Bonesmith, page 29
The regent’s brows shot up—of course he hadn’t been talking to Leo. He’d merely been talking at him, around him, as if he were little more than a piece of furniture that no longer fit inside his room.
Leo was valuable only as long as he was useful. He was useful only as long as he played a part in the regent’s plans. He scrambled for an idea.
“Please, Lord-Smith Francis, let me ride back to Port Valor and deliver your terms myself. We can present this entire affair not as a kidnapping but rather as a diplomatic negotiation.”
The regent’s mouth twisted at the corners, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Leo recognized the look. It was the face his father wore when he found Leo on the entertaining side of ridiculous. Like a dog performing a trick. Fun to watch, perhaps, but not to be taken seriously.
“A diplomatic negotiation, you say?” the regent said easily. “No, I suspect you’d paint a different picture entirely.”
“Not if you let me go.”
“That would rather defeat the purpose of having taken you in the first place,” the regent drawled.
“But at least your requests will be heard.”
“Oh, they’ll be heard,” the regent said softly.
“And,” Leo said insistently, panic searing his chest, “I’ll be able to help with damage control.”
The regent pulled a skeptical face. “Damage control?”
Leo smiled. “As far as I understand it, the Breachsiders are a loyal people. Devoted. I’ve met quite a few of them on my, uh, journey. And to none have they been more devoted than to the Knights. How do you think they’ll respond when they learn you ordered their beloved heir murdered in order to advance your own ambitions and take what is rightfully his?”
The man’s face went abruptly, almost comically blank.
“He was your nephew, I believe?” Leo prompted. It had taken some time, but he had placed the name the other kidnappers mentioned. Lord-Smith Francis was the only son of an old ironsmith family that had ascended in the wake of the Breach, thanks to his sister’s marriage. She had borne a daughter to Jonathan Knight, the heir of the House of Iron, before he died and had become stepmother to his son, Julian.
“That won’t look good, will it? Weaseled your way into power through your sister, then robbed the poor boy of his birthright after his father was brutally murdered fighting for your people during the Uprising. No, you won’t come off well, my lord, if you don’t mind my saying so. Not well at all.”
For the first time, he thought he truly had the regent’s attention. The man’s expression was dark, a thundercloud, but Leo had managed to surprise him, too. That was information he was not meant to be privy to.
At this point, Leo figured he had nothing to lose.
“You see, your captain failed to mention that I love to talk. I figured out your assassination plan days ago, and I’ve been telling every barmaid, servant, and stableboy who was within earshot ever since. We did do a rather thorough tour of the coastal towns, didn’t we? They make up, what, ninety percent of the Breachside population? Already that gossip is spreading like the undead across your lands. You may have sought to solidify your rule of this house, but I think you’ve likely lost it instead.”
The regent tilted his head, considering. He stood, taking several lazy steps forward—then cracked Leo across the face with the back of his hand. He wore iron gauntlets, and the blow was enough to knock Leo off his feet. Or it would have been if one of the Red Guard hadn’t caught him.
Staggering upright, his ears ringing, Leo wiped a hand across his split lip, his mouth filled with blood. That was going to leave a scar, the bastard.
“You’re smarter than you look,” the regent said. “I’ll give you that.”
Leo waited, unsure if he should be offended or not. Unsure if his life was in danger or not.
“As the son of a king, you know the influence of words,” the regent continued, moving to stand before the fire, staring into the flames. “Of stories and reputation. But there’s something people respond to beyond all that, something that cannot be faked or misconstrued, and it’s power. Strength. That is how I will solidify my rule, boy, and the House of Iron is only the beginning.” He turned to retake his seat but paused. “As for your rumors… well, that’s all they are, aren’t they? I will deny everything, of course, and mourn my nephew deeply—just as I did his father before him.”
THIRTY-THREE
Wren had long since stopped trying to see through the gap in the wood. Instead, her attention was fixed wholly and completely on Julian. He sat there, still as a statue, his face illuminated by a single stripe of golden firelight from the room beyond.
There was a lot spinning through her mind, including the idea of multiple targets—hadn’t the captain said one of them went down with the other, like Wren had gone down with Julian?—but the regent’s most recent words had caused all the air to leave the cramped closet space.
He made it sound like Julian’s father was killed not with his fellow ironsmiths during the Uprising, at the hand of Locke Graven and the Dominion army, but by assassination. That the regent had done the same thing to him as he had done to Julian. Sending him off to fight in order to mask a murder. Only, in the case of Julian, he had failed.
This regent, Julian’s own uncle—the man who had raised him in the wake of his father’s death—was now trying to usurp him. Trying to take away what little he had left. In fact, the man had already taken from him, if Wren was understanding things correctly.
The conversation continued on the other side of the wall, but Julian had started to shake, his entire body trembling with barely checked rage. She had never seen him like this. Never seen him lose control.
It was his face, though, that Wren couldn’t look away from.
His eyes were wild, his mouth working, his jaw clenched.
