Page 102 of Traitor Son

“It will be over?”

“For Tresingale.” He wasn’t ready to broach the subject of the rest of the valley yet; the idea of leaving her when he knew how much the devils scared her was difficult, and he didn’t know whether his first duty was to her or to his people.

“It’s amazing,” she said quietly. “Everyone has worked so hard. They deserve croissants. Is that why we’re going to the wall?”

“No, I didn’t tell you? Jacot, that boy who swam the Brede, has been trying to fill in for you, but he’s lagging, for all that Miche says he works hard. Guisse asked if you’d come show him what you were doing.”

“Really?” Ophele twisted her head back to look up at him with doubt in her eyes.

“Yes,” he said, puzzled. “They’re still trying to figure out how one person kept half the wall watered. Guisse said he’d never seen the like.”

“Oh,” she said, looking hastily away. “Of course. I’ll help. I really helped?”

“You did.” Understanding dawned. “You did very well, wife.”

It would have taken a stronger man than Remin Grimjaw to keep from tightening his arm around her as sheglowedat the praise.

If he had learned nothing else in the last few weeks, it was how astonishingly little it took to make her happy. Even as they rode together, she was nibbling another croissant and looking contentedly at anything and everything around her, as if she wanted nothing more from the world that morning. She was so shy, and the least harshness cowed her, but surely it meant he was doing something right if she could look like that.

“Look how far they’ve come,” she marveled as they turned off the road toward the south wall. The wide gap between the two walls was filled with heavy mobile barricades designed to be moved into place at nightfall, sturdy enough to hold back all but the most determined wolf demons. They had hardly gone five minutes before they reached the far end of the diggers, already sweating with their labor, and their shouts rose in a wave as they spied Ophele.

“Hello, good morning,” she said, waving and scarlet to her hair. Remin took pity on her and didn’t linger, nudging his horse into a trot as they reached the scaffolding. His sharp ears caught some interesting words among the shouting.

“…lady of the wall?” he repeated, and was surprised to see Ophele’s eyes shift guiltily away. She was no master of deception.

“I wonder where Master Eugene is?” she said, as if she had gone temporarily deaf, and craned her neck to look south.

“There,” Remin said, at the same moment that she gave a cry, and he indulgently galloped over to the wagon where Jacot was leading the elderly gray donkey. She would have leaped off the horse if he hadn’tcaught her and lowered her, and she only paused to offer a quick greeting to the boy before she rapturously embraced Eugene.

“M’lady? Maybe you oughtn’t…” The boy trailed off as the donkey nuzzled eagerly at her pockets, and the fact that Ophele had come prepared with carrots was sufficient to make him step back respectfully, glancing up at Remin.

“The Duchess will be your teacher this morning,” Remin explained, leaning over his saddle. “I hope you’ll be able to do the job as well as she did.”

Jacot’s mouth fell open. He glanced over at the small noblewoman, who was cooing over the donkey as if he were a kitten. The boy had given his age as fourteen, but he was eight inches taller than the lady and his long limbs were taut with wiry muscle, strong enough to cross the Brede.

“I will,” he said stoutly.

“And treat that beast well,” Remin added, with a weight of warning. He hardly needed to say it; it was clear that Ophele had made a pet of the creature, and Jacot was clever enough to see how things stood. “Wife?”

He extended the small basket of croissants, hoping it would be enough to keep her from carrying anything heavier.

“Be careful,” he cautioned. “If you feel the least bit tired—”

“I’ll sit down in the shade.”

“You’d better, or you’ll spend another week in the cottage. I’ll come find you at the north end of the wall.”

She nodded, offering him a shy smile, all the more precious for its rarity. For many reasons, Remin had to fight down an impulse to follow. Jacot of Caillmar posed a challenge. There was no way to ascertain whether he was who he claimed to be; he claimed to be no one, and orphan boys were a dime a dozen. It was entirely possible he was just a brave lad hoping to become more than he was, daring the Brede because he had nothing to lose.

Or he could be one of the Emperor’s creatures.

Every precaution had been taken. Only guards on watch and Remin’s knights were permitted to carry weapons as a rule, and the clothes the boy had been wearing when he arrived had been confiscated and searched. He had no belongings, and would be allowed none untilhe was a squire. Unless he ran over to one of the blacksmiths and stole a hammer, he had no weapon but his bare hands.

Seeing wolves in every lamb…

But Remin was trusting him with Ophele. Watching her go, he had the familiar sense that he was drowning, and the harder he floundered, the faster he sank. And he had known it would be that way. He had known that the more he looked, the more impossible it would become to look away.

She hadn’t gone twenty paces before she was surrounded by masons and handing out croissants, pleased to have something she could give away.

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