Chapter 6 – The Feast of the Departed #3
“But you still won’t let me read it?” Remin had so far virtuously resisted all temptation to look at her papers, to prove to himself and her that he trusted her, but he was dying of curiosity.
Ophele had been terribly secretive about her work, and he was honestly a little jealous that she let Juste read it first.
“I will, I promise,” she said. “I don’t want…in case I’m wrong.”
“As you wish.” Remin leaned forward to kiss her. “Are you sure you’re well? You seem worried lately.”
“I am, a bit,” she said, lowering her eyes to the papers as if they might be the whole of the problem.
“No one’s done anything to make you unhappy?” he pressed, wishing he could peer directly into her mind. Her golden eyes met his, clear as glass, filled with so many thoughts that he could never hope to read them all. “You know you have only to tell me.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Everyone is very, very kind.”
“Are you worried about my leaving?” It sounded arrogant, but he couldn’t guess what else it might be.
“I—no, of course you must go,” she said, her eyes flying to his face. “I mean, I don’t want you to. I will worry, and…oh, I will miss you. But it’s your duty, isn’t it? Everyone in the valley is counting on you.”
She fit into his arms like the piece of him that had been missing. Remin sighed, stroking her hair.
“I think it is,” he said, low. He did truly believe it was his duty to go, whatever his knights said.
He was not an aged lord who could no longer swing a blade.
He was Remin, Duke of Andelin. Remin Grimjaw.
The stories that had grown up around that name were useful, but sometimes he felt perversely like he was chasing his own legend.
Remin Grimjaw could not sit safe at home while his men went to hunt devils.
“But you will be careful,” Ophele lifted her head to look at him, and Remin gently smoothed his thumb between her eyebrows. The pain line was back.
“I will.” He had planned to keep Duchess Ereguil’s shipment as a surprise, but it felt like they were needed now. “We have presents.”
“We do?” She brightened, a slow smile curving her soft mouth. “You don’t have to keep giving me presents. ”
“I didn’t, as it happens. These are from Duchess Ereguil,” Remin explained, feeling his own spirits lift at the thought of his foster mother. “Some of my mother’s things, and I imagine a few things for the manor.”
“We are moving there soon, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Sousten promises it will be ready by mid-October.” He stroked her cheek, and she moved into him, sighing.
And maybe that was all it was. Maybe she was feeling the same thing he did, the weight of their responsibilities closing about them like a cage.
Soon, their days in the cottage would come to an end.
They were building a splendid home together, a splendid life, but…
“I will miss this place,” Ophele said wistfully, looking around the cottage, and Remin knew exactly what she meant.
* * *
The Feast of the Departed was the first religious responsibility they had faced together, as lord and lady of Tresingale.
It was held every year on the third of October, the night that Imele Mer, the star of Agnephus, hung longest in the sky.
Remin spent the day on his own preparations, from the grunt work of hauling tables and chairs from the cookhouse to the market square, where Wen was supervising six massive spits containing three bears and three boars.
The valley’s first feast would be a rustic one, composed mostly of game and forage with crusty wheat bread.
Simple food, but of the finest quality.
Ophele was only a little less busy. To her fell the duties of a hostess, and Remin forced himself to stand back and let her do it, flying about all morning to confirm that the number of plates and chairs would be equal to the number of guests.
By sunset, both were back at the cottage and dressed in their finest, with Ophele in her red silk gown and braided coronet, and Remin in a black doublet with silver buttons.
Silently, he bent his head to let Ophele place a heavy onyx-studded chain over his shoulders, one of the few pieces of jewelry he owned.
It was an important night. Tonight, they would meet the spirits of each other’s families.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, drawing her to him for a kiss. She looked like the coming of autumn in crimson and gold, her rich brown hair gleaming .
There was always an uncanny feeling in the air on the night of the Feast. The sky was clear, and the stars shone so bright and close, it was as if a veil had drawn back between heaven and the earth.
The night was cool and crisp, scented of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and apples, and the moon was rising early and yellow over the distant mountains.