She reached out to him, laying a gentle hand on his arm. She meant to calm him, to remind him that they couldn’t be overheard—that he couldn’t explode here and now, unless he wanted to give his uncle the chance to finish what he’d started.
But she was too late.
Her fingers had barely brushed the fabric of his coat when a resounding crack echoed inside the darkened closet. There was a wooden shelf behind Julian, which he had apparently been clutching in an attempt to get himself under control.
And which he had snapped clean off, reducing the shelf into shards of wood and dust in his hand.
Wren gaped at the surprising show of strength, but there was no time for a proper reaction. The voices on the other side of the wall had gone abruptly silent, then—
“What was that?”
“That wall, over there.”
“Next door—”
Julian burst from the closet, striding to the door and sliding the lock into place right before a body slammed into the wood, rattling the knob several times before more shouts echoed down the hall. The wooden door was banded, giving Julian iron to press against in an attempt to hold them off.
Stepping back from the door with his hand still outstretched, he looked over his shoulder at Wren. “Go. Now.”
“What?” she said. “I can’t leave you here—with him!” She pointed at the room next door, where Julian’s would-be murderer held court, surrounded by allies.
“You have to,” he said, just as the door rattled on its hinges again. No matter how firm his hold on the iron banding or how strong the lock, if they wanted to get in badly enough, they’d just break through the wood.
“No, I don’t,” Wren said, her throat tight. “We’ll both go. We’ll—”
“They’ll chase us,” he cut in. “If they find me, they’ll think I’m alone—you’re safe. Please. I want to face him. Take the window and climb up on the roof.”
“But what about Leo? The iron revenants?”
Sadness touched his eyes, even as he extended both hands toward the door, fighting against the continued bangs and shouts from the opposite side. His feet were actually starting to slide against the floor, the force of his magic was so strong.
“There’s time for both of us to get out of here,” she insisted. “You didn’t leave me in the Breach”—she crossed her arms, planting herself next to him—“so I’m not leaving you.”
The look he gave her was one of surprised gratitude, and Wren tried not to let it shake her—both in its sincerity and its suggestion that he expected her to cut and run.
He considered her a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Okay, open the window,” he said, grabbing their bag from the floor and following her, all the while keeping his attention and his magic fixed on the door.
Wren ran to the window, wrenching it open with a blast of frigid air, then climbing onto the sill. Julian reached around her to toss the bag onto the roof, the impact of his armor loud against the tiles.
The door was splintering now, and she was just making room for him on the ledge when Julian reached for the open window. “This is for your own good,” he said, and before her brain could catch up, he’d slammed it closed, trapping her outside and him in.
They stared at each other through the pane, Wren’s startled breath fogging the glass.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sliding the lock in place before turning his back on her and striding toward the door. He withdrew his sword, preparing for a fight, but he wasn’t wearing his armor. He was vulnerable.
Frustration climbed up Wren’s throat. He was right there, but she couldn’t reach him. She wanted to scream, to shatter the glass and stand by his side—but how could she, when he was essentially sacrificing himself in order to save her? She couldn’t just throw it back in his face. She also couldn’t stay here, perched on the windowsill, just waiting to be caught and captured.
Cursing, she hoisted herself onto the drainpipe and out of sight, tears stinging her eyes—tears that had nothing to do with the cold.
She had just landed on the roof tiles when the sound of the door bursting open and slamming against the wall reverberated from below.
She crouched, utterly still, but could hear very little besides shouts and ringing metallic impacts. She lifted her gaze to take in her surroundings—night had fallen, her presence atop the inn unmarked and unnoticeable from anyone below.
She was a ghost, a shadow… but she had no idea where to go or what to do.
Julian meant for her to leave—to get out while she could.
It was the smart thing. The logical thing.
But since when had Wren Graven ever done that?
THIRTY-FOUR
Julian was ready to fight. To hurt. To bleed—no, to make them bleed, anyone who stood in his way.
Anyone who stood between him and that man.
But when the door burst open, kicked in so hard the wood split, Julian found himself face-to-face with a foe that couldn’t bleed.
Standing there amid the dust and splintered wood was an iron revenant.
The sight sent a shock wave through him.
Another sin to lay at his uncle’s feet.
The figure might have been the one Julian had just seen created, though he couldn’t be sure. The iron was plain and unadorned, the style decades out of date. While modern swords like Julian still wore full plate, the armor was fitted and streamlined and didn’t technically cover him head to toe, allowing for freer movement. He currently felt naked without it, but there hadn’t been time.
He raised his hand on instinct, intending to use his magic to halt the creature’s approach, but he knew it would be futile. The size of the suit, the density of the iron… It must easily weigh twice what Julian did, which meant he had no chance at slowing it down, never mind stopping it.
He didn’t care.
Logic, it seemed, had fled him.
Fuck magic, fuck logic—he’d tear the creature apart with his bare hands.
And he tried.
