Page 83 of Traitor Son

“When did you learn how to do this?” she asked timidly, as if she expected him to scold her for asking.

“When I was a squire.” Remin sat down next to the tub, stretching out his long legs as she moved in a stomping circle. “I squired for Sir Liyoun Carteret. Ever heard of him?”

She shook her head.

“He was a lancer. That was never my weapon, but he had some skill with it. Most squires have to look after their master’s clothing and armor. And it’s good exercise,” he observed, noting her fatigue with an expert eye. Such work was harder than it looked. “Do you want a break?”

“I’m all right.” She paused to twist her long hair into a knot on the back of her slender neck and then soldiered on. She lasted quite a bit longer than he expected, and it was only when he saw her legs begin to wobble that he pushed himself to his feet.

“That’s enough, princess, my turn.”

“They should almost be done, shouldn’t they?” she asked, puffing. “It was almost the same amount of time as when we scrubbed my chem—”

One of those chemises tangled around her ankles and Remin lunged to catch her as she stumbled forward, flinging out her hands with a squeak of surprise. His palm pressed flat against her belly and the shock of touching her tingled through every fingertip, blazing all the way to the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry.” Her tawny eyes struck his like flint to steel, and her cheeks flushed pink. “I’m all right, thank you.”

“You can go sit down,” he said stiffly, removing his hands. “I’ll do the rest.”

“I was just trying to he—”

“You’ve done enough,” he snapped, and when she scuttled instantly away, even he could tell that she was absolutely crushed.

He hadn’t meant to do that.

He almost called her back, even though he had no idea what he could possibly say. He was sorry. He didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. He knew she would accept the apology, but then what? He had barely spoken to her for months, and all it took was one afternoon with her to knock him completely off balance.

He didn’t know what to do. Stooping, he reached vengefully for the laundry, squeezing and twisting the clothing in his hands. She had done a good job with them. All that was left was to rinse them in the river and wring them out, though that task probably would have finished her off for the day.

Remin kept his back to her as he went to work, spreading her dresses over nearby bushes and hanging them over tree branches to dry in the sun. Repeating the process with chemises, he frowned as he shook one out and found it had ripped in a number of places. When had he done that? Her clothes were so fragile, somehow he damaged them even when he didn’t mean to.

Grumbling, he turned to spread it over a nearby rhododendron, and then stopped cold. Behind him, the princess was asleep on the riverbank, curled up in the grass with her slender legs and feet bared by her tucked skirts. A purple butterfly was resting on her cheek, tapping soft kisses onto her skin.

Stars, she was so pretty.

The thought popped into his head before he could stop it. The sight of her filled his eyes and the corners of his mouth tugged upward in a smile so unwilling, it felt as if it should crack the hard lines of his face. He had to look away. He almost stepped backward, a shameful retreat. And even though he knew better, even though a single moment of softness toward her felt like the jaws of a steel trap springing shut, he still spread the torn chemise on the branches above her, shading her fair skin from the sun.

He faced devils every night, but to Remin Grimjaw there was no creature in the world so dangerous as this girl, asleep in the grass with wildflowers dancing above her.

Chapter 10 – Defensive Structures

To Mistress Azelma Bessin in the kitchen of Aldeburke, in the duchy of Leinbruke, from Ophele in Tresingale:

Dear Azelma, I hope you are keeping well. It feels like so long since I saw you, and it’s been so busy here, it hardly seems the same place as when I arrived. Right outside my window, there’s a new granary and six new cottages, and a new stretch of road that’s almost a mile long.

None of these things were visible, at present. Ophele was writing by the uncertain light of a candle, and the shutters of the cottage had been reinforced so that not a crack of the torchlight outside showed within. His Grace’s carpenters had added iron bars to them that morning.

She couldn’t decide whether to be reassured by this or not.

But that is nothing, compared to the bridge. They started work on that last month, and let me tell you, what a monument is a bridge! Sir Tounot—that is Lord Tounot of Belleme, but he styles himself as Sir—says that when it is done, it will be wide enough for four wagons to go abreast, and will span the whole width of the river. That is almost a mile long too, but a much grander undertaking, as you might imagine.

At the same time, they are building the footings for the port, and I have gotten to see them at it a little bit. Sir Edemir says it will be even bigger than the ports on the Emme. They are always boasting of the Brede here, and how it is so long, so wide, so wild, more dangerous than any other river in the world, so they must build strongto stand up to it.

You will think it is funny, but what I like best is seeing how all the work fits together here, like a puzzle. I told you about how they are digging those huge trenches for the foundation of the wall, but until yesterday I never wondered, what do they do with all that dirt? Well, it turns out they carted a lot of it away to fill in other places around town, like the pond where the temple will be.

Isn’t that marvelous? To think that building the wall also means building the temple? Sir Miche says they are to begin laying stones for that next year, and when it is done, our temple will have a spire two hundred feet high, the Point of the Valley Star. The Temple will come and tell us which star looks most kindly upon us, and then the final spire will be aligned to point to it, and catch its light.

Unfortunately, filling in the pond displaced the geese and their babies, but Sir Miche says they are all right; the goslings are old enough to fly, so they have all decamped to the field by the barr—

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