Page 17

Any large gathering in Tresingale was a cause for concern.

With the exception of those on guard duty, every single person in town was assembled in the field behind the cookhouse, a ragged and somewhat mangy mob, worn from the day’s labors.

Even Wen the cook was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest and a ladle in one hand.

Soldiers turned farmers, soldiers turned hunters, soldiers who had apprenticed themselves to the masters and craftsmen Remin had brought to the valley.

There was even a literate few who were acting as Nore Ffloce’s hands, and learning the science behind the building of a town.

But with so many people gathered, security was an issue, so the Knights of the Brede were present and impressive in their armor, standing at the perimeter of the crowd.

Tounot and Edemir flanked the duke and his lady, and the cat-eyed Darri stood outside the circle of torches, watching for danger in the dark.

“All of you that have come to this valley, as soldiers or as builders, have already sworn an oath,”

began Jinmin, whose gravelly command voice could cut through any crowd.

“As soon as you set foot on this side of the Brede, you swore to do no harm to the Duke of Andelin or any who have sworn loyalty to him.

Tonight, you will extend that oath to his Duchess.”

There was no cleric among them yet.

Remin had already sent a request to the Holy City of Jaen, the seat of the Temple of the Stars.

But these men would be standing under the stars when they made their oath, with all of the eyes of the glorious dead to witness.

“Kneel,”

said Jinmin, and sank to one knee himself, turning to face Ophele.

He would swear another oath as a knight later, just as all of his brother knights had, but it was good to set an example.

“With all the stars as witness…”

The men’s voices echoed him, and Remin searched the faces in the crowd, looking for any who had refused to kneel, any who did not say the words.

As more people came to the valley, it was likely that sooner or later one of them would be in the service of the Emperor.

His wife’s case was a complicated one: she might be a target for assassins, or she might be an assassin herself.

The princess herself didn’t seem to know where to look, and for once, he could sympathize.

Remin was dimly aware that she was wearing a red gown.

He liked her hair.

But in his mind’s eye there was a vision of her standing by the fireplace with her chemise clinging wet and transparent, showing the shape of her breasts and her narrow waist and rounded hips.

The sight had actually, literally, embarrassingly paralyzed him.

It was as if his brain had temporarily ceased all nonessential function.

It was the first time that had ever happened to him.

Just remembering it made the back of his neck feel hot.

He was not going to stand here picturing his wife’s nipples while everyone in the valley was swearing to protect her honor.

“Say what you said to the knights,”

he murmured to her in an undertone.

“Thank them for their courage and say you will try to learn from them.

Promise to bring them honor as their lady.

And speak up.”

Among the nobility, elocution and oratory were considered fundamental subjects, usually taught by a tutor.

There was no evidence that his wife had ever had a single lesson.

“Th-thank you,”

she began, looking terrified.

Remin laid a hand on her back, which usually seemed to steady her, and she straightened her shoulders.

“Thank you all for serving the duke so well.

Especially those of you who fought with him.

Now you’re working to build this new place, and I want to thank you for that.

As well. I hope to learn from your good example. I will do my best to bring honor to you. As duchess. Thank you.”

This speech was probably only heard by the front two rows of men, but the virtue of a speaker who was petrified of their audience was that at least the speech was short.

The men filed past their new duchess to go to their meal, doffing their caps and tugging their forelocks, and a few even offered her a bow and a smile, making her smile in return.

Remin’s knights and officers stayed behind to make their own oaths, the same oaths that Miche and Tounot and the rest had already sworn, that night on the road to Granholme.

“Your Grace.”

Genon Hengest was last, and remained on one knee even after he had said his oath.

He wasn’t a knight, but Remin counted him their equal nonetheless.

“I’ve served His Grace as herbman and surgeon for a long time, and will be honored to do the same for you.

I know a young lady might be afraid or embarrassed to talk about such things with an old gargoyle like me, but I’ll give you my oath to listen to any worry you might have, and never repeat what you say to anyone else.

That includes your lummox of a husband.”

The princess’s eyes widened.

“May the stars in heaven strike me dead if I break your trust,”

the surgeon concluded.

Genon had already chosen not to discuss this with Remin.

And he had chosen to swear it publicly, before all his knights.

