“Wren,” Julian said uneasily. “I’m not sure…”
“Come on,” Wren said forcefully, pulling on her boots and coming to stand before him. “This could be where those Corpse Queen rumors came from! These revenants have been acting strange ever since we arrived. Moving in packs, working together, guarding—”
“And they talk to you, too.”
Wren’s gaze darted away. Yes, that was definitely a large part of her curiosity, but it went beyond that. “I know you think I just go blundering into things, but if there are people here, inside the Breach, controlling the undead… It’s relevant to everyone, no matter what side of the Wall you live on.”
And maybe they could find something to explain what Locke had done. What Wren was doing.
“Please?” she whispered.
He lifted his chin, considering. “Okay.”
* * *
They took the boat. They had only one oar, so Julian used it to paddle them deeper into the ruins while Wren remained on high alert, her single bone sword across her back and the rest of the artillery she had left tucked in her belt and bandolier. She had taken a moment to hastily reapply her eye black, aware of Julian’s attention on her, but it had felt empowering to rebuild that smallest of barriers between them—her lips cold, dark, and untouched, her eyes shadowed and unreadable.
As they moved through the cavern, she kept her senses stretched wide and was certain the only undead nearby were those few that had rematerialized along the shore and the solitary figure that had joined the boy inside the distant building.
This was the Breach, however, and she knew better than to assume. Dozens could be lurking just out of her range, so they had to be extremely cautious. They’d sneak into the building and peek around, but stealth and safety were their top priority, and the water gave them an easy escape route.
What she’d seen… She couldn’t just forget it. The boy must be a ghostsmith—there was no other explanation—but they had long since been considered extinct. All of them buried along with their undead city.
Suddenly, the impossible was possible—all thanks, apparently, to the Breach. She thought of her uncle Locke, of the crushed bodies, of all the things she didn’t understand.
Beyond her curiosity, if Wren could return with Leo and information that could save the Dominions, she’d be even more valuable to her father and her family. But she needed something concrete, not snatches of words and wild claims that her father probably wouldn’t believe. This boy could be useful to them. And if he didn’t want to be useful, then he was an enemy they had to keep track of.
Their boat bumped against the shore of the building Wren had seen, the structure bigger and more impressive than it had appeared at a distance. And more disturbing.
It was little more than a facade, a portico, while the rest of the building went deep into the rock behind it, carved from the natural stone.
The columns on either side of the arched entryway—easily twice Wren’s height, if not more—were revealed to be carved figures with their hands raised, as if they held the roof upright. Only they weren’t like the other sculptures Wren had seen in her lifetime, beautiful and idealized, with perfect musculature and faces frozen in eternal dignity. These were unmistakably meant to be undead… their texture mottled and uneven, sculpted bones protruding from rotted flesh, and their faces fixed in expressions of pain and agony.
There were other examples of similar embellishments, including a frieze atop the entryway depicting ghostlike figures, their shapeless bodies writhing and their mouths forever opened in silent screams.
These were monuments not to the undead but to the ghostsmith power over them. Everywhere Wren looked, she saw ghosts and revenants in subservience. It made her stomach twist, especially because of the incongruous familiarity.
The House of Bone aesthetic could certainly be considered gruesome. They had a forest made of bones, after all, and Marrow Hall had walls of skulls and catacombs stocked with skeletons. But while the House of Bone dealt with the dead, they did so from a place of mercy and reverence.
Though valkyrs might “fight” ghosts, it was only so that a reapyr could perform their sacred duty to save the dead from their fleshly prisons. Wren felt a stab of guilt at the idea of how much she had always enjoyed her work, but if the goal had been to dominate and control the poor souls, she was certain the task would have quickly lost its appeal.
Yes, the House of Bone might be dark, but this House of Ghost was far more sinister… exultant in its darkness and proud of its power. They bent the undead to their will, to serve their own ends. They commanded them.
Like the boy.
Julian was crouched before some runes on the stairs, tracing his finger over the deep grooves. The writing didn’t use any alphabet Wren knew, but as she stared, she was hit with a sudden jolt of recognition.
Her hand flew to her pocket, to the ring. She withdrew it, and her heart stopped. Some of the glyphs matched, though the full message was different. Julian stared, making the connection as well.
Shock rooted her to the spot.
The ring was a ghostsmith ring. Made of bone, engraved with ghostsmith writing… and somehow, it had found its way to the Bonewood. Recently, too, if it indeed belonged to the corpse Wren had discovered during her trial.
Heart hammering, Wren stared fixedly at the open archway. There would be answers inside; she knew it. Green light spilled out, illuminating the swirling steam that clung to the ground in wisps, making it seem alive… reaching…
She swung her bone sword through it, but of course it was not a ghost, and there was no reaction.
“Now what?” Julian asked, getting to his feet.
“We go in,” Wren said with more confidence than she felt. But that, she had learned, was the way confidence worked.
The door revealed nothing of what lay beyond.
Sword raised, Wren led the way, blinking through the haze. Several steps into the building and the mist started to clear, revealing that she stood upon a gallery that wrapped around a long, cavernous space. A grand staircase descended from the point of entry down to the lower level, and the balcony, enclosed by simple columns, disappeared into the shadows on either side.
While the upper level was dark, more light came from whatever lay below. She was about to descend the stairs when footsteps echoed up to her. She and Julian ducked to the side and crouched behind a column, seeking an angle to view what was happening on the lower level. The place appeared all but empty, but then the boy and the revenant appeared, making their slow way down the length of the room.
In the middle of the space was a rectangular depression, a pit or pool from where the pale, misty light emanated. Liquid reflections danced across the floor and pillars, putting Wren in mind of the spring outside, though whatever was within the basin was oddly silent. No splashes or gurgles. No sound at all.
Julian nudged her, pointing to something beside the pit. At first she thought it was another person—but then she recognized the sheen of metal. It was a suit of armor, but an empty one, resting upon a rack as if proudly displayed. It looked brand-new, not broken or salvaged, pristine and well made and patiently awaiting its wearer.
As she watched, the boy and the revenant approached the suit. Wren’s spine tingled with foreboding. She met Julian’s eyes in the dark.