He didn’t need to know that she liked Leo. That she had seen the fear in his eyes. That he had raised his flask in honor of their new friendship and that that made him her only one.
Except for Odile, maybe. But that was different. She was Wren’s superior. More like a teacher or mentor than a friend. Someone obligated to be around her, even if she’d been more open and honest with Wren than most others in her life. More than her own father.
The ironsmith, meanwhile, curled his lip at her words, as if he was judging her. Let him.
“And so I will get him back,” Wren insisted, “and you will help me, just like I helped you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“You helped me? Was that before or after you sliced open my leg?”
“After,” Wren said. “When we fell—your fault—and landed in this death trap, I dragged your lifeless corpse out of sight and stopped you from giving away our position.”
“If you hadn’t fallen too, you’d be dead by now. Captain Royce doesn’t like loose ends. The fact that you’re alive should be thanks enough.”
“I’d still like the words, though,” she said, unable to help herself. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for inadvertently saving my life,” she recited with as much earnestness as she could muster. Then she grinned. “See? Easy.”
He leaned forward, his words soft and cold when he spoke. “If you want a pat on the back for being a hero, give it to yourself. You’re clearly very good at it.”
Wren was annoyed. “Yes, I am,” she said with a cocky smirk. “Practice makes perfect, after all.”
“Is that what you think you are? Perfect?”
Wren opened her mouth to say something along the lines of “if the shoe fits,” but before she could, he pressed a gloved hand against her arm, in the gap beneath her pauldron. She reared back—first as a gut reaction to his touch and then, belatedly, because of a stab of pain. His black leather-clad fingers came away shiny with blood. When had that happened?
“Not quite,” he said softly.
Wren knocked his hand aside. “I’m not the only one losing blood,” she snapped, stalking away. She wiped at her arm, the stinging wound fairly shallow, if annoying.
“No,” he agreed, the ghost of a smile on his face. “But I never said I was perfect.”
Wren glared at him. “Are we doing this or not?”
His humor dissipated. “Doing what?” he asked.
“Rescuing the prince!”
“You do realize I was one of the kidnappers, right?” His tone was arrogant. Superior.
She glared at him. “Yes. And then those kidnappers tried to kill you. Maybe this whole thing was a lie—an excuse to target you.”
A spasm of anger crossed his face. “No. He wouldn’t—” He stopped himself. “They’ve obviously forsaken our orders. Or Captain Royce has, anyway. Maybe he’ll try to turn around and sell the prince to the highest bidder. He has to be stopped.”
“Exactly. So we’ll stop him. Take the prince for ourselves.”
“And then what?” he asked, brows raised.
“We’ll figure it out,” Wren said confidently. Of course what she meant was that she’d return Leo safely to the Breachfort whether the ironsmith liked it or not, but saying so would be counterproductive. “Would you rather him in the hands of a betrayer or the fort?”
“I’d rather him in my own hands.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that.”
He frowned, confused—then rolled his eyes.
“What happens after matters only if we actually get him,” she said placatingly. “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we reach it?”
He surveyed her closely. Wren tried not to squirm. “Fine,” he said, agreeing a little too readily in her opinion. The discussion likely wasn’t over, but they could pick it up later. “What’s the patrol schedule? How long do we have?”
Wren’s temporary flare of triumph flickered. She might have exaggerated her knowledge of Breachfort protocols post-attack. It made sense that they would increase their patrols, both in frequency and size, but it was hard to know what that would do to the existing schedule, or how it might play out over the following hours. They were still reeling from the attack, and they’d lost people in the fighting. Rosters would need to be adjusted, and new schedules made. There would be a certain degree of chaos as they wrote letters and sent runners north and south, relaying the news and ensuring the entire Wall was prepared in case of further attack—though surely they knew it was doubtful. The kidnappers had gotten what they’d come for.
She joined the ironsmith at the tip of the ledge and peered upward. Smoke was heavy in the dusky twilight, but the black of night wouldn’t be far off. They wouldn’t be able to see much, but they’d be able to hear it. The patrols usually didn’t ride beyond the road, but after an attack, they’d be ordered to check everywhere between the Wall and the palisade.
Wren would just have to wait and listen. Once one patrol passed, they’d have the time it took for them to return to the fort—and for a new patrol to ride back this way—to escape.
It was a small window, but it was their best chance.
“Not long,” she said, taking a seat along the edge so she could hear any activity above. “There’ll be a short gap between patrols.”
“How short?”
Wren shrugged. “We’ll need to climb quickly, then get past the palisade. Once we do that, we’ll be in the clear.” He also settled into a sitting position, his movements stiff and awkward as he favored his left side. “You will be able to climb, won’t you?”
He threw her a cold look. “Will you?”
“As long as that whip is strong enough, I’ll be good,” she said.
“It will be strong enough.”
They sat in silence after that.
Wren didn’t have much to do except listen, but the ironsmith took the opportunity to retract his vambrace blade and sheath his sword across his back. He checked the wound on his leg, courtesy of Wren, and rolled his shoulder near the chest wound, grimacing.
She found herself wondering again who this ironsmith was and where he had come from. Evidently, the House of Iron was not wiped out, whatever they believed in the Dominions. And someone in the ranks—or someone this ironsmith served—was making a move against the crown.
A distant, rhythmic noise reached her ears. It echoed around them, distorting the sound, but she was fairly certain…
“Hoofbeats,” the ironsmith said.
“Hide.” Wren hastened away from the edge to take cover in the recessed cave. The ironsmith followed her, silent as the grave, despite all the metal and weapons he wore.
It was harder to hear in their hiding place, but Wren could discern at least two mounted riders as they made their slow progress past the crevasse. She caught random words like “smoke” and “fire,” and for a moment the horse hooves paused, and she suspected the riders were peering down into this very space. Was there evidence of a scuffle nearby? Would they probe further?
But then the hooves picked up again, carrying them away.