Page 64

“You just got back and you’re ready to leave again?”

Remin asked, two days after faithful Eugene had been sent to the stars.

“We can’t wait,”

Huber replied around mouthfuls of bread.

He had been eating steadily all day, forcing fuel back into his body.

“And we’re the best ones to do it.

We know how to travel with the devils.”

He, Ortaire, and Rollon had spent the morning explaining their tactics, seated in the round bare chamber that would one day be the Andelin’s Court of War.

At the moment, it boasted only a single long table and a map that they passed from hand to hand.

Their tale made for grim listening.

Ferrede’s survival had been precarious, and Rollon had arrived just in time.

Remin had a letter from Elder Brodrim praising the young man to the stars.

“You really think you can do it?”

Remin beckoned for the map, frowning.

The villages were marked with bright red ink, but he would have known exactly where they were even with his eyes closed.

Meinhem.

Isigne.

Selgin.

Nandre.

Raida was safe, protected by the border garrison; Ferrede had survived, thanks to Rollon. The other villages were in the most remote areas of Remin’s domain, spared the ravages of Valleth because they weren’t near anything worthwhile. And as the equinox approached, the nights would only get longer.

“If we’re smart,”

said Huber, bending beside him to jab a finger at the map.

“Look, here.

South through the Iron Hills, and there’s a ford around here where we could cross the Medlenne.

The water will be low enough, this time of year.

If we run hard from there to the moors, that would take us away from the worst of the devils; there’s not enough tree cover out there to protect them from the sun, I expect we’d just get the occasional wolf. Swing wide out to Selgin first, and then by the time we head east to Isigne, it will be late enough in the year to miss the rest of the devils.”

His finger traced the proposed route, a lean and calloused hand, brown from the sun, with ragged fingernails.

Huber was used to living rough.

He had led Remin’s scouts during the war.

He knew these lands better than anyone else.

“That’s almost five hundred miles,”

Remin said reluctantly.

“And it may be that they are well and have no need of our help.

Or they may be beyond aid.”

“Or I might be bringing back survivors.”

Huber understood the question.

“I’m best suited to go, my lord.”

It was true.

He was.

Remin raked a hand through his hair.

“It will be three hundred miles, to Meinhem and back,”

he said, turning back to the map.

He had a feeling that they had already discussed this among themselves.

“Most of it under tree cover.”

“That’s why we can leave the palisade for the horses, my lord,”

Ortaire said, at Huber’s nod.

“Only the stranglers can climb trees, and if we string up a platform and set a watch, the worst we’ll have is a noisy night.

We wouldn’t even need the caravan; we could leave that for Sir Huber. ”

“We would take it as far as the river crossing,”

Huber conceded.

“It worked, but no one sleeps in it.

The metal makes the devils…echo.”

“But you’re telling me you can do this.”

This was far better—and worse—than Remin had expected.

He had planned to delay at least a few more weeks before attempting any rescue of his other villages.

“If you wish it, my lord,”

Huber replied.

“We saw fewer devils on the way home than we did on the way to Ferrede.

But collecting survivors is different than marching on our own,”

he conceded.

“I can get us there, Rem, but without knowing what we’ll find, I can’t promise when we’ll be back.

We’ll need a lot of men and horses.

As many as you can spare.”

“The harvest is in.

We have horses.”

Remin’s frown deepened.

“But I’ll still need a good force to go into the mountains, to say nothing of Nandre—”

“I will go,”

said another voice, and Remin looked across the table into the young face of Squire Rollon.

Lean, a little haunted, with soft brown eyes filled with determination.

“Please send me, my lord.”

Huber’s squire.

Fuck.

Remin hated this.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from instantly refusing.

His gaze met Huber’s, and he saw the anguish in his friend’s eyes, their shared losses reflected, magnified, still bleeding.

It was the burden of a lord to send men to die, even young men like Rollon, who was very nearly Huber’s son.

