Page 33 of Traitor Son (the Empire of the Stars #1)

With the caravan finished, and the gaps between the city walls being whittled down daily, Remin judged that it was time to take another chance.

Or rather, to send someone else to take a chance.

It was the lot of a lord to send other men to die, but even after years of experience, Remin still could not reconcile himself to it.

Tomorrow, Huber would be leaving for Ferrede to see if anyone had survived this cruel summer, along with a small group of soldiers and young Sir Ortaire, who had been willing to fight every other man in Tresingale for the dubious honor.

There had been no slackening in the devils.

Every night they came in waves against the small town, and Remin was counting every man in the defenses.

The loss of two knights and six soldiers was no small matter.

Nor could he easily spare the four horses needed to pull the metal caravan.

But that was why it must be Huber.

If anyone could persuade horses to go into the teeth of the devils, it was Huber, and Huber had always been something of a dark horse himself: a wild card, appearing unlooked-for at the moment he was most desperately needed. And as the former master of Remin’s scouts, he knew the valley better than any man alive.

No doubt Huber would also have preferred to go quietly.

But nerves were stretched thin from hard work and relentless heat, and Miche and Juste thought a leavetaking was an excellent time for a feast.

Which was how Remin found himself in the same position he had been on the first night in the valley: down on one knee beside Ophele, squinting at something called eyelets as he helped her dress.

At least this time he hadn’t made her cry first.

“Why does it have so many ribbons?”

he grumbled, rummaging through the ridiculously tiny box.

“Maybe so we don’t have to sew it together,”

Ophele said, examining the pieces of the gown with an absorbed expression.

She was dressed only in a chemise and still rosy from her bath, having spent hours happily wallowing in her new basin.

The scent of her filled his senses like a drug, so sweet and heady that he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her.

“Oh, I see, it laces up the sides,”

she said, holding out a slender arm to demonstrate where the bodice laced together, with trailing golden ribbons meant to dangle in streamers alongside the red silk skirt of the gown.

Remin tied first one side and the other, tightening them together so silk and velvet hugged her slim waist and cupped her breasts.

The colors suited her.

The deep red made her skin glow and her eyes looked more golden than ever, as if the metallic leaf-and-flower embroidery had flecked color onto her irises.

Gently, he set the matching circlet on her head, brushing her hair back from her shoulders.

Ophele, Duchess of Andelin.

“It fits you well,”

he said, admiring the ribbons and beads glinting in the rich umber of her hair.

“I heard in the capital, we would be dressed to match for something like this,”

she said, turning pink and busying herself with the mysterious jars now overflowing their washstand.

“It would be hard for anyone to match you.”

The words escaped before Remin could stop them, and when Ophele glanced up at him in surprise, he reddened like a fool.

“It makes me feel conspicuous,”

she said.

“I’ll be the only one all dressed up.”

“They will be pleased to see you so,”

he promised.

“It is a great honor to keep company with a lady.”

“Is it?”

“Most of my men don’t often get the opportunity,”

he said, lifting her easily at the door.

The new road stretched for more than a mile, but there was still plenty of mud in Tresingale.

“They will see you and think of their sweethearts, their wives, their sisters, and their daughters.

All the women they left back home.

When the wall is done, maybe they’ll feel safe to send for them.

Especially if they see you, looking so…”

In the middle of the lane, he trailed off, lost in her golden eyes and searching for any words but the ones that had so nearly slipped out.

So beautiful.

“…like such a fine lady,”

he finished lamely.

“Try to have words with them, if you can.

Especially with the men that will be leaving tomorrow.

You will give them courage.”

“I will,”

she said, her small face solemn, though she gripped his shirt front tighter as he approached the doors of the cookhouse and set her down.

He could see her draw a deep breath as she moved into her place at his side.

The doors opened, and the cookhouse fell instantly and completely silent.

“Your Grace,”

said one of the men at the nearest table, springing to his feet as everyone else hastily rose.

“My lady, we’re glad to see you well.”

“Cordiot,”

she said, surprised.

“Thank you.

And you are, too? Your ankle, I mean?”

“Sturdy as a plank, my lady,”

he assured her, and Remin was astonished at the number of similar conversations as they moved toward the high table.

He hadn’t thought of it, but this was the first night they had come to supper since her sun sickness.

His men weren’t just pleased by the sight of a lady, however lovely and charming.

They were glad to see their lady.

His lady.

They teased her.

They laughed with her.

The color was high in her cheeks as she bobbed her head like a little bird, and he drifted behind her like a man in a dream.

They were talking to him too, and he was sure he answered, but his eyes were so filled with the small figure in scarlet, nothing else seemed real.

It was Tresingale’s first real feast, and Wen and his boys had outdone themselves.

The good smell of roasting boar had been filling the town all day, and the huge slabs of meat were so tender, they melted on the tongue.

There were heaps of roasted potatoes and thick slices of bread with butter and cheese.

The pageboys had been dispatched to go berrying and returned with a bounty of blackberries, fat and juicy.

Remin remembered chewing, but he tasted nothing.

He had to shake himself as the platters were taken away to offer the customary speeches and toasts, both for the men leaving tomorrow and to thank the stars for the renewed health of their daughter.

All his men were putting their best foot forward, and after the wine was poured down the table, Remin rose to offer a toast of his own.

“All of you have worked hard to secure this place against the devils,”

he said, lifting his cup to the whole cookhouse, and indeed, all of Tresingale.

“Sir Huber Adaman and Sir Ortaire of Berange have volunteered to dare the road to Ferrede, and go to the aid of our people.

