Page 60

With a clang that rattled the pebbles on the ground of the practice yard, Juste smashed his shield into Tounot’s helmeted face.

“You think he’s holding a grudge?”

Miche wondered, watching beside Remin at a safe distance.

Even with a padded helm, a blow like that would have been like standing inside a rack of temple chimes.

Tounot shook his head and shifted back, chopping his elbow into the back of Juste’s armored neck and driving the other man to his knees.

The two men were hashing out their differences.

Remin watched with interest, the match enlivened by Miche’s colorful commentary.

More often than not, it was best to let men hammer things out with steel, and he wasn’t terribly worried that either would go too far.

He, Juste, and Tounot had known each other since ten year-old Juste had been saddled with minding four year-old Remin, and Tounot had come to foster at Tressin every summer since he was five.

“Ten silvers on Tounot,”

murmured Miche.

“You have never once paid up,”

Remin noted as Juste pivoted and slammed his sword into Tounot’s back with a smash like a thunderclap.

The two were roughly even with a sword; Tounot put more power behind his blows, but Juste’s precision was almost without peer.

“Though I’d put my money on Juste today.

He’s angry.”

“Tounot crossed the line.”

And Tounot knew it, too.

By the end, he was mostly going through the motions of the fight, already halfway to an apology.

The fight ended with a strike aimed at the notch between Tounot’s neck and shoulder, and it would have killed him if Juste hadn’t turned his blade.

The crack as the flat of his blade snapped down made both Remin and Miche wince together.

That was going to leave a mark.

“Do you yield?”

Juste asked, his voice muffled by his helmet.

“I yield.”

Tounot pulled his helmet off, his thick brown curls dark with sweat.

“Your victory.

That fucking stung, Juste.”

Though there was a council room very nearly completed, by unspoken agreement the four men found their way to the roof of the barracks afterward, where they often went to observe the training in the yard below.

It was especially pleasant in the evening, with the wind whipping and the sun sinking in ruddy glory to the west .

Usually, Remin would already be ahorse this time of day, heading home in the hopes of bedding his wife at least once before supper.

Miche was not about to let that pass without comment.

“Mind your manners, Sir Tounot, His Grace honors us with his presence,”

he said as Remin climbed the creaking ladder from the third floor.

“It is indeed an honor.”

Tounot offered his most elegant bow.

“To what might we attribute it, do you suppose, Sir Miche?”

“In the ordinary course of things, I would tremble to speculate, Sir Tounot,”

Miche said piously.

“His Grace’s motives are mysterious, enigmatic, sometimes incomprehensible.

And yet, if you would force me to name a cause—”

“I do, I do,”

Tounot assured him.

“…then I would say, the cause is a flower.”

“A flower, you say?”

“Indeed, Sir Tounot.

A very particular flower has been transplanted to the barracks today, did you not notice?”

“As it happens, I did.”

Tounot was deeply thoughtful.

“That flower which has held an exceptional charm for His Grace, as of late…”

“…though I would hesitate to name the precise nature of its charm, Sir Tounot…”

“Keep hesitating,”

Remin advised, and made them both burst out laughing.

Even Juste was smirking at the sunset.

Four pairs of eyes sought out the flower in question, seated at a rough table in the shade of an elm tree as she spoke with the next soldier.

Ophele had been put safely aside to avoid distracting his men during their training, and Remin was sure that this was far less disruptive than scholars would be.

He had spent many frustrating hours being questioned by Tower historians in Segoile, most of whom had seemed only to want him to confirm their opinions about the war he had just fought and won.

A few had greatly offended him by opining he had been unnecessarily brutal in Valleth, tempting him to demonstrate what real brutality looked like.

Determined to learn from past errors, Remin was letting Ophele pursue this in whatever way she thought best.

He had listened to her speak night after night, listened to her solve problems, and greatly appreciated the tidy workings of her mind.

His eyes lingered over the graceful arrangement of her skirts, and the heavy knot of gleaming hair that emphasized her slender neck.

