Wren knew this much. The Valorians, outworld immigrants determined to take control of the Dominions for the rich trade potential, sought out the ironsmiths and paid them handsomely—promising lands, a title, and a wealth of other benefits—if they would swear fealty to their would-be king and help them take over. There was nobody more dangerous on a battlefield than an ironsmith and no weapons as strong as ironsmith metal. As such, few dared to stand against the mighty Valorians and their Iron Legion, the rest of the local lords and petty kings succumbing to their iron blades or bending the knee one by one.
“It was a landmark move,” Odile continued, feet up on her desk as she lectured Wren, glass of alka in hand, making her the most unorthodox teacher she’d ever had. “It helped the Valorians secure their throne and the present-day Dominions take shape. House Silver came next. They were elevated after they single-handedly put an end to the cholera epidemic that struck several of the larger coastal cities, including Port Valor. They had saved the capital city from ruin—and the queen’s life, if the rumors are true—and soon there were silversmith healers in every town. But the Vanes of House Gold were the first to rise above all others and get a smith bloodline in the royal family. The ultimate status symbol.”
Wren thought of her father, who had failed to do the same for their own house.
“It was King Augustus’s grandfather, King Gaius, who decided to marry his daughter to a goldsmith. Not for their magic, of course, but for their money. House Gold has always been wealthy, thanks to their thriving mints and healthy foreign trade, but none are richer than the Vanes. They could buy anything they wanted, and it was only a matter of time before they set their sights on a throne. The crown had nearly bankrupted itself fighting off a Rhailand invasion, so it seemed an easy solution to the king. He elevated the Vane family to the status of nobility—so there could be no complaints about suitability—then married his daughter and heir, Emmeline, to their eldest son, Henry, a powerful goldsmith. The result is goldsmiths occasionally dotting the royal family line. Two of the king’s sisters, and now…”
“Prince Leopold,” Wren supplied.
“Exactly,” Odile said with a nod. “The Gold Prince. By all accounts he is clever, handsome, and bored.”
“Just my type,” Wren muttered before she could stop herself.
Odile barked a laugh. “Indeed. But he still has influence.” She stared down at her now-empty cup, her mood turning somber again. “He may be able to help you.”
Wren nodded, though she had a hard time believing it. “If not, at least I’ve got you.”
She smiled, and after a heartbeat, Odile did too. Then Odile got abruptly to her feet.
“Oh, are we done for the night?” Wren asked, standing as well.
“Not quite. Follow me.”
* * *
As they emerged from the lower-level temple, Wren thought they were heading for the courtyard and gate, but Odile gave a short whistle and steered her in the opposite direction, toward another basement passage on the other side of the keep. It was late, and the fort was quiet, their footsteps echoing softly.
“I’ve never been down here before,” Wren said as they started their descent.
“That’s because this passage leads to the dungeons,” Odile said, leading the way down the stone stairs, which were sporadically lit by flickering torchlight.
Confusion bloomed in Wren’s mind. Why was Odile taking her into the dungeons?
The staircase spiraled down into darkness until they entered the detention levels.
“There are three holding areas,” Odile explained. “The top level is for important prisoners. Officers, nobility—people with wealth and position. They get braziers and furniture and other creature comforts, while the second level is for more dangerous captives. Enemy soldiers. Raiders. Smiths.”
As they came to the next level, the hall was definitely less pleasant looking than the one above, which still held some of the trappings of the upper floors, like carpets and windows. This one was all stone, cold and drafty and dark. It was also empty, as the floor above it had been, without guards or prisoners.
To Wren’s surprise, they’d reached the end of the stairs. Hadn’t Odile mentioned three holding areas?
But the woman only smiled faintly and walked around the bend in the spiral staircase, as if expecting the steps to continue right through the brick wall.
Only, it wasn’t a wall. As Wren accompanied her, she spotted a lock embedded in the surface.
And it was made of bone.
Odile produced a matching bone key from a chain inside her robes and fitted it into the hole. There were two clicks before the door opened with a blast of frigid air.
It was a common bit of smith magic, fashioning a key that required two turns—one with your hand, the other inside the lock with your magic.
Bracing herself, Wren followed Odile down another flight of stairs, taking a torch from the bracket next to the door at Odile’s instruction. The temperature dropped with every step they took, Wren’s torch the only light marking their passage. When they finally emerged from the stairwell, she saw a vast, sprawling cavern, easily three times as large as the dungeons above it.
That’s when she understood. They were beneath the Border Wall. She felt it, the oppressive weight—the magic—and that’s when she noticed that there were indeed cells down here as well. While they too lay empty, just as the ones above, she didn’t need Odile to tell her which prisoners they would hold.
“For our undead captives,” she said softly, gesturing to the row of bone-barred holding areas, their grotesque shapes producing shadows that danced in the torchlight.
Wren had heard stories about the early years after the Breach, how they had studied and experimented on this new, more powerful breed of undead. How they had sought to understand them. From those early tests came the undead scale and everything they knew about the walking corpses that rose from the Breach.
The cells, however, took up only a small portion of the space.
There were beds lining the far wall, with trays of tools and baskets of linen that put Wren in mind of a hospital. Her eyes lit on some bloodstained rags, and she wondered if they had treated people here during the war… and why those people hadn’t been brought to the infirmary on the upper levels. Was it simply overflow, or something else?
Beyond the beds were what looked like storage areas. There were casks of wine stamped with the Twin Rivers seal, a famous winery east of the Wall that had been forced to close its doors after the Breach. There were baskets of wool from Highmore’s coastal flocks, crates of Adamantine fox furs, and ceramic jars of ironberry preserves.
All highly coveted items that were, allegedly, impossible to get west of the Wall.
There were also items that clearly went in the opposite direction. Silver instruments, golden trinkets, and even some bone talismans meant to ward off undead.
Odile strode into the center of the cavern, and Wren followed, lifting the torch to better take in the size and scope of the place. “I guess it’s not just the guards who buy and sell to the Breachsiders?”
“Not just them, no.” Odile seemed to be waiting for something. What, condemnation? Considering what Odile had told Wren about her own family living east of the Wall, the fact that Odile would try to help her old friends and neighbors in any way she could made perfect sense. Judging by the items piled around, Odile might be single-handedly supporting their economy as well.