It is your work that has made it possible for us to spare them.

We hope to find Squire Rollon and his builders waiting in Ferrede, fat and lazy after this summer.

May the stars bless the journey, and the men who undertake it.”

Both Huber and Ortaire had come to kneel before him, and Remin glanced at Ophele.

Her sacred hands were the ones to offer that blessing.

“Please be careful,”

she said, as both men laid their brows against her palms.

“You are very brave to go.

Come back safe, as soon as you can.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,”

Huber promised, and every cup in the cookhouse lifted to salute them.

There was not much time left before sunset, but Remin called for a little music, nonetheless.

Part of every knight’s education included learning to play the pipe, the lute, or the mandolin.

Darri of Ghis had a surprisingly sweet voice, and the rest of Remin’s men all took their turns leading the singing, everything from My Sweet Lady Awaits to the comical Where is Squire Ness? This was what he had dreamed of, when he imagined his own banquet hall, though he waved away demands for a song of his own.

He was not quite ready to serenade his wife.

Then someone a few tables down the hall stood up and began to sing.

Oh you can search the Empire wide

And never find a better guide

To the precious things you unfortunately let fall

For to the scaffold you are bound

No matter what goes tumbling down

There’s only one gentle-hearted spirit you can call

There went me hammer off the side

And me trowel’s in a glide

Oh come and save me, nimble lady of the wall!

“Oh, no!”

Ophele gasped, as Miche threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Remin glanced between them.

He had heard of the lady of the wall before, but he had decided not to inquire closely; a good lord let his men have their fun.

Her reaction was likely everything they had dreamed.

Scarlet to her ears, she was covering her face with her hands and peeking through her fingers at Remin as if her whole castle of lies was collapsing at once.

Every verse was more absurd than the last and before long the entire cookhouse was singing the ridiculous song, including the Knights of the Brede, who thoroughly enjoyed such jokes.

And though Remin would have a word with her later about whether it was really advisable for a noblewoman to climb about in scaffolding, at that moment she was laughing so hard she was breathless, and he was just so proud of her.

“My lady?”

Miche stood and offered an extravagant bow.

“Will you honor me with a dance?”

“I’m…not very good,”

Ophele said apprehensively, as she gave him her hand.

“You won’t need to be,”

he promised, and the men cleared a space before the high table so they could dance the Lady of the Wall off her feet.

She looked a little pale to be under so many eyes, but Miche whispered something that made her laugh and spun her into the music, then handed her off to Juste for the next song and Huber after that, who knelt to ask for her hand with deadpan gravity.

Ophele’s eyes widened and she dipped a curtsy, smiling.

If she had needed to dance, they would have thoroughly exhausted her, but her feet scarcely touched the floor.

By the time Bram set her into a neat figure at the end of the next song, her eyes went immediately to Remin, happy and laughing and wanting to share it with him, and suddenly it felt as if everything else in the world dissolved away, leaving only her.

The loveliest thing he had ever seen.

Ah.

He loved her.

He knew it.

He knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

It was like flying and it was like drowning, beautiful and dreadful, and somehow inescapably inevitable.

How long had he suspected that he would love her? When had he actually begun? The Lady of the Wall.

Who else would have become the Lady of the Wall for him?

His hands felt like ice as he rose to go to her, and his heart was hammering fear and love, love and fear.

But he still went, though his legs wanted to carry him past her and out the cookhouse doors.

“My lady,”

he said, offering her a big hand, and Bram relinquished her with a bow.

“Your Grace.”

Ophele’s fingers vanished into his and he wrapped an arm around her waist, swinging her easily into the next song.

Boots stomped the rhythm around them.

Hands clapped.

Remin knew how to dance, even if his long-ago dancing master had once witheringly described it as what one might expect to see if a fireplace poker decided to promenade through a ballroom.

But it wasn’t like that with her.

In his arms she felt like warm, living silk, a wisp of a girl with long skirts and hair whirling in the turns.

It was so easy to move with her.

Maybe it was because he already knew her body so well.

He had held her, carried her, picked her up and pinned her down, helped her dress and tended her.

He remembered all of it as he danced with her, the times he had seen her drunk and weeping, sick and heartsick, the times when she was laughing, delighted, and crying out with pleasure.

Faster.

The song was swifter on the chorus and Remin heard the roaring of the singing, matching his quick feet to the music.

Ophele’s face was flushed with exertion as she tried to keep up with him, her small red slippers beating a tattoo.

Looking into her golden eyes was like falling into the stars.

He wanted to kiss those red lips.

He wanted to love her and make love to her and keep her by his side always.

And if he was wrong about her, she would cut out his heart.

Faster.

Faster.

The song had a tongue-twister of a chorus, light and quick, and at the end of it they landed together so perfectly, it was as if the whole world took a breath.

Her body was pressed against him, her breath panting with his, and her face was turned up to his, glowing.

Her eyes.

Ah, those eyes. He could see nothing else.

Now was the moment, if he wanted to seize it.

Now was when he could bid them all goodnight and take her home to their bed.

Maybe it didn’t have to be this way between them.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to make her love him. Maybe…

Remin bent his head and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, a gesture filled with the courtly elegance of the nobleman he had been born.

“Thank you for the dance,”

he said quietly, relinquishing her to Tounot.

There was a flash of confusion in her face; he must have betrayed himself, somehow.

But though he tried to look reassuring, he had reached the limits of his endurance.

As the men burst into another song, he faded back through the crowd and slipped out the doors into the twilight.

At the high table with his brother knights, Miche of Harnost watched through narrowed eyes, reading the tale before him with deepening disquiet.