Page 29

The axe struck the tree with a ringing vibration that shivered all the way up to Remin’s shoulders, and it felt good.

This was what he needed.

Hard, physical work, the sort that made it impossible to think of anything but the burn of his muscles.

Stripped to the waist, splinters and sawdust stuck to his sweating skin as his borrowed axe slammed into the tree, testing himself to see how precisely he could strike, how deep he could make the blade bite.

If he moved a distance away from the rest of the work crew, he didn’t even need to speak to anyone.

“If you keel over, I’m not dragging you down to the river,”

drawled a voice behind him, and Remin looked back to find Miche slouching against a tree, watching him work.

Miche rarely stood under his own power.

“It’s murder out here, Rem, are you trying to kill yourself?”

“It’s fine.”

But he did drink from the waterskin Miche offered, then poured more on his head, his shaggy black hair dripping with sweat.

“Why aren’t you on the wall?”

“Gen says we have to let the men rest this time of day, unless we want to risk losing them to sun sickness,”

Miche said pointedly.

“You know they’re taking bets over there on how much forest Remin Grimjaw can clear by himself.”

“Are they?”

Remin glanced at the swath of downed trees behind him, as if a very localized windstorm had swept past, and shrugged wide shoulders.

His skin was browned from years in the sun, and though he felt the heat the same as anyone else, he had worked much harder on much hotter days than this, often in full armor.

He picked up his axe.

“Guess I better make it exciting for them.”

For a while, Miche just watched, arms crossed over his chest.

The blond knight was looking unusually scruffy, with several days’ stubble on his jaw and his long hair tied back with a rough thong.

“I have to thank you,”

Remin said abruptly, and turned to lower his head to his friend.

His bow was elegant even when he was shirtless and sticky with sap.

“Gen said you saved Ophele’s life.

I’ll never be able to repay you.”

Miche flicked this away with his fingertips.

“I’m not keeping count.

How is she?”

“Sleeping.”

Remin swung his axe, the blade biting with an echoing thwack.

It had been two days, and she was still only waking up long enough to eat, drink, and perform the necessary ablutions.

“Still sleeping.

Gen’s keeping an eye on her.”

Actually, Gen had shoved an axe in Remin’s hand and kicked him out of the cottage.

“Must be tired.”

Miche moved out of the way as Remin set the axe down and shoved the tree over, the muscles flexing in his bare back and shoulders.

“I don’t think she’s been sleeping.”

He moved onto the next tree, a sturdy elm.

“Before now, I mean.

I talked to her guards this morning.”

Thwack.

“They said they’ve seen lamps burning until almost dawn, some nights.”

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

“Because she was too scared to sleep.”

Miche said nothing.

“You warned me.

I thought, if she’s scared, she just needs to get over it.

I didn’t think, she’s going to sit up every night listening to the devils, frightened out of her wits.”

The axe swung again, sinking five inches into the elm.

“I did wonder why she kept falling asleep.

I pulled her out of the bath three—no, five times.

That’s not normal, right?”

“No,”

the other man said quietly.

“I thought so.”

Remin jabbed the axe in Miche’s direction.

“I thought so.

But I told myself that she knows better than I do, surely she’d say something if she was sick or something.”

“Most people would.”

“Not her.

Gen said she wouldn’t ask me for a bandage if she was bleeding to death, and I ignored him.

She doesn’t complain, ever.

Stars, I tried to do things to get her to complain, because I was so sure she was lying, and eventually she’d break.”

Remin slammed the axe into the tree, slicing a wedge, and then kicked the wedge loose with a heavy boot.

“You remember the women at Iverlach? The ones that wintered with Juste?”

“Through the siege?”

“Gen said she looks like one of them.”

Another tree went down.

Remin went on to the next.

“I knew she was skinny.

Too skinny.

You couldn’t tell it, the way she usually covers up, but I knew.

Did you know that when women starve, or if they’re under too much stress, their bleeding will stop? I didn’t know that.”

“I have heard of it.”

Miche’s face hardened.

“Well, you were the one that taught me about such things.”

Remin delivered three ringing swings to a sturdy sapling and shoved it over with one huge hand.

“Gen said they almost always recover.

But it’ll be a while before she’ll be able to get with child.”

There was no one else to whom he would have confided something so personal.

Not even Tounot or Juste, who regarded him as their liege first and their friend second.

Miche was always just Miche.