Even the quill fluttering between her slim fingers as she wrote was beautiful to him.

“She loves me,”

he found himself saying aloud.

It had been weeks, and until now he hadn’t spoken of it to anyone.

He felt the back of his neck grow hot.

“She told me so.”

“This is not exactly shocking news,”

Tounot said delicately.

“There have been certain signs,”

Miche agreed, but both of them were smiling, and it was time that he told them of the terrible test that Ophele had passed so well.

He wasn’t especially proud of himself for doing that to her, but he wanted them to know that she was his lady now in truth.

Above suspicion.

Deserving of all honor.

“That’s what you made me witness?”

Tounot asked, appalled.

He had been one of the signatories to Remin’s will.

“I need to write another one,”

Remin said.

The corners of his mouth tugged up into a foolish, irrepressible smile.

“She threw it in the fire.

Said she’d do the same to Edemir’s copy.”

“That’s where it belongs,”

Tounot said sharply, but he looked with more respect at the small noblewoman in the courtyard below.

“I would never have guessed she could do such a thing.”

“I am glad,”

Juste said quietly.

“I have been looking, my lord, to see if there were any connections between Her Grace and the Emperor, or with the Duke of Firkane.

One of the footmen at Aldeburke said that all correspondence goes directly to Lady Hurrell.

To his knowledge, the princess never received any messages from anyone.”

Once, Remin would have found a way to argue even with this.

But it was a backward sort of thinking, to demand proof of innocence rather than evidence of guilt.

“You can stop looking,”

he said, feeling absolutely buoyant at the idea.

He propped his elbows on the hardened clay of the high wall, a brisk breeze whipping through his hair, and felt for a moment that he really was lord of this valley.

Along the ripples and folds of the earth were the darker places where the devils lurked, and already the distant cackles of stranglers sounded, a mocking evening chorus.

There was his enemy.

Besieging his people in their faraway villages, imprisoning him behind the walls of Tresingale. Every morning, he asked for a count of the devils, and every morning Jinmin reported no decrease in their numbers .

“I was thinking,”

he said into the reflective quiet.

“I understand what you said, Juste, about building our base of power in the Empire.

But if there were some way to have peace…”

Even a few months ago, what he was about to say would have been unthinkable.

“…I would be willing to make some concessions to the Emperor.”

“Rem.”

Tounot’s jaw dropped, and anger flushed his face.

“After everything we’ve been thr—”

“I will be happy to stay here the rest of my life,”

Remin interrupted, without heat.

He knew it would be hard for Tounot in particular to accept this.

“I will say whatever I have to say, to make this place safe.

We have greater concerns than Duke Berebet’s games.

And I’m tired of having guards. I’m tired of watching for arrows and having other people taste my food. I don’t want any more of you dying for me. You’ve risked yourselves enough.”

“What are you proposing, my lord?”

Juste asked, quiet and reasonable as ever.

“Find out what he wants.

I want terms.

A percentage of the river income, even the port.”

It was galling to think of paying a ransom so the Emperor would stop trying to have him killed, but Remin was willing to consider it.

“I would give a lot, if he would just leave us alone.”

“You really think he’d keep his word?”

Miche asked cynically.

“He’d just use your ransom to buy better assassins.”

“I must agree,”

Juste said reluctantly.

“It’s never been about anything you did, my lord.

You challenge his power just by being alive when he wanted you dead.

Duke Ereguil forced him to spare you, and Emperor Bastin Agnephus hates to be forced.

He does not forgive defiance.”

This was not what Remin wanted to hear.

“There must be some way,”

he said, frustrated.

“We have greater matters to concern us.

I don’t want to build myself a beautiful prison.

Or one for Ophele,”

he said, guilt striking him anew.

“It won’t last forever,”

Juste replied.

“I swear it.

We will win the peace in Segoile, as we won the war in Valleth.

It can be done.”

“And how long will that take?”

He was being unreasonable, Remin knew.

But Duke Berebet’s letter was the opening sally of an entire new war, and he resented any distraction from the work of his heart .

