Page 68

If Remin had had his way, he would have lingered with his family until dawn.

There was so much still to tell them.

So much he had forgotten, in the years since his last Feast of the Departed.

Before tonight, he hadn’t spoken to the spirits of his family since he was seventeen and on his way to war, promising them with the boastful ignorance of youth that he would defeat Valleth and take back everything that had been stolen.

There had been no time for feasting during the long war.

And last year, with Valleth’s surrender only a few months old, he hadn’t known what to make of any of it, much less what to tell his family.

He hadn’t felt victorious.

He had just felt empty.

But he thought he understood now why he had avoided them all those years.

It had been too hard to face them when he was alone .

“It will really be safe?”

Ophele asked as they made their way to the north gate together.

She was shivering in the chill and a little wobbly on her feet, light-headed from the incense.

“Yes. Wait.”

Remin turned her face up to him and cupped her cold cheeks in his hands, stroking with his thumbs.

Dimly, he remembered his mother doing the same on his first Feast of the Departed.

“Draw deep breaths, and it will pass,”

he promised.

“And it is safe, the devils can’t bear sunlight.

They’ll go back to wherever they came from, or hide in dark places until tomorrow night.

But just in case…”

He jerked his chin over her head, and Ophele turned to see his knights approaching, heavily armored and bearing spears, accompanied by the vast majority of the barracks.

It had been a long vigil for everyone tonight, and he could see the signs of incense everywhere: a whiff of that cold, sharp air wafted from everyone’s clothing, and all of them were flinching away from the torchlight, their pupils swollen huge and dark, as if they had stared long into the void.

“Everyone awake?”

he asked Bram, who was clearly more comfortable in his battered armor.

“Made ’em march here to prove it,”

he replied, and ducked his head in Ophele’s direction.

“My lady.

Safe as houses with us, don’t worry.”

“I’m not,”

she said, surveying the long line of men.

Five hundred armored soldiers were an impressive sight.

“Might we see one, though?”

She looked interested rather than frightened at the prospect.

“Maybe a ghoul,”

Bram replied.

“Stupid buggers.

Nine times out of ten, you find one smoking and stinking after dawn, it’s a ghoul.”

“Do you find them often?”

she asked, and Remin followed her, listening with amusement as she interrogated Bram, plainly longing for a quill and parchment.

Almost the entire population of Tresingale was gathered near the gate, moving respectfully to either side of Eugene Street to allow the approaching knights to pass.

Nore Ffloce had planned this well; the remains of the night’s feast were distributed along the inside of the palisade and down the street to allow everyone to share the bread and meat.

There were times when it was appropriate for Remin to don his armor, and times when it was better to look like a lord.

This morning, it was the latter.

Though he was surrounded by his knights as the heavy gates creaked open, Remin was still the first to step outside, armed with nothing but a crusty loaf of bread.

The sky to the east was lightening, just enough that he could make out the faces of those around him.

“Stay behind me,”

he murmured to Ophele as they ventured onto the dusty road.

If there had been any devils nearby, the guards on the palisade would have seen them; the forest had been cut back for half a mile from the wall, and before them stretched acres of empty fields.

Nothing could approach without being seen.

Far away, a strangler cackled.

On either side of Remin, the knights and soldiers spread out, moving to form a perimeter at the edge of the fields, so nothing would snatch his people into the darkness under the trees.

Remin didn’t believe that would happen, but it took courage for all of them to come out before sunrise.

That was why he and Ophele had to go first.

They were all there.

To his right, he saw Sousten Didion bending to take off his boots, grimacing as his bare feet touched the dirt.

There was Cam Sharrenot, the master carpenter, and Remin held out his arm to balance Ophele as she took off her little red slippers, a splash of color in the growing line of boots.

Down the row to his left, Genon was there, unarmored but with a sword belted at his waist.

Sweet-voiced Darrigault of Ghis was gone to Segoile, so Bertin took his place, lifting his voice to begin singing.

Ye nourished well, o darkened soil

Through summer’s heat and harvest toil

There was a time to sow, to grow, to reap,

And now the time has come to sleep

The time has come at last to sleep…

In Segoile, the Feast of the Departed was burned to send the smoke of it to the stars.