“It would be a fitting punishment if she couldn’t give me children, wouldn’t it? It was the only reason I wanted her, and she knows it.

That was the first thing she said to me, after Gen talked to her.

She said she was sorry, she would eat and rest and get better.

Not for herself.

For me, so she can give me heirs.”

Remin shoved the last tree over and stood, panting.

Sweat streamed down his sides and back, soaking his thick leather belt.

“She’s sorry,”

he repeated bitterly.

“She said she was sorry for everything her father did, and she wants to make up for it, so she’ll have children by a man who wouldn’t even comfort her when she was scared.

The stars as my witness, Miche, I never meant to do that.

How could I do that?”

Sitting down with a thump, he swiped at his sweaty face with a sweaty arm.

Wordlessly, Miche handed him the waterskin, and he drank.

It tasted salty.

“She said she’s sorry for what the Emperor did?”

The other man echoed.

“That’s what she said when she woke up.

She was sorry.

She wanted to apologize to all of us for the things the Emperor did.

That’s why she was working so hard.

That’s why she never complained.

She’s trying to give back what he took.”

It was another bit of supreme irony that the entire time Remin had been punishing her for her father’s crimes, she had been quietly trying to pay the debt in her own way.

“And she didn’t do a fucking thing.

Was she even alive when my parents were killed? Why would she think she owes me anything?”

“I would,”

Miche said quietly.

“Put yourself in her shoes, Rem.

What if it was you? What if it was your family that wiped out hers, had her parents executed, burned down her home, and made her an orphan? You wouldn’t feel like you needed to make it right?”

“That’s not even the problem.”

Remin waved this away and leaned back against the tree, gradually catching his breath.

“I think I suspected something like that.

Not that she was trying to make up for that bastard, but—she’s nothing like him.

She has nothing to do with him, at all.

But all this time, I didn’t want to hear it.

I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her. Because I knew if I saw her hurt, or scared, or sad, I’d comfort her, and if I comforted her, I’d have to look at her, and the more I look at her…”

“So look.

She’s a pretty girl.”

“I don’t want to.”

Remin’s hands clenched into fists.

“I think she’s innocent.

I think she’s the most innocent person I’ve ever met.

But what if I look, and I…and then it turns out she’s not? I can’t know.

Even now, if I think about it, I can still say what if it’s a trick.

What if she worked until she fainted to make me doubt myself, to make me drop my guard? I think I could still be asking that when she gives me my third child.”

“Rem.”

Miche looked appalled. “That’s—”

“I know.

The problem isn’t even her anymore.

But even if she hasn’t done anything, even if she never means to do anything, the Emperor could still get to her one day.

I know it.

There’s going to be something, some lever, some weakness he finds.

He always does, the bastard. He’ll tie the strings on if he can’t find one to pull.”

“Not always.”

Miche gripped his shoulder, squeezing.

“I’m here, aren’t I? And Tounot, Juste, Huber, Auber, Edemir, Bram, even that troll Jinmin.

You think we all haven’t had talks with strangers in taverns, wondering whether we like being Knights of the Brede? I think every third woman I bedded in Segoile wanted to know if I was happy, sworn to Remin Grimjaw.

And happy is a strong word,”

he said reflectively.

“It’s hard, dangerous work, and my lord has no sense of humor.”

Remin didn’t laugh.

“I was thinking of sending her to Ereguil,”

he said, resting his elbows over his knees.

“The old man warned me.

He said the Andelin is no place for a lady.

She’d be safe there.

Comfortable.

She could sleep at night without wondering if a strangler is going to come through the window. Duchess Ereguil would be happy, she’s always wanted a daught—”

The waterskin hit him in the face.

“Is that really for her?”

Miche demanded.

“Or is it just so you don’t have to look at her?”

“He was right,”

Remin shot back.

“I think we have proven that I am not fit to take care of her.”

“You haven’t tried.”

Miche shoved himself upright.

“Nothing in this life would make the Emperor happier than knowing he’s got you seeing wolves in every lamb.

And you know what, you do owe me.

I saved her life.

That means I get a say in what happens to it.

And I say you’re going to ask her what she wants.”

“You know what she’s going to say!”

Remin snapped.

On his feet, he towered over his friend, but Miche glared right back, his hazel eyes shooting gold sparks.

“She thinks she has to make up for every rotten thing her father’s ever done, she—”

“Then you respect that,”

Miche said sharply.

