Chapter 8 – The Watching Stars #2
“Take Genon and go meet him. Now.” His body chose that exact moment to betray him; Remin was furious as a fit of coughing abruptly wrenched him over, a short but wracking spasm.
He had to take a sip of tea before he could speak again, and he pulled himself up straight, his hands gripping his armrests until the wood creaked in his grip.
“Two hundred? Marching from Isigne? I’ll send a party of men with sledges and supplies behind you.
Keep lanterns lit, and send up smoke when you make camp. ”
“I will, Your Grace.” Laide wrapped himself back up with gratifying energy. “He was hanging on, you know everyone always says there’s iron in Sir Huber—”
“I know. Go. Bless you,” Remin added, and though he knew the stars were uncaring, and offered neither comfort nor aid, the prayer came to him anyway. “Bet Agasse, witness the courage of one born in your light…”
“And Ise Arun, bring him home,” Ophele finished for him. She was learning the names of all the stars.
Maybe that was the last refuge of a helpless man, Remin thought, despising his own weakness, the tightness lingering in his chest. When a man did not have the strength to move mountains himself, he could do nothing but appeal to heaven.
* * *
The survivors of Isigne and Selgin blew into Tresingale on the wings of another blizzard.
When the messenger came, Ophele did not even attempt to talk Remin into staying home.
There was a certain wetness in the frosty air, a scent that tingled on her nose that made her think of snow as they rode down to the cookhouse from the manor, alerted by an errand boy that the survivors were approaching the North Gate.
All her preparations stood them in good stead.
The people were sent straight to the cookhouse, where everything was ready and waiting for them.
Mistress Amise Conbour was there, as were Mionet and Madam Sanai, and there were even a few women of Meinhem who had escaped the sickness and were eager to help.
Behind them were Genon’s journeymen, and two of Auber’s older nephews to fetch and carry.
Everyone was scrubbed and well-wrapped in the hopes that they would not pass on the sickness to these already-weakened people.
Anyone who had coughed within the last twenty-four hours was forbidden to enter the cookhouse, and Remin had met this requirement through sheer brute stubbornness.
Since his fit before Miche’s messenger, he had not allowed a single cough to escape, even if it meant he had to stop and hold his breath mid-sentence.
“This is mostly what we did for the folk from Meinhem, too,” Ophele told him quietly as the survivors came in, directed to long rows of cots by the women.
“Amise has a nice way with them, and she and the other women get them seated and fed so the healers can look them over. And if Genon says it’s all right, then Madam Sanai will take them for a bath.
I really think it helps, it warms them right through. ”
“It is well thought, wife,” Remin agreed, taking her arm to keep them both out of the way. Leonin was with them, guarding them from this multitude of strangers, but Davi was still confined to his bed.
“I just wish we could do something ourselves,” she murmured, watching helplessly as they limped in, or were carried. Huber’s men were almost indistinguishable from the refugees: ragged, starving, and injured. More than half of Remin’s villagers had been killed by devils.
“Let them get settled first, and then we can go speak to them,” Remin promised, though she could see the frustration in his dark eyes. “It’s enough for them to see us here and watching, for now.”
Like the stars. Ophele stifled a sigh. She did not find it especially comforting, especially when Miche himself arrived a few minutes later, bringing up the rear to make sure no one was left behind.
“How’s Huber?” he asked instantly, shaking the snow off his shoulders.
“He’ll live,” Remin replied. This news had come up to the manor at sunrise. “His arm is gone.”
“He can wrangle horses with one,” Miche said, but there was no lightness in his gaze as he turned to Ophele and bowed.
“My lady. I’ve brought back as many as I could, but this is Huber’s work.
There’s a trail of dead from here to Isigne and as deep as the snow was, it’s a miracle he came back at all.
They saw their last devil two weeks ago, Rem. ”
“Why not?” Remin said bitterly. Every other assumption had already been upended, why not this one? “Why wouldn’t they linger late if they arrived early? Devils can survive in the cold in the mountains, can’t they?”
“They can survive in the dark,” Ophele replied, the thought striking her all at once. “Was there early snow to the west?”
“I’ll ask,” Miche promised, pushing his head back with an enormous yawn.
He looked a proper barbarian with his golden beard and long hair, but his face was very lean, his tawny eyes shadowed and grim as he watched the activity before them.