But from ancient days, farmers across the Empire had given the feast to the fields, walking barefoot under the stars and feeding the soil that had fed them.

It was a feast shared with the earth, but a feast nonetheless, and until the last star winked out of the sky, the dead were still there, sharing this sustenance for their journey.

“The time has come at last to sleep,”

Ophele sang along softly, the uncertain notes of someone who did not often sing.

Tearing off a morsel of bread, Remin handed it to her, and the Duchess of Andelin crouched down in the dirt and scooped out a hole with her hands, burying the bread and patting the soil back into place.

“The winter snows fall long and deep…”

Remin’s own singing voice was fairly good, steady and strong, somewhere between baritone and bass.

Ophele’s eyebrows winged up in surprise as she heard it, and their voices blended pleasantly together as she came for another bit of bread.

Bending, Remin dug and buried his own piece.

The earth was still warm from the long summer, but the air had a bite of autumn.

Already there were spots of red and gold in the forest.

Two thousand people.

They were still streaming out the gate, moving further into the fields, singing as they bent to slip off their shoes.

There was Auber’s clan with their light brown hair, groups of burly masons and blacksmiths, and further up the hill he spotted Madam Sanai, Master Balad, and the other Benkki Desans, looking uncertain but willing to honor the customs of their new home.

Only Wen and his boys were missing, guarding the food supply and—in Wen’s case, wasting bread.

Two thousand people, spread out over the wide, dark acres.

Barefoot, they walked and sang and planted together, bare feet compressing the soil for a season of rest, and it was long past sunrise when they finished.

Remin kept them at it until every last morsel of the feast was buried.

“Are we done?”

Ophele came to stand at his side, lifting a grubby hand to hide a yawn.

“That was a lot of food.”

“My father always said to feed the fields generously, and they will reward it the next season.”

Remin’s eyes narrowed as he looked to the furthest acres, where two armored men lifted their arms to indicate that the planting was done.

There was no further ceremony needed.

When he turned back to the gates, everyone followed, thousands of bare feet patting down the earth.

It was going to be a quiet day in Tresingale.

Almost everyone was going home to sleep off the lingering effects of the incense, and Remin felt pleasantly tired as he walked home with Ophele, clutching both his boots and her slippers in one hand.

Not too tired, though.

“No, leave it,”

he said, as Ophele bent to pull a fresh chemise from her trunk.

His arms went around her to pull her back to her feet, her naked skin glowing from washing.

“I have a mind for one more planting. ”

“The fields need to sleep,”

she whispered, but the way she looked at him through her eyelashes and the soft curve of her mouth instantly roused him.

“Are you sure they’re…gone?”

Remin glanced at the hearth, but the fire crackling there was no different than any other fire, and there wasn’t the least wisp of smoke from the brazier.

“Gone,”

he confirmed, his voice rumbling as he backed her toward the bed, his big hand sliding up her slender neck to cradle the back of her head and turn her face up toward him.

“Next year, if we’re lucky, we’ll have a babe to show them.”

Her legs hit the bed, and he caught her to lay her down in the blankets, pushing her thighs apart with his knee.

“I want that,”

she whispered, reaching for him as he moved above her.

He was already hard, pushing his eager length against her, wanting to make her moan, make her wet, make her ready.

“What…what if we don’t?”

“Then we’ll keep trying,”

he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

He wasn’t ready to contemplate anything else, especially since he knew Ophele would blame herself.

He didn’t want to think about anything at all when she was under him and squirming, her teeth capturing his earlobe in the way she knew made him instantly hard as iron.

There were guards outside.

There were always guards.

It was still a battle to keep quiet, muffling their moans and cries into each other’s flesh.

Remin held her hard against him, her face buried in his chest, taking him deep inside her as he filled her, willing his seed to take root.

But as they lay together, the question that had been tugging the back of his mind bubbled upward, and he was too tired to keep it from escaping.

“Wife.”

His fingers stroked her cheek.

“What did your mother have to do with the fall of my House?”