“Can’t be more than ten, twenty years,”

Miche drawled.

“The Emperor’s what, fifty-something? He’ll drop dead on his own eventually.”

“He looked robust enough to me last year,”

Remin said sourly.

He did not find this amusing.

“I don’t believe it will take that long.

But this is why we must deal with Segoile,”

Juste said with gentle emphasis as he looked at the mutinous Tounot.

“We have wealth, which will allow us to buy influence.

We have the notoriety of your victory over Valleth to draw the likes of Duke Berebet to us.

You will win the Court of War, my lord, and we will play the game of Houses so that no one will ever dare to lift a hand against you again.”

His hands closed on the parapet wall, gripping tight.

“I hope the Emperor lives a long, long time,”

he said.

“Let them sing of the love match of the Duke of Andelin from one end of the Empire to the other.

Let us show him the peerless jewel he gave you in your lady, when he thought only to insult you.

And every time the stars bless you with a child, let us send him a letter in gratitude, thanking him for another babe with his untouchable celestial lineage.

Let him linger, in spite and bitterness. Let him know himself thwarted in all his bitter designs. And then let him die, small and impotent, and forgotten by us. Then I will be content.”

The crimson of the sunset gleamed in his pale eyes.

“Stars, Juste, let me never make you my enemy,”

said Miche, making a sign to the stars for protection.

“My grievances are far greater than yours,”

Juste replied calmly.

“What is it they say? The best revenge is a life well lived? Then let us build lives of the utmost beauty.”

“That will have to content me.”

Tounot fell silent for a moment.

“My father filed a petition in the Court of Nobility.

My name is no longer Belleme.”

This did not really surprise any of them.

Tounot had been estranged from his father for ten years.

Ever the consoler, Juste lifted a hand to squeeze his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,”

Remin said, knowing just how inadequate that was.

He had never been able to forget what Miche had said the night before his wedding, about how all their friends had died for him, to give him back what the Emperor had taken.

Tounot would have inherited Irenvale.

He should have been its next earl.

He had given up his home, his inheritance, and now his name, because Remin was his friend. And Tounot would never turn his back on a friend, or countenance lies against them.

“It’s not your fault,”

Tounot said levelly.

“I made my choice.

It will be hard for my mother.

But to answer your question, Rem, I will stay and work for you until Tresingale and your nursery are well established.

And then I’ll build a Tresingale of my own and find a…another flower to beautify it.”

Tounot had been betrothed to a girl from childhood.

But it was unlikely that betrothal would stand, now that he was a nameless man of no House.

“The lady of House Tounot?”

Miche inquired respectfully.

“No.

House Gresein.”

Tounot glanced between the three of them.

“That’s the name I will take, if you think it good.”

“It’s a good name,”

Remin agreed.

“That’s what I want,”

Juste said approvingly.

“More Houses.

More Tresingales.

And when my own work is done, I will marry, as I too am the last of my blood.”

He sighed as if the thought was burdensome.

“I want a tranquil sort of blossom.

And a tower where I can look at the stars.

That will be enough for me.”

It made Remin feel better to hear their dreams.

His eyes went automatically to Miche, who flashed a smile.

“Your valley is lacking the company of ladies,”

he drawled.

“Make me a bed of roses and I will be content to lie there the rest of my days.

My dreams are small.”

That made them laugh, and Remin looked away, feeling easier than he had in days.

Before him spread the many works of Tresingale, the massive walls to the north and east, the distant rolling fields where dark soil was replacing the golden wheat, the old forest where his hunters worked furiously to provision for the winter.

A cobblestone road wound all the way from Gellege Bridge to the north gate and was arcing now through town, where the square had been built, surrounded by a half dozen shops whose occupants were on their way.

Soon, they would add their lamplights to the evening glow of the town .

He would make their dreams as real as his own.

He would help them live beautiful lives, as the best way to repay them for everything they had done.

Though he wasn’t quite sure what to do for Miche.