They climbed near a cluster of grain silos, which gave them good cover as they dropped down into the town.
Sticking to shadowy streets and back alleys, they only passed through the main thoroughfare when absolutely necessary. They poked their heads into doorways and paused outside open windows, listening for any sign of the iron revenants. Wren knew Julian’s senses were also on high alert for large amounts of iron, but given that there was an active mine within the walls of the city, she doubted he’d be able to get an accurate reading.
All the while, Wren kept an easy pace, her chin high, elbowing Julian when he walked too fast or looked anxiously around.
“Clearly this is your first time sneaking into someplace you shouldn’t be,” Wren said under her breath with some exasperation. “Skulking around trying not to draw notice is a surefire way to be noticed. Walk like you belong here.”
He scowled at her before sighing and raising his head, throwing back his shoulders and putting some of his usual grace and confidence back in place. Wren stared at him, worried she’d made a mistake. With his elegant features and aloof expression, he was bound to draw a different kind of notice now.
They were just sidling around the edges of the crowded market when a shout went up.
Wren froze—they’d been seen!—but then she realized the sound had actually come from the far side of town. There was a second gate situated there, this one facing south, and as she turned, the doors were slowly cranked open. The thunder of horses’ hooves shook the ground and kicked up a cloud of dust in the afternoon light.
It was late in the day for traders or farmers, and as the riders drew near, she saw they were soldiers. It wasn’t a massive force by any means, around twenty by Wren’s count, but next to her, Julian’s face blanched.
A waving pennant caught her attention, borne by a rider near the front. It was a black field with a red tower, the sigil of the House of Iron.
Next to the flag bearer rode a man in black iron armor, ornate and extravagant, with red enamel accents and a spiked plume on his helmet twice the height of the one Julian had worn.
It was another ironsmith.
Riding alongside him were soldiers with more flashes of red, though they wore iron chain mail rather than plate, meaning they were not smiths.
The whispers that had begun from the moment the gate opened finally reached Wren’s ears.
“The Red Guard is coming… the regent of the Iron Citadel… the regent is here…”
Wren ducked into the narrow space between two buildings, dragging Julian with her, and both of them watched through the gap as the procession entered town.
There was no way they were riding through, and sure enough, soon after passing their hiding place, the riders had slowed their pace and were moving toward one of the buildings on the main road, which appeared to be a public house or inn.
They were greeted, their horses tended to—their arrival clearly expected.
Wren leaned back.
“He’s meant to be at the Citadel,” Julian said faintly. Wren turned to face him. He still looked shocked. “That’s where the exchange was supposed to take place. He can’t…” He ran a hand through his hair distractedly.
“Well, he’s here now. Apparently he has other business to attend to.”
Julian’s hand froze. “You don’t mean—”
Wren shrugged. “It seems strange he’d turn up here the same day an iron revenant was meant to do likewise. Not to mention there are allegedly others here. And this mining, it must be happening with his permission, and likely his financial support as well. Why else would he push iron production in such a dangerous place? He needs it. Unless you’re mustering an ironsmith army…” She trailed off, but he just shook his head. She’d figured as much. “Then the regent’s here to build an army of his own.”
“We don’t know that,” Julian said, though he didn’t seem quite as certain as he had before. He had been a staunch supporter of the man from the start, but now, in the face of so much evidence, there was a sliver of doubt in his dark eyes.
“Who is he, Julian? Who is the regent?”
“He’s head of the House of Iron,” Julian said.
“Yes, but who is he?” Wren pressed. “The Knights were wiped out in the Uprising, so by what right does he rule your house?”
“He is strong and the house is weak,” Julian said dully, the words sounding like a phrase he had long since memorized. “It’s thanks to him we even have a house, after everything. He rebuilt us from the ground up, and now—”
“And now he might be making a bigger play.”
“For all we know, he could be here to shut it down,” Julian persisted stubbornly.
Wren didn’t believe that, and deep down, she didn’t think Julian believed it either. “There’s only one way to know for certain. Come on, we need to get inside that inn.”
THIRTY-ONE
“Looks like they’ll be here awhile—the horses are being brought to the stables,” Wren said, peering intently around the corner. “I have a hard time believing those iron revenants are holed up inside an inn, but maybe whoever makes them is.”
“You mean the ghostsmith boy?” Julian asked. He sounded like he was only half listening to her, his thoughts likely still on the regent.
“No, I mean whatever ironsmith constructs those suits. Or whoever is pulling that boy’s strings,” Wren said over her shoulder. “You heard him. He didn’t just tell that iron revenant to come to Caston. He told it to ‘obey her.’ Maybe we’ll finally meet this Corpse Queen everyone is talking about.” She turned her attention back onto the street. “We have to get in there…”
“I can’t,” Julian said, and Wren moved back into the alley. “They all know me. And they’ll wonder why I’m not with Captain Royce and the others.”
“Or they’ll wonder why you’re not dead, like you’re supposed to be.”
His jaw clenched. “He didn’t—”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because he wouldn’t—it doesn’t make any—”
“Why, Julian?” she asked again. She was tired of dancing around the subject. “Give me the real answer.”
He expelled a breath, then closed his eyes in defeat. “Because he’s my uncle, okay? The regent. He basically raised me.”
Well, that explained why he couldn’t believe the man was responsible for the assassination attempt or had anything to do with Caston’s mining or the iron revenants.
“A regent usually governs because the rightful ruler is absent, unfit… or underage.” She stared at him. “Which is it?”
Julian swallowed. “I’ll be twenty in six weeks.”
“Which means…”
“My name is Julian Knight. I’m heir to the House of Iron.”
The handkerchief he’d given her outside the village flashed before her mind’s eye, the memory of vague embroidery sharpening into the distinct and obvious initials “JK.” He had put the truth of who he was right into her hands, and she hadn’t spotted it.
Frustration at herself reared up, but she was irritated with him for keeping this from her, too. Not because it mattered to her—not really, though she suspected who she was would matter to him—but because it pointed the finger of blame squarely at his uncle. The man who ruled in his stead and who would stand to lose that position in six weeks.