult. Between him and her family, who knew how many others she mourned.
Despite her less-than-sunny disposition, Odile was true to her word. She kept Wren abreast of the prince’s upcoming visit and ensured Wren was properly informed when it came to the royal family history.
“The Gravens of House Bone are the most recent smith bloodline to join the ranks of the nobility—thanks, of course, to the integral role bonesmiths played in defending the Dominions against the Breach. The Iron Uprising continued that relevance, though now that both those threats have waned, we are enjoying less power and influence. It seems the darker the hour for the Dominions, the brighter the light shining upon the House of Bone,” she said, wearing her familiar smirk. “Speaking of threats, the Knights of House Iron were the first ennobled bloodline.”