Julian’s attention had been fixed on the ground during this entire conversation, sparing Wren the decision of whether or not to meet his eye… But he raised his head at Vance’s words, specifically “my daughter.”
He stared between them, lips pulled back in a sneer. All this time they’d discussed Locke Graven and the House of Bone, and she’d never told him her connection. That she, too, was theoretically in line to rule her own house.
“Better to kill him here and now and put his head on a spike. Send a message to those who would target us. Their assault on the fort was an act of war, and we will treat it as such. There is only one way to deal with treason.”
Commander Duncan appeared like he wanted to argue but didn’t. The guards around them looked ready for blood, given that they’d lost several people to Julian’s original attack. Galen was there, too, and his face was pale—shocked, no doubt, to have the prince he’d betrayed back in his midst.
“He’s not just some ironsmith,” Wren blurted. Julian’s gaze snapped to hers, his eyes wide. Pleading. He had protected his identity the entire time she’d known him because he was heir to his house and there were people who would use that against him. His own uncle had turned on him, and Wren was about to reveal it to the entire fort. But what other choice did she have? Stand aside and let him die? “His name is Julian Knight. He’s heir to the House of Iron.”
Julian looked down again, but there was tension visible in his corded neck muscles. He wasn’t disappointed or hurt. He was livid.
Let him be.
She’d take the rage of the living over the silence of the dead any day.
“How do you know that?” her father asked sharply, and Wren was forced to look him in the eye.
“H-he and I, we rescued the prince together. He was my guide. And then”—she swallowed, hating herself for what she said next—“once we’d gotten Prince Leopold to safety, I tied him up and left him behind. He must have gotten free and followed us.”
Her father’s expression was unreadable, but she saw a barrage of emotions flicker through—surprise, distaste, and then something almost like fear. Wren knew he’d have questions for her. Many questions.
“Lock him up,” he said. “No one is to speak to him until I do.” Then his arm tightened like a vise around Wren’s shoulders as he led the way to the fort.
Julian was dragged off to a cell without a backward glance, and though Galen insisted that Leo needed rest, Wren’s father demanded Leo and Wren speak with him immediately.
“My rooms will work just fine,” Vance insisted, steering Wren toward the stairs. “Have some food and drink sent up, won’t you, Galen?”
The man looked unhappy at being reduced to the level of a servant, but then he glanced at Leo, who looked dirty and exhausted, and straightened his spine. “I shall bring it up myself.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Wren’s father cut in with gracious equanimity. “A servant will do just fine.”
And just like that, a line was drawn in the sand—and Galen was on the wrong side of it. Wren couldn’t help but feel smug. It was what the traitor deserved.
Galen turned on his heel and made for the kitchens, waving at a pair of servants as he passed, who followed behind.
“I won’t be so easily dismissed, Lord-Smith,” said Commander Duncan, coming up on their other side, a shrewd look on his face.
“Of course not,” Vance said easily. “However,” he continued, releasing his hold on Wren to step nearer the fort’s commander, “given there is almost certainly a spy in your midst, I think it’s best if I take over the preliminary investigation. If you were to sit in and rumors were spread… It may come out bad for you, Commander. Let me handle things for now. See if we can’t suss out the perpetrator. Then you will have full command once more.”
Like Galen, Commander Duncan did not look pleased. But rather than bluster and shuffle away on Vance’s orders, he stood there, hands clasped behind his back, and watched them disappear up the stairs.
Servants had preceded them to her father’s room—which was actually a series of rooms, meant for visiting nobility—lighting the fire and setting out a pitcher of water and cups.
They had barely settled into the chairs by the hearth when an additional wave of servants arrived. Leo’s water was soon replaced with wine, and he was given a thick woolen blanket, produced out of nowhere.
Leo shrugged and spread his hands wide as if to say “see, told you so,” as pillows were stuffed into his already soft chair and a plate of various meats and cheeses was assembled for him.
Wren, on the other hand, had to reach for her food—though reach she did. She was starving.
“Enough fussing,” Vance said, sounding bored despite his stiff posture, his hands steepled together before him.
The servants retreated, leaving the three of them alone.
“Tell me,” her father said without preamble. “Everything.”
* * *
The beginning of the story was easy enough, though the middle was where things got disjointed as Wren and Leo recalled their different experiences. While Vance didn’t react to Wren’s account of the surprising behavior of the revenants she and Julian encountered, he went unnaturally still as she got to the part about the Breach. She glossed over certain parts, obviously, but she did tell him about the boy and the suit of iron armor. About the well and the strange power it granted him.
“Have you ever heard of anything like that before?” she asked, watching her father closely.
“Iron revenants? Certainly not.”
“No, I meant the well of magic. I thought maybe… during the Uprising…” She trailed off, waiting for him to react. To interject. He didn’t move a muscle. “That you might have seen it. You or Locke. That maybe it was part of how we’d won when we were so outnumbered.”
She was treading dangerous territory with this subject, she knew. If her father was aware, there was a reason he’d concealed it. And to admit she was taking the word of an ironsmith would undercut her argument, even if she had seen the evidence with her own eyes. But she wanted to give her father a chance. Maybe he truly didn’t know. Maybe Locke had separated from the rest of them, and only her uncle knew what had happened that day.
“We were at war, Wren, not exploring ruins.” It was not, exactly, an answer.
“It affected me,” Wren revealed. “Even at a distance. I was able to do things I’d never done before.”
“Such as?”
She swallowed. “The undead… I told them what to do, and they listened.”
“Anything else?” he asked idly, as if the question were of no real importance to him—but the tightness around his eyes betrayed him.
She should tell him about the ring. About the queen’s words. About the pull she felt. The confusion.
“Nothing.”
Leo cut in then, explaining how during his travels, he’d heard rumors of what was happening in the Breach. Of who ruled there. The tale culminated with their paths crossing in Caston, the regent and his alliance with the Corpse Queen.
Vance scrubbed his hands over his face. It was clear some of this, at least, was news to him—but how much?