He reached for her shoulder, mouth open to speak, just as a servant arrived.
While her father directed the food to be placed on the table, Wren stared at Ghostbane. The ring was gone—still in her father’s hand, she assumed—so she focused on the knife instead. She lifted it, feeling the familiar weight and heft of the weapon in her hand, before taking a deep, steadying breath.
She moved to slide the weapon into her belt sheath—and found Julian’s mother’s blade there instead. She darted an anxious glance at her father, but he was distracted with the food, his back to her. He hadn’t yet noticed that she carried an iron weapon, of all things.
She hastily removed Ironheart and stuck it into her boot, replacing it with Ghostbane.
By the time he turned around, she was sitting motionless once more, and a steaming platter of stew and fresh bread was laid out before her, the scent of gravy and onions and the rich, spicy notes from the wine driving all else from her thoughts.
She ate ravenously, her father throwing her indulgent looks as he sat opposite, drinking his liquor and going over papers with an air of comfortable self-satisfaction.
Though she had a room in the fort, her father insisted she take his bed and asked for extra blankets to see her comfortably settled.
But as she fell asleep, Ghostbane tucked under her pillow, her mind wandered helplessly to the knife in her boot, the ironsmith imprisoned several floors below… and the answers she still hadn’t gotten.
THIRTY-NINE
Despite falling unconscious almost instantly, Wren’s sleep was restless.
She was both comforted and agitated by her father’s presence in the next room. Every movement, every rumble of his voice, sent shock waves through her sleeping brain, like horn calls or ringing bells.
Like warnings.
The door in the next room closed, and she lurched upright, drenched in sweat.
This wasn’t right. None of it was right, though she wasn’t exactly sure why.
Her father had said what she’d wanted to hear, given her comfort and praise—kind lies—but he hadn’t actually given her the answers she sought. He had reassured her, but that was not the same thing. She remembered Julian’s remarks before she’d left him in that mill house: They’ll tell you whatever they have to, to shut you up and keep you under control.
He was right. But there was someone else here who might be able to give her those answers.
Climbing out of bed, she dressed quickly and padded out into the hall.
Her father’s guards were there, startling her. “You must remain inside, Lady-Smith. Your father’s orders.”
Another alarm sounded in her mind. Another warning.
“Do you know where he’s gone?” she asked, though she suspected that even if they did know, they wouldn’t tell her.
“No, my lady.”
She retreated inside, thinking fast. There was no telling where her father was or how long he would be, but she wasn’t about to sit here waiting to find out.
Prowling the rooms, she sought a servant’s passage or a window with a likely escape route. Unfortunately, her father’s accommodations were higher up than Prince Leo’s, meaning a dangerous drop should she attempt to climb down. Plus his windows faced the main courtyard, which could lead to witnesses.
There was, however, a balcony. It was on the opposite side of the room, with nothing but a distant view of the Wall and rocky, unkempt grounds below. It was still too far to climb without a rope—she thought of Julian and his whip sword with a pang—and had no easy way back in, but there was another balcony adjacent to it. She didn’t know what room it was connected to, but she’d worry about that after she made the jump.
It went smoothly enough, though her stomach slammed into the railing of the next balcony with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs. She recovered, throwing her legs over the balustrade and landing on her knees, crouching there for a moment to catch her breath.
Still struggling, she reached up for the handle and found the door mercifully unlocked. Wren swung it open and found herself face-to-face—or rather, face-to-knees—with Inara Fell.
“Knew it,” Inara said, arms crossed as she smirked down at Wren. Inara looked as she always did: bone armor polished and pristine, her dark braids combined into a single no-nonsense coil that draped down her back. Even her boots were recently waxed and scuff-free.
Wren scrambled to her feet. “Knew what?” she gasped, ignoring the lingering ache in her stomach.
“That guarding the front door would not be enough to keep you in.”
Wren supposed it was vaguely flattering that Inara thought so highly of her skills, though it came on the heels of realizing that her father thought so little of them.
“Is that why you’re here, then? To guard me?” Wren asked with a quirked brow. She was the better fighter between them, and Inara knew it.
Inara rolled her eyes, her eye black neat and perfectly symmetrical, stepping around Wren and strolling idly about the room, her ease belying the fact that she’d backed away from the confrontation.
“I’m no sentry,” she scoffed. “I just enjoy being right. You wouldn’t understand.”
Now it was Wren’s turn to roll her eyes. “What are you doing here, Inara?” Her presence provided a complication Wren really didn’t need right now.
Inara spread her hands. “I’m a valkyr, Graven. I go where the work is.”
“You’re working with my father?”
“Technically, I’m working for your father,” she said. “They placed me with Sonya.” Wren wondered if their pairing was part of the deal the reapyr had struck with Inara in order to double-cross Wren during the trial. Whatever the case, the two of them were living the life Wren had always wanted.
Why did it not appeal the way it once had?
“Well, I hope you enjoy the empty room. I’ve got to go.”
“Where? To visit your Gold Prince?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Or is it the ironsmith you’re missing?” Wren didn’t answer, but Inara only smirked. “It’s the ironsmith. I knew it.”
“You don’t know shit,” Wren snapped, heading for the door, though her angry retort only proved Inara right.
“I’m actually impressed, you know,” Inara called to her retreating back.
Wren turned on the spot. Frowned.
“I always knew you were ambitious, but this? This was smart. Strategic. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The prince. Gaining his favor will get you far, I think.”
Wren hated the fact that Inara did know her well, better than most, in fact, and that those had initially been Wren’s exact thoughts. “He’s my friend,” she argued, but Inara was already speaking over her.
“I mean, after everything they did to get you here, it didn’t break your spirit.”
“They?” Wren repeated incredulously. “You’re the one who landed me here.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Inara said, shaking her head, a superior, condescending look on her face. “It still had some of your old flair, I’ll admit. Clearly you had no plan, no exit strategy. You just tore off after a prince, into unknown—and highly dangerous—territory and teamed up with a bloody ironsmith to do it. Classic you. Messy. Dangerous.” She paused. “Free. Or, at least, you were.”