Eventually he had questions, but they were primarily about the lead-up to the kidnapping and so directed at Leo.
He and Wren had agreed on their journey here not to point the finger at Galen—or anyone—until they had proof to back it up. Leo mentioned his travels before arriving at the Breachfort, including the fact that his previous inspection had been suspiciously cut short and that the tour beyond the Wall was orchestrated by several members of his entourage, Galen among them, and the Breachfort’s own administrators, including Commander Duncan and Odile.
“Wren was chosen for the party, being the only active bonesmith in residence, though traditionally it should be the highest-ranking,” Leo added as if it were an afterthought.
“Odile was sick,” Wren explained, hating the thought that the whole thing had been a lie… not to get her face time with Leo, as Odile had insinuated, but to get her on that patrol so she could be kidnapped.
“Which could be a timely coincidence… or something more,” Vance said gravely. He straightened in his chair. “You’ve both been through a terrible ordeal, and I commend you on your bravery, fortitude, and quick thinking. You’ve earned some rest. As we still do not know for certain who was involved in all this, I will post some of my men outside your door for the night, if that is agreeable to you, Your Highness?”
Leo nodded.
Getting to his feet, Wren’s father opened his chamber door and spoke to his personal guards, who were stationed in the hall. Galen was there, as well, hovering nearby.
“You and I will speak later,” Vance said, interrupting anything Galen might say. He turned to his guard. “I want a full escort to accompany the prince at all times. He should remain in his rooms for the time being.”
“But Lord-Smith Vance, Prince Leopold already has an entire complement of—”
“And no one goes in or out, save for me,” Vance finished, cutting Galen off. “Understood?”
His guard captain nodded, then barked orders.
Leo’s expression was grim—a prisoner again, it seemed—and their eyes met over his shoulder before he was ushered away, the door slamming shut.
“You look pale,” Vance said, passing a critical gaze over his daughter in the sudden silence. While Wren was used to the feeling of him measuring her, there was something distinctly doting about it now that was wholly new.
He poked his head out the door again. “Send for the kitchens to get Wren some proper food. Something hot. And a hearty drink. Mulled wine? Be quick about it.”
Wren blinked at her father. She’d asked him for mulled wine once during her grandmother’s birthday feast. He’d said something along the lines of “You can hardly make it through a meal without embarrassing yourself even when alcohol isn’t involved.” Of course, she had always managed to get alcohol on feast days—it just wasn’t from him—so he was wrong in his assessment.
Still, apparently things were different now.
Her heart squeezed at the thought, and it wasn’t an entirely pleasant experience. She was gratified to have possibly earned his respect, but a part of her grated at the idea that she’d had to in the first place. He was her father. He should have respected her before she was useful, should have loved and cared for her before she had proven she deserved it.
While they waited for the food, Vance poured himself a large measure of alka from a decanter on a side table. He took a long swig before settling back in his chair, smirking at her.
“I’m impressed, Wren. And you know I do not use such a word lightly.”
That she most certainly did know. She fidgeted under his stare, so he cast his gaze into the fire instead, taking another drink before continuing.
“I’m impressed by your initiative, your apparent rapport with the prince, and your ability to see him and yourself safely through these wastelands. Truly. There are bonesmiths twice your age who could not have done the same.”
Wren glowed at his praise.
“I have something for you,” he said, pale eyes twinkling. He put his drink down on the table and headed toward the bedchamber.
“When I heard you’d been taken, I feared the worst. But somehow I knew you’d find your way home. So I wanted to be ready when you did.”
Wren gaped. There in his hands lay a familiar weapon, Ghostbane.
“It should never have been taken from you,” he said quietly, crouching before her. “You are my daughter, and it belongs to you. I’ll never let anyone take it again.”
Tears pricked at Wren’s vision. It was everything she’d wanted, all she had lost—and some things she’d never dreamed she’d have—placed before her, ready and waiting.
She hesitated. “Does Grandmother know?”
He quirked her a smile. “Leave her to me.”
Wren took the dagger in trembling hands. She felt truly seen by her father for the first time in her life. Like he was looking at her not as a bundle of mistakes and poor choices—some of which were his own—but as a capable human being.
And yet…
He still wasn’t seeing all of her, was he?
He didn’t know that she had feelings for Julian, their alleged enemy, and that betraying him was tearing her up inside.
He didn’t know about the ring, about its connection to the boy. Her connection to him.
Wren had been lied to, and now she was doing the same thing, withholding information because it suited her, because she was—as Julian had rightly pointed out—afraid of the truth. Afraid of the repercussions of it.
Afraid that somehow the truth would change her… but she was already changed, wasn’t she?
“Dad, there’s… there’s something else.”
“Hm?”
“I found a ring,” she burst out.
“In the Breach?”
“No—well, yes, but…” She reached into her pocket and placed the ring on the table. “I found it in the Bonewood during my trial. It was next to that… that fresh body I told you about?”
“I don’t recall you mentioning a ring,” Vance commented, his tone even—but Wren heard accusation in it all the same.
“I forgot.”
“I see,” he said, though they both knew she was lying. He picked it up and examined it closely. “These are ghostsmith runes,” he said, which Wren had already pieced together.
“I saw similar glyphs in the ruins in the Breach,” she said, watching him as he studied it.
“It was a ghostsmith city, after all,” he mused, his gaze snagging on the birds carved into its surface.
“I also saw an exact duplicate of this ring there. On the boy’s finger.”
Vance leaned back in his chair. “What is it you’re trying to say, Wren?”
“That he… that he and I… You never talk about my mother.”
He blew out a breath. “Honestly, Wren, I hardly knew her. It was wartime. And then she died giving birth. There isn’t much to tell.”
“But what if she…？ What if I’m…？”
“Wren, you are my daughter. Whatever this is, whatever you’re thinking, it doesn’t change anything. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her throat constricted.