All around them, people streamed toward the town square, washed and dressed in their best clothing.
It made the square look even more plain in contrast, especially when Remin remembered other feasts: the grand tables at Ereguil, the beautiful banquet hall of his father.
Here was only a large space paved in stone, surrounded by iron lamp-posts, with rough-hewn tables and benches packed together.
There was a row of white tapers down the middle of each table and a fine place setting at each end, plates made of fine china and crystal glasses, guest seats prepared for the spirits of the dead.
These notes were incongruous rather than graceful. But it was the best hospitality he could offer.
“Everyone looks so nice,” Ophele whispered as they took their seats at the high table, looking with wonder at the knights lined up beside them, dressed in their court finest. Even Bram had donned a velvet doublet, though he usually said he’d rather be hanged.
When all the seats were filled and the tables were groaning under the weight of the food, Remin rose to lead the prayer. Normally, it would have been the cleric’s place, but the Temple was taking its time in selecting just the right cleric to send to Remin Grimjaw.
“The harvest is in,” he said, leading with the most important point.
“The valley’s first harvest, and everyone contributed something to it.
The food on these tables is here because we put it here.
We broke our backs putting it here,” he added, with a nod that included everyone.
“Tonight, in the presence of the beloved departed, we share the products of our year’s labor, and honor them with the guest’s portion. ”
He paused. At every table, Wen’s boys cut and served thick slabs of roasted meat, filling the guests’ plates with potatoes, honey-roasted carrots, and generous slices of bread.
Bram and Wen did the honors at Remin’s table, then filled the glasses with a rich dark wine.
Only when they were all filled did he speak again.
“From the hunters, who brought in this meat. From the planters of the wheat, last spring. From those who foraged the forest… ”
So saying, Remin reached for Ophele’s hand to his right and Edemir’s hand to his left, simultaneously ink-stained and calloused, the hand of a warrior scholar.
He spoke of everyone that had contributed to this feast, and also those who had guarded the gatherers and farmers, the community that was joining hands even as he watched.
Two thousand people could not fit in the town square.
The invitation to this feast had been extended only to those who had made their oaths to him as their lord, the people who would live here all their lives.
“Beloved dead, come and rest from your journey,” he said, and heard the answering murmur of all his people. “Beloved dead, we have set you a place. Beloved dead, come sit among us, who would share what we have in our season of plenty.”
Every candle went out, as if one breath had puffed them all at once.
This was a very good omen.
The smoke from the candle wicks wafted up to the starry heavens, and Ophele’s hand squeezed his, her head tilted back as she looked at the sky.
“Blessed be the bounty before us,” Remin said, loud and steady. “May the grace of the stars lie forever on our land.”
“So long as the Covenant endures,” said everyone else, up and down the tables, and Remin pulled out Ophele’s seat for her, then took his own.
For the first few minutes, it was quiet as everyone served themselves from immense platters, and Wen brought Remin his food, separately prepared and guarded with the usual ferocity.
Everyone kept glancing at the ends of the tables, wondering who might be there, aware of the open sky overhead as if every star were the eyes of the departed.
Some years were better than others; last year, it had rained, and they had never managed to light the candles.
But this year, Remin was sure the spirits were present and listening.
“Rasiphe would have liked this,” said Tounot, the first to speak a name as he skewered a thick slice of bear meat, slightly sweet to the taste.
“Remember that time Lord Polyeon sent us all that beef? Early in the war, when everyone was still enthusiastic. Rasiphe must’ve eaten half a cow by himself. ”
“Rasiphe, Huber, Victorin, Clement, and I were pages together,” Remin murmured to Ophele.
Huber had been much on his mind as the weather chilled, and he was hoping that he had not already joined the beloved dead.
That would have put a final punctuation on their complicated friendship.
“I’ve never seen anyone eat like Rasiphe. ”
“And he was skinny as a pike, for all that,” agreed Edemir. “Maybe we should have had the hunters kill an extra bear for him.”