“Give her a chance.

Just try.

Or you’re letting that bastard in Starfall win without even drawing your sword.”

* * *

Ophele had never been so tired.

Maybe she just hadn’t realized how tired she really was until she was permitted to do nothing but rest and eat and sleep.

Everything was wrapped in a haze of exhaustion and often she felt like she was still dreaming even when she was eating, bowls of sweet porridge or savory stew supplied by a kindly giant who bore a striking resemblance to her husband.

“A little more,”

he kept saying, until she pushed the bowl away and fell asleep again, and the murmur of his deep voice was so pleasant that she wondered wistfully if it all might really be a dream after all, and soon she would wake to an impatient hand on her elbow, and a cold voice telling her to get out of bed.

It might be a dream.

The cottage got so hot in the afternoons she pushed her blankets away and tugged restlessly at her chemise, wondering if it was the early signs of that terrible fever.

She had never imagined it was possible to feel so hot.

She remembered walking with Eugene by the wall, feeling dizzy, and trying to take off her hat.

She seemed to remember Sir Miche shouting, then looking up to see the duke above her, telling her to breathe.

And then she woke up in the cottage to find him sitting on the floor next to the bed, his dark head resting on his crossed elbows.

For once, he hadn’t been cold or brusque.

He had even apologized.

It was hazy, but she was almost positive that had really happened.

“Are you awake?”

More often than not, when she opened her eyes, he was there.

Sleeping on the floor by the door, sitting at the table over stacks of parchment, or there would be the sound of his voice just outside the window.

When he wasn’t angry or annoyed, it wasn’t a bad voice.

“Mmm…”

She squinted and burrowed under the covers.

“Time izzit?”

“Almost noon.”

The duke knelt beside the bed and felt her forehead, as he always did.

“Feel all right?”

She nodded, sitting up to accept the cup in his hand.

For once, it was just water, not a bittersweet concoction of medicine and honey.

He was watching her as if he thought she might flop back onto the bed at any moment, and she sipped slowly with her eyes down, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

Was he really sorry? No one had ever apologized to her before, and Ophele didn’t quite know what to make of it.

She accepted his kindness as meekly as she accepted his coldness.

She had no choice either way.

“Genon said you’re to rest for a while,”

the duke was saying, taking the cup from her and setting it on the trunk beside the bed.

“Ready to get up?”

This was a polite way of asking if she wanted to go to the privy, and Ophele was grateful he just made sure she was steady on her feet and then ducked out of the cottage, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of porridge with honey and juneberries, which tasted so good she almost hummed.

“Do you want more?”

he asked, eying the empty bowl.

Reflexively, she shook her head, and his black eyebrows drew together.

“I will go get more if you do,”

he said, looking stern.

“Do you remember what Genon said yesterday?”

Every excruciating word.

Ophele wished the conversation with the surgeon had been a dream, and even more the discussion that followed with the duke.

The idea of having children at all was overwhelming, but the thought that she might not be able to have children had made her feel as if the cottage was collapsing on her.

That was her purpose.

That was why the duke had married her.

If she failed at that, he would hate her even more.

Maybe that was the reason he was being so gentle now, like he was coddling a particularly high-strung broodmare.

“You’re supposed to eat,”

he was saying firmly.

“As much as you can.

Are you full?”

Now she just wanted him to stop staring at her.

“I could eat more,”

she said, looking away.

“That isn’t what I asked.

Don’t placate me, wife.

Tell me what you want.”

“More. Please.”

Anything, if it would make him stop asking and go away.

The duke eyed her narrowly but decided to accept it, vanishing back out the door.

Ophele leaned back against her pillows and kicked off the covers.

Even in her chemise, it was warm, and she could feel the days abed clinging to her skin, making her long for a bath.

It was amazing that a place at this latitude could get so hot.

Was it because of the humidity? Not for the first time, she wished she had at least some of the books from Aldeburke’s library.

She was accustomed to being able to look up the answer when she had a question, and in the absence of books, her mind circled, picking at the subject endlessly.

“Here.”

The duke appeared with another bowl and dragged a chair over to the bed to sit down beside her as she ate.

“Do you feel better? Properly awake?”

She nodded, watching him warily.

“I want to have serious conversation with you.

And I want you to tell me what you want.

Not what you think I want to hear.

I swear to the stars that I won’t be angry, no matter what you say.”