The first few rows of people had found their cots, and Genon’s journeymen were among them, peeling back boots and taking off gloves to reveal ill-healed wounds and purple-black flesh.
For a moment, Ophele thought she was going to be sick.
“What—what,” she tried to say, covering her mouth with her hand. “That man—Remin, his feet—”
“That’s frostbite, wife,” Remin answered, turning her away from it. “Don’t let them see you upset. That foot will have to come off, I expect. It happens when the flesh freezes, and then it goes foul and begins to rot.”
She had heard of frostbite; adventurers in books got it, especially on their noses. But the books of the Aldeburke library did not have pictures of such things, and once again, her imagination was not equal to reality.
Miche went on with his report as she tried to collect herself, both men neatly covering for her until she could turn back and face this latest horrible thing. She was finding it hard to accept that there was something worse than the emaciated children of Meinhem.
“…about forty miles away,” Miche was saying, accepting a mug of savory beef tea from one of Wen’s kitchen boys.
“Sledges worked a treat, we might see about breeding up some of those dogs they use in Navatsvi for winter travel. We took turns walking on the way back. I tell you, we take our shovels for granted in Tresingale…”
His humor was black, black as their feet, Ophele thought, and was horrified at herself.
But Miche was telling the same type of jokes, and worse, and even his smile seemed to show biting teeth.
Remin listened, but his gaze was on the healers moving from one person to the next, checking extremities for frostbite and examining emaciated bodies.
Those who needed to see Genon or Mr. Brestle immediately had a red ribbon tied to their cots, while those who needed extra watching got a green one.
Those who had been examined and cleared got white ribbons.
There were not many white ribbons.
“Let one of the journeymen have a look at you,” Remin said when Miche was done, clasping his hand. “I’m glad you didn’t take the sickness with you. I was worried.”
“We had enough trouble already, without bringing more with us.” The two men squeezed hands, and Miche slanted a look at Ophele, one corner of his mouth tugging up in a rueful smile.
“You weren’t sick a day, were you? I believe I’ll accept Master Balad’s invitation to the baths. I’ll report for supper later, my lord.”
It might have been worse. That wasn’t much comfort, but Ophele looked at the men who had gone with Miche, lining up for their own inspections by the fire. They might have taken the sickness with them. They might never have come home at all. At least, at least they had come back.
“Let’s go and speak to them, wife,” Remin said, taking her arm and glancing over her head to signal Leonin to precede them. Most of the refugees hardly looked capable of picking up a weapon, let alone using it, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
What could they possibly say to these people? She was glad that Remin went first, moving to the nearest cot.
“I’m Remin, Duke of Andelin,” he said to the man seated there, and squatted down and deliberately shifted his gaze to the child in the man’s lap. “Who is this?”
“H-her name is Ylinor, my lord,” said the man, looking from Remin to Ophele to Leonin with clear nervousness. He didn’t look like an old man, but his face was so thin and drawn, it was hard to guess his actual age.
“Ylinor,” Remin said, holding out his huge, gloved hand to the child, palm up. “My name is Remin. How many summers do you have?”
Children were almost always afraid of Remin.
Ophele had seen a dozen of them burst into tears at the sight of him, and all the warning signs were there: the round eyes, the quivering lower lip, but he still kept trying.
Ophele hastily crouched down next to him, making herself ludicrously small in comparison.
“No, let me guess,” she said, assuming a pose of exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Have you…three summers, Ylinor?”
Mionet’s head would have exploded, to see the Duchess of Andelin crouched down and making faces for a little peasant girl, but by the time she got up to five summers, with escalating drama and suspense at each new guess, the little girl had forgotten all about the looming Duke of Andelin and was giggling as she offered Ophele her hand. The tiny fingers were so cold.
“What good manners,” Ophele complimented, trying to mimic the way Amise and Lisset spoke to children. “Would you like to shake His Grace’s hand? He is very pleased to meet you.”
“Yes, my lady,” piped Ylinor, turning to offer her hand to Remin, who was doing his best to look pleased and unthreatening.
All of that made it much easier to speak to Ylinor’s father, by comparison. Or at least, it was easier for Ophele. It only took a minute to see there was something amiss with the man.