Page 26 of Traitor Son

“It was an honor to serve you, Your Highness,” she said, her eyes flashing displeasure in the duke’s direction. It had taken both her and Rosset’s efforts to get Ophele down the stairs, and they bid farewell in the same place that they had met, with Ophele clutching her valise and feeling more than ever like a stray no one wanted. But she was glad she had held her tongue. All the knights were hurrying about the stable yard, swinging their saddles onto their horses and securing the supply wagon. The idea of asking the Knights of the Brede to wait until she felt better was unthinkable.

“Princess,” the duke said, riding up to her on his big black horse and extending a hand. “Come, up you get.”

He lifted her into her usual position, resting in the crook of his chest and arm, so large and solid it was like sitting in a chair. But the first bouncing step of the horse stabbed into her belly like a spear. Stifling a gasp, she clutched the arm wrapped around her waist, the steel of his vambrace cold under her fingers.

“All right, Princess?”

She nodded, pale. Her backside fit neatly between his thighs and rested on the saddle, and the jolting of the horse spanked painfully into all the places he had explored so thoroughly the night before. A few townspeople turned out to see off His Grace and the knights, waving and shouting so loudly, there was no chance for conversation until they passed through the city gates.

“We received word this morning that there are bandits near Tresingale,” he explained as the horse settled into a brisk, ground-devouring walk that rolled like a small boat over an endless series of waves. “There are still a lot of deserters from both armies in the valley and we’ve just begun bringing in supplies and livestock, we can’t afford to lose them.”

That sounded important. She bit her lip and tried to find a less painful position, her head resting on his chest.

“Where is Tresingale?” she asked. It was the first time that he had spoken so many words to her at once.

“It’s on a bend of the Brede near Drieze Watch, in Firkane,” he answered willingly. “The nearest bridge is thirty miles upriver, but I’ve ridden the length of the Andelin and there’s no better place. The grazing is good and there’s a natural ridgeline for defense…”

It seemed she had found a subject the normally taciturn duke was willing to discuss at length. Ophele tried to focus on his voice. Adventurers in stories had to endure far worse than this on their quests; Beacon the Voyager had cut his own foot off to escape prison and make his way back to his ship before it sailed. Surely, the duke must have endured worse; wasn’t that why they called him Remin Grimjaw? She had seen all the scars on his body with her own eyes.

And so, reminding herself of the misfortunes of every adventurer she had ever heard of, Ophele settled herself to endure.

* **

It wasn’t until they paused for the noon meal that Remin realized something was amiss.

The sound the princess made when he lifted her down from the saddle was similar to some of the less pleasant noises the night before, and he glanced back sharply. The princess was frozen in position behind him, biting her lower lip. Her face was very pale.

“All right?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes.”

But when she tried to follow him, the hitching steps were nothing at all like her usual quick, bouncing gait, and he frowned.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Don’t lie. Are you injured?”

Her shoulders hunched and she glanced around quickly, as if frightened someone would overhear.

“It hurts,” she confessed in a whisper, with tears of pain welling in her eyes and red to the tips of her ears. It took him a moment to realize what specifically might be hurting.

“Still?”

“Yes,” she said wretchedly. “I have tea, Mistress Goel gave it to me—”

“I told you to tell me if it hurt,” he said, lowering his voice. “All the way from the city? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought—Mistress Goel said it was normal.” She wilted under his black glare. “And you said there were bandits…”

It took an effort to keep from cursing aloud, but Remin swallowed the words and lifted her up, trying not to be angry with her. There was a small possibility that this was an intentional ploy to delay them on the road—she had become very friendly with Mistress Goel, and it was impossible to know what agents the Emperor might have in Celderline—but it was more likely that this was exactly what it appeared to be. The noise she made when he set her on a handy rock made him scowl ferociously.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as a further heaping of coals on his head. “The tea helped before, I can keep going if—”

“Stop apologizing,” he said shortly. “I’ll go get it. Do you need to relieve yourself?”

Her face turned crimson. The blush spread all the way down her neck and chest, so dark it even disguised the livid marks of his mouth on her skin.

“Your Grace—”

“Yes or no?”

---