But Rollon was a squire who dreamed of becoming a knight, and he would not thank them for keeping him safe behind the walls.

Huber’s eyes closed.

He said nothing.

“I had not intended to send any of you out again,”

Remin said, giving the young man a chance to protest, if he was serious.

“At least not until you get some meat back on your bones.”

“I went to Nandre with Huber last year,”

Rollon said stubbornly.

“I know the way, and I know the devils.

I can do it.”

“Nandre is in the mountains,”

Bram put in.

“The devils will be hunting until the snow flies.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rollon wasn’t budging.

“If anyone survived, I’ll bring them back.”

Remin’s fingers drummed on the table.

Rollon was young, yes, but no younger than Remin himself had been when he launched his war against Valleth.

He had done a man’s work in Ferrede .

“Explain to me how you will do it,”

Remin said, capitulating, and sat back to listen.

It was impressive how closely Rollon’s plan echoed his own thinking.

A journey on foot, so they would not have to protect horses by night, with a small force that could easily take to the trees.

The trees in the old forest were ancient and massive, with limbs wide enough that a man could stretch out to sleep and never worry about falling off in the night.

It would mean a slower journey, but that also meant they would hope to be on the heels of the devils as they fled the deepening autumn; hopefully late enough to miss the worst of the horde.

It was the same ruthless calculation that Remin had applied to the villages back in spring.

Whoever still lived in Nandre would have to endure for a couple extra weeks, but Rollon and his company would arrive just as it was safe to bring them back to Tresingale.

“I will give you a dozen men,”

Remin said when he was done, and lifted a hand before the boy could thank him.

“They must be volunteers.

If you can’t get twelve men to volunteer, then you can go with Ortaire, and split off at Meinhem.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Rollon did not protest.

This was the best offer he was going to get.

“Wait until tomorrow to make your offers,”

Remin added.

“You will be a knight then.”

The look on Rollon’s face almost made up for the fact that Remin was probably sending him to his death.

Remin sat back as the other knights rose to congratulate the newest of their number, thumping him on the shoulders and offering loving taunts.

Huber stood last, his face filled with pride and pain as he gripped Rollon’s arm and offered a few words.

The ceremonies of making him a knight would wait.

At the moment, there was a more immediate problem before them.

“There is still the matter of tracking the devils,”

Remin said at last, calling them back to the table.

“As soon as the leaves fall, we’ll be after them, but they’ll be harder to track once we get into the mountains.

Auber, how are the lookouts coming along?”

“Like squirrels,”

Auber replied.

Rasiphe would have appreciated this part of their plan.

“I’ve had them climbing and fighting in the trees for a few hours every day.

They ought to be able to climb just about anything, though watchtowers will be our best bet.

If we make a habit of climbing trees, the stranglers are going to learn to do it, too. I don’t like the idea of them raining down on top of us.”

As a practice, they cleared out the trees in the vicinity of their camp to prevent exactly that, but that wouldn’t be possible in the old forest, where cutting down just one of those massive trees might take days.

“Train up a few alternates, too, just in case we lose any to illness or injury,”

Remin noted.

“This is still casting a very small net over a very wide ocean, my lord,”

said Juste, who did not approve the unscientific nature of this plan.

“There are some smaller networks of caves, but nothing sufficient to house a population of devils.

There could be other outlets of the Aven Bede…”

“Until we know where those are, the devils are our best guide,”

said Edemir, who was sympathetic to this point of view but practical.

“Though what about setting up multiple lookouts with signal smoke if they spot any devils? You’d cover more territory and could send riders to gather the information the next day.

Have lookouts in pairs, one man to keep watch and the other to keep the stranglers off the tower.”

“Two men means twice as many stranglers,”

warned Huber.

“What if we reinforced the towers?”

Auber asked.

“The same spikes and pickets we’re putting on the palisades?”

“It’ll be tight, getting more of them made in time,”

Remin said, but he was thoughtful rather than dismissive.