Remin’s jaw tightened.

“I—that is, thank you,”

said the princess, looking from Genon to Remin as if she suspected there might be a fight and was trying to figure out how to stay out of it.

“In matters pertaining to the princess’s health,”

Remin corrected.

He understood what the surgeon was doing, and why, but even for a man who had saved Remin’s life a dozen times over, this was going too far.

A pretty face could disarm even a wily old man, and he wouldn’t have Genon bound to silence if the princess chose to confide things unrelated to the condition of her body.

Genon bowed his head.

“Aye, that’s fair.

If you tell me you’re planning to fill His Grace’s boots with manure, I’m afraid you’re on your own, my lady.

I so swear.”

“Thank you,”

she said again, covering her mouth with one hand to hide a smile.

“On the other hand,”

drawled Miche, “If you ever want to give it a shot, I will swear to the stars to assist you, lady.”

“No, I won’t,”

she protested, but she was giggling and his knights were laughing and she looked up at Remin with a glance that asked, is this all right?

Honestly, he wasn’t sure.

He had chosen to have his men swear to protect her, and it was inevitable that they would come to know each other and be easier with one another, but he didn’t like to see her laughing with them.

That felt dangerous for reasons he couldn’t even articulate.

“Let’s finish our business,”

he said, unsmiling.

“There’s a great deal to be done tonight.”

He could almost hear Miche saying Grimjaw, but no one could argue that he was wrong.

After a quick meal, he left the princess back in the cottage under guard, then headed back to his tent to confer with his knights.

All of the day’s business, and plans for the days to come, had to be discussed in all their many variations, and he and his men worked late into the night.

Plans were all well and good, but success often depended on anticipating not just that the plans would fail—they would—but how.

“You should have asked me first, Gen,”

he said as he walked with the surgeon back to the cottages.

It was late enough that the torches lining the lane had burned out, and the sky overhead was enormous, dark and starry, clear enough that even the blue-violet clouds of the celestial tides were visible, sweeping between the stars like foam on the sea.

“I didn’t know if I would,”

Genon replied frankly.

“Hadn’t had much chance to see you together.”

“And you decided it was necessary tonight.”

“Aye.”

Genon rolled a yellow eye in Remin’s direction.

“If I thought she’d confide in you, I wouldn’t have bothered.

But that girl wouldn’t ask you for a bandage if she was bleeding to death.”

Remin stopped walking.

“I told her to tell me if she needs something,”

he said, turning to look at the older man.

“And you thought the solution was to volunteer to keep her secrets? No matter what they may be.”

“No,”

the surgeon replied.

“No, not necessarily.

We’re all watching, be sure of it.”

“You were expecting me to object,”

Remin said slowly.

“When you swore yourself to silence.

You promised too much to get her to trust you, and counted on me to make you walk it back.”

“Wouldn’t get very far if she’s on her toes, thinking everyone’s her enemy,”

said Genon reasonably, and they continued on together in the dark.

“But while you’re bracing for a storm, Rem, someone’s got to be ready in case the sky is just blue.”

That was a very gentle warning, and he was right.

Hadn’t they spent all night making plans on just that principle? The princess could be exactly what she appeared and entirely innocent, and in that case, Remin had already wronged her in more ways than he could count. But…

He couldn’t forget how terrible storms could be.

There was a phantom twinge in his back at the memory, as of a wound yet unhealed, and he bade Genon good night and ducked into his cottage, shutting the door.

The lamps were out, but there was still a red glow of coals from the hearth.

“Your Grace?”

came the princess’s voice from the dark.

“You should be asleep.

It’s late.”

Pulling off his breeches, jerkin, and boots, Remin stretched out on the floor.

Tomorrow night, he would be sleeping outside again.

There was silence from the bed for a few minutes, and then…

“Your Grace?”

He sighed. “Hmm.”

“You’ll be safe? With the bandits?”

He did not want to hear this question from her.

“Quite safe.

I know it would grieve you, if I didn’t come back.”

“It would,”

she whispered.

“Don’t worry.

If your father wants me dead, he’ll have to do it himself.”

“But I don’t—”

“Be quiet,”

he said, rolling over to turn his back to her.

He would not give himself to her again.

“Go to sleep.”