As such, the reaping was swift, and while an animal was as easy to deal with as a standard tier one, it still counted toward the trial, and Wren wasn’t about to be picky. Not with so much on the line. She helped Sonya load their third and final bone—the long, narrow-faced skull complete with antlers attached—into the reapyr’s satchel, and they pressed on.
Triumphant and flushed with adrenaline, Wren perked up when they reached a clearing. Could it be the center of the Bonewood? The entire place was hazy and lit with the barest hint of ghostlight, as if whatever undead lurked here were so incredibly ancient that they existed only as the tiniest of molecules, barely discernible to the naked eye.
They approached a gigantic rib cage, the cartilage gone and the bones open and gaping like some monstrous flower, reaching for the moon. It must have belonged to a mammoth, each individual rib longer than Wren was tall.
And standing in the middle of it was Inara. Ethen was next to her, sitting on a moss-covered stone, and they both had pieces of dark bread in hand.
At Wren and Sonya’s approach, Ethen leapt to his feet, his wary gaze flicking to his valkyr.
A knot Wren hadn’t realized was there eased at the sight of them. She was relieved to know that Inara hadn’t managed to get far ahead—and better yet, judging from the two bones poking out from Ethen’s satchel, they had yet to finish their third reaping.
“Come on, Sonya,” Wren said, smiling victoriously, as if she had already won. Forget the dragon—this was their chance to make some headway. They could eat as they walked.
She made for the far trees without a backward glance.
Footsteps crunched behind her, but it took Wren a second to realize they were moving away from her, not toward.
She whirled back around. Inara had taken several steps toward Sonya, though she halted well short of her.
“Did you get them?” Inara asked the reapyr. Sonya nodded, gaze fixed on the ground.
“Sonya,” Wren said, brow furrowed in confusion. Sonya ignored her.
“Come on, then,” Inara said.
Then, to Wren’s surprise, Sonya obeyed. Instead of going to Wren’s side, she went to Inara’s, skirting the edges of the massive rib cage to stand next to Ethen.
Wren’s gaze went to Inara’s, realization dawning. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. Inara’s face revealed nothing, and both Ethen and Sonya refused to look at her. “You think you can just—what, hold my reapyr hostage?” She laughed incredulously and shook her head. “Sonya,” she said again, keeping her voice calm and reasonable as she spoke over Inara’s shoulder. “We’re almost there. Let’s finish this. Whatever she’s promised you, whatever she’s said… it’s not worth it. They could exile you for this.”
Sonya wavered, fear flashing across her features, but Inara’s hand shot out, holding her in place. Wren wondered what threats or promises had gotten Sonya to her side. The Fells were rich and influential. Ruthless. But not stupid.
This was a bold move for Inara. Risky to the point of reckless. It was, admittedly, something Wren might do.
“Fine. I’ll just tell them what happened when I get there.” She shrugged, hoping she looked more unconcerned than she felt.
“Who would ever believe you?” Inara said, smiling sweetly. “I’m a model student and bonesmith. You’re the rulebreaker in this house, not me.”
The validity of that caused unease to flicker inside Wren’s chest.
Inara’s smile stretched wider, as if she could see it. “Poor Wren,” she said with mock sympathy. “Daddy will be so disappointed in you. Not only will you fail, but you’ll have bargained away his precious ancestral blade. The one thing in this house he actually cares about.”
“Shut your mouth,” Wren snapped, her heart pounding. She withdrew Ghostbane and took an angry step toward her cousin. “You want this blade? You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Inara said, her hand dropping to the hilt of Nightstalker.
Inara was goading her—that much was plain. They were several feet apart, and it was taking all Wren had not to attack her. But while Inara’s sabotage left no visual evidence that Wren could discern, if Inara returned with a bloody nose—or worse—it would be far too easy to point the finger at Wren. Backstabbing happened all the time in the Bonewood Trial, but those who did it were smart enough not to actually stab anyone in the back. Tricks and traps, bargains and mind games—these were the weapons most bonesmiths wielded against each other.
Most, but not all.
Wren sheathed her dagger, took a slow, steadying breath—then swung her clenched fist and punched Inara hard in the gut. If Inara wanted to hurt her where no one could see, Wren would do the same.
Inara keeled over, scrambling backward in a surprising show of cowardice. Blood pounding in her ears, Wren pursued.
One step, then another, until suddenly—the ground gave way.
Her breath caught in her throat as she fell, crashing into a heap of dead bones and sliding snow. Once the initial shock wore off, pain radiated through her body, stinging across a dozen cuts and scrapes and aching bruises sure to come. Coughing, she got gingerly to her feet.
She was in a small pit, rising several feet over her head and a foot or so wider than her arm span on either side. But the sloping ground was slick with mud and snow, and when Wren tried to scrabble upward, more of the soil gave way, cascading down upon her… along with the truth.
Inara had dug this hole—had set her up from the very start. She had initiated the bet, dictated the route, then waited here for Wren’s arrival. She’d lured her close—taking that punch and scampering away like a dog with its tail between its legs—just so Wren would follow, would step in this exact place…
“Inara,” she growled, swiping at bits of mud and bone stuck to her face. In fact, there were bones everywhere, small and large, broken and whole, saturating her senses and humming against her skin.
Inara leaned over the edge of the pit wearing a gloating smile, though she was still hunched from the blow to her stomach. “What was that? I can’t hear you from all the way—” She froze, and a second later, Wren felt it too.
There was a creaking sound, a rumble, and then the ground beneath Wren gave way again, bringing the sides of the pit along with it. Inara cursed and stumbled backward as the hole widened, while Wren threw her hands over her head and braced for impact.
When she opened her eyes, it was to see that she’d fallen even deeper underground, landing in some kind of cavern, cold and musty and untouched by snow.
Inara wore an expression of shock as she squinted down into the darkness. Wren’s anger was hot, but surely Inara hadn’t dug this deeply.
“Now what are we supposed to do? We can’t just leave her down there,” Sonya said, somewhat shrilly.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Ethen said, his face chalky and pale.
They were cowards, both of them. At least Inara had the stomach for what she was doing.
“She’ll be fine,” Inara said, though her voice was slightly breathless. “Won’t you, Graven? Best valkyr of our generation, aren’t you?” Wren bared her teeth in frustration. She had said that, dozens of times, to anyone who would listen, and often to Inara’s face.