That was, Wren had to admit, mostly true. “Wrong,” she chirped. “I’m only half-noble, and a bastard, and I behaved so poorly, I did more servant work”—she gestured to the gutted fish—“than they did.”
“And you were also sent to serve at the Wall,” Julian added, glancing over his shoulder at her. “It’s a less-than-desirable assignment, from what I hear.”
“What about you?” she shot back. “Ironsmith warriors are famous for their code of honor and their expertise in battle. And here you are, a common kidnapper—no better than those bandits. Are you a true ironsmith or some puffed-up politician’s lapdog?”
He turned away from her. “You don’t know anything about me.”
That was true. But for all his accusations against her, Wren had her own suspicions that Julian must be someone important himself to have been targeted for assassination. He was an ironsmith, so it made sense he would have risen quickly in whatever hierarchy currently ruled in the Breachlands. He might very well be the only one left.
“Tell me, then.”
He reared back, suspicion etched across his features. “What—no.”
“Until you do, I’ll just assume you’re out here for personal gain.”
“Like you?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I’m doing the right thing, whatever my… motivation. You’re kidnapping an innocent person.”
“He’s a Valorian. He was born with blood on his hands. That is their legacy.”
“One the House of Iron helped them build,” she said.
“That’s right. And then they turned on us. I’ll do whatever I have to do for my people. Here,” he said, after putting the fish on a pair of homemade iron skewers. He held one out to her, and Wren joined him crouched before the stove.
Heat washed over her as she huddled next to him. They were very close together, and when she stuck her breakfast into the flames, the open fire spit and sparked as fat dripped onto the burning coals.
“Oh,” she muttered, jerking back slightly as some floating sparks singed her tunic.
“Serves you right, dressed like that.”
“Like what?”
He cocked his head, turning toward her. This time he didn’t shy away—his gaze lingered as he took her in. “Like you want attention.”
“I always want attention. How I’m dressed has nothing to do with it.”
He snorted. “It has everything to do with it, I expect. Surely you don’t need that eye black when you sleep.”
“You noticed,” Wren said, batting her eyelashes as if he had paid her another compliment, and his face tightened in response. Considering that a victory, she shrugged. “I was lazy. I doubt you need those gloves when you wash your face, but here we are.”
He stood abruptly, and Wren wondered if his fish was even cooked. She remained a few moments longer, turning it once or twice more before joining him at the table.
While he took his fish off the skewer and ate it in small, careful bites, Wren bit hers off the stick like a wild animal.
His lip curled in distaste.
Once she finished eating, she wiped her greasy fingers on her shirt and stood to get dressed. She was just lifting her coat from the ground when something clattered to the floor.
It was the ring she’d found in the Bonewood. She had completely forgotten about it.
She lifted it now and recalled the mystery of the dark spike that pierced the bone.
Striding over to the table, she plunked it on the surface right in front of Julian, who was just finishing his meal. He raised his brows at her.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Not sure. I found it back home, in the Bonewood. The ring itself is bone, though we don’t usually make rings or jewelry—or carve them with designs.” She glanced at him. “The spike… is it iron?”
He lifted his head from the ring in surprise. “Iron? No, why would you think that?”
“It’s black,” she explained, disappointed not to have answered at least one of the questions she had about it, “and it sort of looks like a nail or something…”
Julian reached a tentative hand for the ring, then seemed to decide against touching it. “Definitely not iron.”
Frowning, Wren pocketed it and finished dressing, carefully replacing her armor and checking her weapons before collecting the bonedust. She reapplied her eye black, using the reflective surface of Julian’s breastplate—much to his annoyance, as he was currently wearing it—to carefully outline her lips.
When they were both ready, they put out the fire and loaded the remaining usable firewood into one of the bags. They’d be unlikely to have another sleep as comfortable as this one—roof and all—but with any luck, they could at least manage a fire in the days to come.
They headed north, crossing a shallow section of the Serpentine before the land around them opened again, flattening out before a dense forest. The river twisted west, following the higher ground, while their path took them east into the trees.
Julian hesitated a moment, staring after the water as if wishing he could remain by its comparatively safe shores.
Wren clapped him on the back. “I’m afraid your only protection from here on out is me.”
“How comforting.”
It was early evening, the temperature dropping along with the sun. The forest hung in suspended twilight, and Wren’s breath puffed in front of her.
“According to the old maps, we should be able to get through the trees by morning,” Julian said. “We can camp for a few hours, then proceed into the valley. After that… we’ll have to figure things out as we go. I know roughly where the settlements were, but things have changed since then. Still, we should avoid them. Whoever we might find there now, they won’t be living. Our best chance is to pass through unnoticed.”
It was a nice thought, but Wren doubted Julian truly understood how the undead worked, despite living in such close proximity to so many of them. They were drawn to life, and she suspected the ghosts in the Haunted Territory were starved for it. Her and Julian’s presence would be like the first drops of rain after a drought, and any undead in the vicinity would ravenously drink them in.
She tried her best to feel if any were nearby, but her range could help them only so far. Besides, her talent lay in fighting the undead, not avoiding them. If any did turn up, she’d be ready.
The ground sloped gently as they moved through the trees, which started out fairly sparse but were soon dense enough to make it difficult to see. When night came and the ceaseless darkness pressed in, a part of her longed to spot a ghost, to sense an undead corpse. Anything was better than this held breath, this taut anticipation.
They didn’t speak—though Wren had tried several times, much to Julian’s annoyance—and instead walked in silence, the only sounds the crunch of boots and their steady, panting breaths.
Julian kept up a relentless pace, and Wren reminded herself to be grateful for it even as her legs ached and her lungs burned. She would rather die than give him the impression she couldn’t keep up, and besides, this was all to her benefit—the sooner they rescued Leo, the better.
“How far is—” Wren began, but Julian cut her off.