“Nice to meet you,” Leo said. “You seem awfully young for a kidnapper. You can’t be much older than me.”
No response.
Gray-Beard had ridden ahead, and the rest of their party was more concerned with getting to their rooms for the night than with anything he did.
“Is this your first mission?” Leo pressed. “You’re surely the youngest member of this, uh, party, at any rate.”
Jakob shook his head. “No, that’d be Julian, the regent’s—”
He paused, catching himself, but too late. He darted an anxious look at Leo, who was glad for the bag over his head for once, which concealed his reaction.
The fact that there was apparently a regent east of the Wall was noteworthy enough, but when they’d first set out, the kidnappers had lamented the news of the ironsmith’s death by mentioning another man.
“Lord-Smith Francis will be devastated,” one of them had said, the others murmuring agreement, the captain among them. He had told them all a bold-faced lie about a Breachfort archer, when in fact he had been the one to loose the arrow that had taken the ironsmith down. Leo had seen it right before they’d thrown the bag over his head for the first time, the captain and his accomplice unaware they had an additional witness.
Leo had spent much of the long ride to Southbridge running through every noble name he knew from east of the Wall, which had been the Ironlands not too long ago and a part of his political studies. The problem was, the only lord-smiths east of the Wall were the Knights, and even if their bloodline hadn’t been wiped out, the name Francis had never appeared on any of their family’s birth or marriage records. Then again, another ironsmith family might be ruling these days, laying claim to the title of both lord-smith and regent.
One with old blood, ties to the Knights… and a scion named Francis.
Finally, Leo thought he had a scrap of information he could use.
Especially when, hours later, while he was being shunted down the hall to his room for the night, he caught a glimpse through the hole in his bag of the captain holding the dead ironsmith’s helmet.
He was speaking to the other rider who had witnessed the assassination, the one who’d captured Leo and thrown him over his horse.
They spoke quietly but not quietly enough. The sack obstructed his sight, not his hearing, and Leo distinctly heard the word “proof.”
The helmet was proof. Dented—Leo had done that himself, when he’d hefted that monstrously heavy ironsmith sword in a moment of daring he couldn’t quite believe—and therefore, evidence of the fallen warrior. Proof. Proof the ironsmith was dead… but proof for whom?
Leo had a guess, if his suspicions about the regent were correct. Even if they weren’t, this man was responsible for his kidnapping. For what had happened to Wren.
Who was fine. Probably bruised and annoyed but fine.
Still… surely it couldn’t hurt to spread a few rumors about, even if they were false? That was the point of rumors, wasn’t it?
A servant appeared bearing a tray of food soon after he was shoved into his bedroom for the night.
The guards were huddled near the door, murmuring together and leaving Leo alone with the young girl. She glanced at him, wary of this strange, headless figure.
“Hello,” Leo said brightly. The girl reminded him of his sister, which helped. “What’s your name?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the door, then back to him. She put the tray on the table, then whispered, “Millie.”
She darted another nervous look behind her. “Don’t worry about them,” Leo said easily, knowing that a confident tone could put the most skittish child at ease. “My name’s Leo. And I’ve had quite the adventure today.” Her chin tipped up, interest sparking in her eyes. “Would you like to hear about it?”
She nodded eagerly, and he smiled.
EIGHTEEN
As Wren had promised, she did sleep like the dead.
When she awoke hours later to Julian’s boot prodding her leg, she lurched upright, hair askew and bone knife clutched in one hand. His lips twitched, and for a second she thought he was going to laugh at her, but instead, he turned away and fiddled with their food supplies.
Judging by the beam of light slicing through the broken shutters, it was still morning but pushing toward the afternoon.
She glanced at Julian, whose hair was perfectly combed back from his face, his armor on and his bags packed. Had he not slept at all?
Wren stretched; she had removed her leather jacket and trousers in the night, sleeping in nothing but a flimsy under-tunic, so she dragged out her movements to see if she could catch the ironsmith’s eye.
He didn’t notice—in fact, he seemed determined not to look at her.
Annoyed at his lack of interest, she didn’t bother putting on anything else as she padded to the table and joined him.
His head was bent over a pair of silver fish, carefully filleted, though he was currently struggling to debone them. He must have also found time to fish this morning, further proving that he’d likely not slept long—if at all.
“Good sleep?” she asked with a raised brow. His dark gaze flicked up at her before returning to his task.
“Fine.”
Liar. He wore his gloves, perhaps to keep his hands clean from the messy task, and held a small knife in his right hand.
“There won’t always be a river to fish,” he said, apparently feeling the need to explain himself. “I figured we should make use of it while we can, save the other supplies for when we’re deeper into the Haunted Territory.”
Wren nodded. “Need help?” she asked idly, watching him poke and prod but continue to struggle.
He was about to deny her, his mouth open, when he paused and truly looked up at her. He finally noted her clothes—or lack thereof—but spared them only the barest of eye rolls before he sat back. He nodded at the fish, waiting.
Only warm-blooded animals produced a ghost, which meant fish, reptiles, and insects were harmless after death. Even cattle, poultry, and other spirited animals could be safely butchered, as long as it happened immediately after being killed. Since their ties to life weren’t as powerful as humans’， their ghosts would simply never get a chance to form.
Wren held a hand above each fish, sliced in half and lying open before her, and one by one she drew the bones from the tender flesh, pulling them into the palm of her hand in the blink of an eye, like metal filings to a magnet.
With a satisfied smirk, she dropped the bones onto the table’s surface, leaving nothing but perfect, ready-to-cook fish in her wake.
“Impressive,” Julian said, somewhat grudgingly, leaning forward to inspect the finished product—the first compliment he’d given her. “You could be a fishmonger.”
Maybe it wasn’t so complimentary after all.
“Hey, now, don’t sell yourself short,” Wren said encouragingly. “You caught the fish and started the fire—you’d make a fine servant.”
Julian shook his head, taking the fish over to the stove, which he must have fed not long ago, the flames burning brightly. “Should’ve guessed you were noble-born, the way you walk around. Probably grew up in some fine castle with servants to attend you.”