It would allow them to cover more territory, and get a more comprehensive idea of the devils’ movements.

It was very late to be making these decisions.

Building lookout towers on the march would add significant weight to their baggage, which meant they could not carry other supplies that might sustain them in the mountains.

But while the trackers would do well enough in the October mud of the forest, Remin remembered the heights of the Berlawes very well: scoured rock, ice, and the occasional scrub pine, where the devils would rarely leave sign of their passing.

A few farsighted fellows watching at dawn and dusk might have a better chance of spotting something…

They were going to have to pick a strategy and commit to it, for reasons of supply if nothing else.

And these various expeditions were not their only concern; Tresingale must still be defended in his absence.

There were over two thousand people here now, with reinforcements from the Third Company due to arrive next week and three hundred more craftsmen and tradesmen due to arrive before winter.

Investigations could not be performed on them all.

Even if there were no signs of overt hostility from the Emperor or his allies, the odds were high that the Emperor already had an agent or agents in place. Remin would not give them any opportunity.

“We’ll be taking fifty men each,”

he said, once they had secured Tresingale and the duchy borders for the winter.

Edemir, Juste, and Bram, you’ll stay behind.

Jinmin, Auber, and Tounot, you’ll be coming with me. Not yet,”

he said impatiently, as all three of them opened their mouths to object.

“Hopefully we’ll get a good early storm to shake the leaves off the trees.

Huber, Ortaire, you can go as soon as you judge yourselves ready.

Take your pick of the men in the barracks.”

“My lord,”

Juste began delicately.

“It would perhaps be best if you remained behind yourself.”

“No.

Jinmin, select your replacement.

Bram, you’ll take on Tounot’s duties; both of you second support as you need it.

No one here should be irreplaceable,”

Remin reminded them, ignoring the pointed glances his men were exchanging.

“If you dropped dead right now, someone should be able to step in for you.”

By the time they had finished planning Tresingale’s defenses, Remin had a momentous headache.

Huber was going to Selgin and Isigne, Ortaire to Meinhem, Rollon was making a semi-suicidal push to Nandre, and Remin was consoling himself by leading the march into the Berlawes.

The most dangerous period would be during his absence, but it took more than a few weeks to organize an invasion.

And only a lunatic would attempt the valley during winter.

After a final congratulatory handshake for Rollon, Remin departed, lengthening his stride as he headed for the stables.

He was hoping to leave before anyone tried to catch him—he recognized the wordless communication passing between his knights perfectly well—but Juste was right on his heels.

“My lord. My lord!”

Juste shoved the stable door open behind him.

“A moment. ”

“What is it?”

Remin’s horse was in the first stall, and Remin led the big black stallion out, looping his reins over a nearby hook as he went for his saddle.

“I must ask you to reconsider,”

Juste said, getting to the point immediately.

“There is no reason for you to go after the devils yourself.

Any of us could lead that expedition.”

“I’m going.”

He said it with a finality that would hopefully forestall further argument, but none of his knights went down without a fight.

“You are not replaceable,”

Juste said sharply.

“No one else can be the Duke of Andelin.

You are the last of your line.

And you’re the only one of us with a wife.”

“Of the four journeys, mine is the safest,”

Remin replied, slapping the stallion’s belly.

The horse always held his breath when he was being saddled, to keep his rider from tightening the girth strap.

“I’ll be surrounded by fifty men, and I have no doubt you’ll take every single one of them aside and explain their duty to protect their liege lord before I go.”

“If you are foolish enough to persist in this, absolutely.”

Remin’s jaw clenched.

“Thank you.

Your concerns are no—”

“My lord, you have no heir,”

Juste interrupted loudly, stepping directly into Remin’s path.

“You have failed to secure your House’s succession.

You should not go.”

“Then I have a powerful incentive to come back,”

Remin said softly, and swung up onto his horse.

“I know you mean well, Juste.

