While the undead continued to swirl and coalesce into more glowing specters, the first ghost flared brightly, growing in strength.
It was ready for a second attack, which was both good and bad.
Bad because, well, it was a ghost, and one touch would be enough to land her with deathrot and a slow, agonizing death.
Good because it meant the undead would move away from her swords—and her best chance for escape.
When it came streaking at her again, its features blurred and distorted, Wren threw herself forward into a roll, avoiding it once again—but only just. The movement also brought her dangerously close to the other ghosts that were stirring but had not yet taken full form.
Staggering to her feet, she made for the newly vacated space across the cavern, near her swords.
For all their speed and supernatural movements, ghosts couldn’t fly or climb. They were tethered to the earth the way they had been in life. She just had to get out of their reach, to climb high enough that they couldn’t touch her.
So what she needed wasn’t to defeat the ten or so undead she was trapped with; she merely needed to stall them, to buy herself time—and space—to climb.
And her bonedust could give her that.
Keeping her eyes on the ghosts before her, Wren withdrew a pouch and poured a hasty half circle in the mud, creating a protective ring around herself.
The magic that enabled a ghost’s existence came from the earth, so no matter that they hovered above the ground, they couldn’t cross certain barriers. Water, for one, and bones for another. Both were tied too strongly to life, their very nature repellent to the undead.
It was still a risky move. She couldn’t enclose herself fully, thanks to the mud wall she was about to climb, and theoretically, a ghost could just pass through the wall and circle around. But that would require problem-solving skills that the undead didn’t have. Their attacks were never sneaky or strategic—they were blunt and direct.
That didn’t make it any easier for her to stand, sheath her dagger, and turn her back on them.
It felt wrong deep to her core—it went against her training and her instincts. But Wren needed to get out of this pit as fast as possible.
She tore the first sword from the soil and jumped to grab the second, hauling herself up and using the momentum to swing her body and reinsert the first sword. Her feet scrabbled in the mud, searching for purchase, when she felt a tingling against her back, followed by stuttering, flickering light. One of them had charged her and made contact with the bonedust barrier, and it held. For now.
Everything inside her wanted to turn, to look, but she feared what she might see—all of them ranged behind her, maybe, ready for attack. The last thing she needed was to stumble in shock, landing in the dust and disturbing the circle. Instead, she heaved, climbing with all the strength she had.
When the top of the pit was within reach, she embedded her swords side by side, and with both arms she managed to drag herself upward, muscles trembling.
Her left toe found one of the vacated sword holes, and it was the leverage she needed. She pulled and then pushed, climbing up and over the swords and cresting the edge.
She gasped, flopping onto her back. With one last shuddering breath, she crawled back to the pit. It was as she’d imagined, the lot of them clustered together just outside the ring of bonedust, ghostlight crackling in agitation as they charged and recoiled again and again.
With shaking hands, she reached over the edge and yanked out her blades, then got wearily to her feet.
She glanced up at the moon, making its relentless progress across the sky.
Time was running out, and she had her reapyr to find.
FIVE
When Wren finally emerged from the Bonewood, filthy and exhausted, dawn was a not-too-distant promise on the horizon.
She stepped from the trees, a pair of torches marking the finish line and burning too bright after hours of ghostly darkness.
Wren was the last to cross… and she had to cross alone.
Silence descended as she approached the judge’s podium, every novitiate from the trial—including Inara, Ethen, and Sonya—standing there except for her.
Wren’s heart pounded in the base of her throat.
While everyone stared at her, Wren stared unblinkingly at Inara. She had ruined everything, and yet she met Wren’s gaze shamelessly, her hand settling, almost absently, on the hilt of Nightstalker.
Wren bared her teeth. She wanted to lash out, to strike her, but she knew her situation was far too tenuous. Panic threatened to overwhelm her, but she squashed it.
It wasn’t over. She could still fix this.
She strode to the front of the group, ignoring the whispers and stares that followed her. She undoubtedly looked a mess, and while several of the others were spattered in mud or bore shallow scrapes, Wren looked like she’d been swallowed by the Bonewood and spat back out.
She lifted her attention to the judges’ table. Her father looked alarmed by her appearance, though he’d schooled his features into an approximation of his usual, confident expression. The others studied her with more open and obvious rebuke.
Their disapproval was, unfortunately, something Wren was quite used to, so she blocked them out and focused entirely on the person whose opinion mattered most.
“My lady,” she began. Her mouth was suddenly as dry as bonedust, while her palms and the back of her neck were damp with cold sweat. Everyone turned at the sound of her voice, Inara among them, eager to hear what she would say. “I—”
Svetlana ignored her and got to her feet.
“Reapyr novitiates, come forward and present your bones.”
The reapyrs opened their satchels and laid their reaped bones at the foot of the podium for inspection. The judges counted the offerings and looked for skill and accuracy in the scythe’s cut, but also checked to ensure the bone was recently reaped and not scavenged from the forest floor or smuggled into the trial.
Afterward, all the novitiates ranged themselves in a line and stood at attention.
“Tonight you faced the Bonewood Trial,” Svetlana said, looking down her nose at the collected novitiates. “A rite of passage for all who wish to serve the House of Bone in its battle against the undead. Your task was to reap three ghosts and make it through the forest unharmed”—her pale gaze paused for a moment on each of them, though it lingered on Wren—“in your assigned pairs.”
Wren bowed her head. If she could just explain… Sonya was fine, and they had performed three successful reapings together. Yes, they had gotten separated, but Wren had recovered from that bullshit betrayal, had fought off a swarm of tier-three ghosts, had climbed out of a sunken cavern in the deadliest part of the Bonewood, and still made it back before dawn. If that didn’t prove she deserved to be a valkyr, she didn’t know what did.
“Smith Colm and Smith Eiryn,” Svetlana said loudly and clearly. “Ready your blade.”
Both dropped to their knees, weapons unsheathed and held high in the exact pose they’d taken at the start of their trial.
There was no sound save for the wind in the bonetrees and the crackle of the torches.
“Do you offer it and yourselves, now and forever, in service to the House of Bone?”
“Yes, Lady-Smith Svetlana,” they said in unison.
“Stand, valkyr and reapyr. Death is as certain as the dawn, and just as a new day will come, so too will the new dead rise. And we will be there. To find. To fight. To free. So the living may thrive, and the dead may rest in peace.”