His black eyes met hers squarely.

“Promise? The truth?”

She nodded again.

“I know you haven’t been…comfortable here.”

He had an aristocrat’s habit of sitting up very straight, his hands flat, with no gestures to punctuate his words.

“I have done nothing to make you comfortable.

I am sorry for that.”

He said it straight out, and looked at her when he said it.

“The Duke of Ereguil—do you know who he is?”

She nodded, listening.

“He advised against bringing you here from the first.

I ignored him.

I thought I had good reasons.

And it has been worse than I expected, with the devils,”

he admitted.

“Anyway, if you want, I’ll send you to his estate.

It’s a country estate in the south, probably the safest place in the Empire.

He and the Duchess are good people, they would treat you well.

Or if you don’t like that, I could send you back to Aldeburke—”

“No,”

she said immediately, and looked down into her bowl.

“No.

Not there.”

“All right.”

His big fingers touched her hand, making her look up at him.

“Wherever you like, as long as it’s safe.

I said I was sorry, and I meant it.

I want to do better by you.

So tell me what you want.”

The thought of going to another place filled with strangers was almost as daunting as devils.

But Ophele thought about it.

It was the same question Sir Miche had asked more than a month ago.

She would never go back to Aldeburke, though she missed the library, and Azelma, and the familiar sights that still held a touch of her mother’s spirit.

She never wanted to see the Hurrells again.

She knew nothing about the Duke of Ereguil, except that he had been a close ally of Remin’s old House and had protected him after the deaths of his parents.

And therefore, he was no friend of the Emperor.

Knowing her father, Duke Ereguil and his lady wife had likely suffered their own misfortunes.

The thought of a whole new set of people to whom she would have to apologize because her father had tried repeatedly to have them killed made her quail inside.

What if they hated her for it, too?

And what of her own resolve, to atone for the crimes of her parents? She still hadn’t done anything to make up for what the duke had suffered.

But maybe she was just making things worse by being here.

Maybe she hadn’t helped at all.

They had already found someone to replace her on the wall.

And she was troubling the duke even now, he had barely left the cottage in days and there was so much work to be done…

“Prin—wife?”

The duke prodded.

“I don’t know,”

she said, subdued.

“I need to think.”

“All right.

As long as you like.”

He was silent for a moment, and then said, “You can talk to me.

I can see you’re thinking.

I am not good at talking, but I will try.”

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

It was a modest goal, but she hadn’t even managed that much.

“Trouble me,”

he said firmly.

“I mean it, Ophele.

If I ignore you, pitch a fit.

Like Wen does.”

“No,”

she said, her eyes widening at the image, but a small smile escaped her.

“Then hit me.

Right here.”

He took her hand and slapped it lightly against his cheek.

“I’ll even bend down so you can reach.”

“I couldn’t,”

she protested, and she covered her mouth, her eyes widening.

Did he really mean it? “I can’t hit you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,”

he agreed.

Her hand was still pressed to his cheek and she wanted to pull it away, but she was afraid he might be angry if she did.

Would he really be nice to her now? Or would he turn and snap at her again? Her stomach knotted with anxiety.

“I am sorry,”

he said again, softly.

“No matter what you decide, I will take care of you from now on.

But I need you to tell me when something’s wrong.

I don’t know anything about what you need.

I wasn’t trying to learn, before.

I was…there are reasons,”

he hedged.

“But it’s no excuse.”

“You can’t trust me,”

Ophele replied softly. “I know.”

“I didn’t think I could.”

The words hung there, an admission of possibility.

She didn’t know what to think.

Looking at his strong, tanned hand, all she could see was the contrast with her own, pale and ragged as a wraith’s.

It was not a capable hand.

She didn’t know how to do anything useful.

What would he say when he found out that she wasn’t any kind of princess at all? She had never learned any of the aristocratic arts, how to manage a house and maneuver through society, how to host a banquet or a ball or any of the numerous events that would forge crucial connections for her husband.

She wasn’t even strong enough to be useful as unskilled labor.

Was this all she had to offer? To be sent away to a safe place until it was time to bear his children?

“Are you done with your food?”

he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Silently, she extended the bowl to him.

He didn’t smile.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile.

But he looked into the bowl and looked at her, and there was a warmth in his black eyes that made her wonder what it might be like if things really were different.

“That’s better than yesterday,”

he observed, and set it aside.