But I will not change my mind.”

He took the long way home.

Sometimes he needed the time to settle himself before he went back to Ophele, when his blood was running hot from training or, like tonight, when he needed time to push things into their proper compartments.

The warhorse wanted to run.

It took only the slightest encouragement to get the beast galloping, charging from Eugene Street to the still-nameless lane that led to the market square, and then past the stick-and-string outlines of the empty lots.

It felt good to go fast, to feel the cool evening air slice along his cheeks.

As if he sensed his master’s mood, Remin’s horse snorted, his powerful legs propelling them through the east gate and onto the road outside the walls of Tresingale.

Remin’s personal guards were probably having fits trying to keep up with him, and he was sure Juste and Tounot were conferring at that exact moment to try to figure out how to persuade him to stay home, but he knew he could not be argued on this point.

This had happened during the war, too.

Sometimes Remin couldn’t help throwing himself into the place where the fighting was thickest, defying someone, anyone, to try to kill him.

It was the only way he could send other men to their deaths and still live with himself.

If Huber died, then that would be the last of Remin’s friends from his childhood.

There was Tounot, of course; Tounot was his first friend, and most faithful.

But Remin had grown up with Huber.

He, Rasiphe, Clement, and Victorin had been pages together.

They had learned together, squabbled and fought and made up again. Huber had always liked animals, and often as not, that was where they had gone when Remin wanted quiet: to commune with the horses or play with the dogs, uncomplicated creatures who wanted nothing but affection.

He missed that.

Nothing had been the same between them since Victorin had died.

But he couldn’t make decisions based on childhood friendships.

Should he feel less guilty if Ortaire died, or Rollon, in the name of all the stars? If he could have, Remin would have divided himself into three pieces and risked his life three times over on the hard roads he was asking them to travel.

He knew all the arguments Juste would have made, if he had stayed to listen.

And maybe he was a poor sort of nobleman, to neglect both his wife and the duchy he had fought so hard to win.

But no matter how much he argued with himself, he knew he would not give this task to anyone else.

Having deposited the lathered stallion in the stables, Remin tried to push these thoughts to the back of his mind on the way home.

Leonin and Davi stood guard outside the cottage, and he waved a hand, dismissing them for the evening.

Inside, Ophele was in her usual place at the table, working quietly and looking so warm and pretty in her red gown that she made him think of a little bird in her nest.

“Remin,”

she said, looking up with a welcoming smile, and Remin went straight to her and knelt beside her, cupping her face in his hands for a kiss .

He forgot everything else at the sight of her.

The only remnant of his disquiet was the sudden, aching need to mate with her, to make a little celestial scion before he went away.

Distantly, he heard her squeak of surprise, her soft, fluting voice questioning as he pulled her from her chair to the bed.

But he understood nothing but his desire, so overwhelming that her dress tore apart like paper in his hands.

The heat was beating in his blood.

Stars, she was so soft, she smelled so good.

He dragged his face against her body, covering her with his mouth, letting her dazzle all of his senses so he didn’t—he couldn’t— think of anything else.

Freeing himself from his breeches, he thrust urgently inside her.

Her hands clutched him.

His breath was harsh and rasping in his ears as he pounded himself into her, blind and deaf and blissful.

The feel of her wiped away everything except their union and he was panting when he finished, shuddering as he ground his body into hers.

And as he filled her in great, searing bursts, he prayed with all his might: stars and ancestors, let her conceive.

“What was that about?”

Ophele asked softly when it was over and they were lying together, her fingers running lightly through his black hair.

“I wanted you.”

Remin felt very limp and peaceful.

“You tore my dress apart,”

she whispered back, her golden eyes warm as honey.

“Are you all right?”

“It was a hard day,”

he admitted.

“Can I help?”

“You already did,”

he replied, closing his eyes as her fingers stroked his cheek.

It was true.

He was basking in his garden, his place of perfect peace.