He hacked and slashed, his sword thrusts ruthless and without technique, but no matter where he struck or how hard he swung, his sword ricocheted off the ironsmith plate, leaving little more than a scratch. The armor was thick, thicker than any living person could bear…. But that was the point, wasn’t it? The undead didn’t follow the rules of the natural world, and the magic well that powered these iron revenants certainly didn’t.
The undead before him took whatever punishment Julian dished out, either knowing that he wouldn’t succeed or forced to take it whether it wanted to or not, bound to the orders of others. He suspected it felt no pain, no fear, and even if Julian could pierce its dense iron armor, his sword would be useless against its undead body.
Panting with exertion, Julian finally relented. His rage was in danger of fading in the face of this obstruction, and the result was unwanted clarity. Maybe he should have left with Wren when he’d had the chance.
Maybe he was a fool.
Mind racing, he took a step backward, deeper into the room, his gaze darting around the small space. If he could lure it away from the door, he might be able to use his speed to get around it and—
His thoughts—along with his strategies—sputtered out as the revenant moved into the room to pursue him, and a second one filled the empty frame.
Julian’s back was against the wall, literally and figuratively.
But this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to escape. He wanted to look his uncle in the eye. He wanted to demand answers. But as talented as Julian was, there was no way he could defeat two iron revenants and a full squad of his uncle’s personal guard.
If he wanted to face him, he would have to do so as a prisoner.
Heart hammering, Julian lowered his sword in surrender.
* * *
The cowards that made up his uncle’s Red Guard waited until Julian was subdued by the revenants before they entered the room. Prudent, maybe, but also pathetic. He thought of what Wren would say if she were here. The insults she’d spit. The way she’d throw them a challenging smile, even in defeat.
His stomach twisted. Better that she wasn’t here.
His uncle wanted her, for some bizarre reason, and Julian felt nothing but deep satisfaction in denying him that.
His uncle. His uncle.
The reality of it finally hit home. This was the man who had raised him, saved him, built him up only to break him back down. The man was a monolith, the foundation upon which Julian’s life was built.
The man he thought he’d known. The man he thought he’d understood, flaws and all.
Julian understood him, all right. Understood he never should have trusted him in the first place.
The revenants each took one of his arms, holding him in a grip strong enough to bruise. Then one of the Red Guard hastened to disarm him, avoiding his eye. Julian knew these people, had trained with them, walked the same halls as them, had served alongside them.
Did they know what his uncle’s orders had been? Even now, did they know the full picture? Or had Francis cooked up some story to justify the action? It wouldn’t be the first time.
The revenants increased the pressure on his arms, pulling him forward, and Julian wondered idly whose orders they were actually following. He’d thought only that ghostsmith boy—and Wren, apparently—could command the undead. But maybe the Corpse Queen was real. Maybe Francis wasn’t actually calling the shots. Maybe he, too, was a puppet in someone else’s game.
Julian thought he was ready to confront his uncle, but as he entered the next room, a cold sweat broke out over his brow, despite the warmth of the fire. Warring emotions battled inside him. He had always feared this man—but he had trusted him, too. Looked up to him. Taken his lessons about strength and sacrifice to heart. Believed him when he said everything he did was for the good of their house.
But Julian was a part of that house. Born to be its leader.
And so was his father.
If this man could so easily use them for what they offered and then casually order their deaths, that meant his uncle was less concerned with what was best for their house and more interested in what was best for him.
“Julian,” his uncle said, tone incredulous as Julian was pushed to his knees before him. “Thank hammer and sword, you’re alive. I—”
“Save it,” Julian snapped.
“I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, son, but—”
“Don’t call me that,” Julian said, voice barely above a whisper. The worst part about all this was that he’d let it happen. Welcomed it, even. He’d been young and scared, and so he’d let this man take from him over and over again. Had been grateful for it.
Thank you, Uncle, for taking over the House of Iron.
Thank you, Uncle, for forcing me to be strong.
Thank you, Uncle, for turning me into a weapon… whether I wanted to be one or not.
He clenched his fists.
His uncle noticed but made no comment as he turned to one of his guard. “Did you check the room? And the rest on the floor?”
“I came alone,” Julian said.
Francis ignored him, keeping his attention on the guard, who confirmed it with a sharp nod. “We’re just checking the last of the rooms, Lord-Smith, but no sign of anyone else.”
Julian allowed himself a small moment of relief. If Wren got away, it meant not only that she was safe but that she could ensure that the truth of what was happening here didn’t remain inside this room. Julian was dubious that anyone from the Dominions gave a damn about him or his house, but they cared about Prince Leopold and the danger he might be in. And if they were smart, they’d see the bigger picture and send aid. Quickly.
His business taken care of, Francis reclaimed his seat in the high-backed chair by the fire.
He was a shrewd man, and like his Red Guard, he’d not bothered himself to get involved with the discovery of a spy in their midst, even though he was an ironsmith and more dangerous than all of them put together—except for the iron revenants. Julian didn’t know what they were truly capable of, but judging by the smashed door and their bruising grip, it would be fearsome to behold.
