Page 92 of Traitor Son

“That one soldier, at Creussen. How long did we keep him in the bath?” Remin couldn’t remember.

“It’s not the same, Rem. He was older, and it was almost two hours before we got him into a cold bath.”

That man had been unconscious for two days and awakened an idiot. A drooling simpleton. The Hurrells had tried to convince him she was simple back in Aldeburke, but all it had taken was one good look into her eyes and Remin had known it was a lie. When she opened her eyes, if she opened her eyes, what was he going to see now?

Ruthlessly, he cut that thought off.

“Someone should get Eugene. The donkey.” He lifted his head. “Can you check? Make sure someone took him to the stable.”

“I will,” Genon promised. “I know she’s fond of the beast.”

“Yes.”

Miche said the donkey followed her everywhere, with or without a lead rope.

“I set out some medicine on the table.” Genon laid her hand on the bed. “The powder on the left if her head hurts, the elixir in the middle if she’s nauseous, and the one on the right she should take regardless, to cool her blood. Mix them with water and have her sip slowly. When someone brings your supper, I’ll have Wen send honey to mix with the medicine. She needs sugar and salt. Lots of water, but slowly.”

Remin nodded. He was familiar with these measures; he had nursed many sunstruck men when he was a squire.

“I’ll let Tounot know not to expect you on watch tonight. We’ll manage well enough, just you focus on your wife.” Genon heaved himself to his feet and began to pack his bag, rolling up the long, felt case that contained his tools and medicines.

“If you had to guess.” Remin couldn’t bite the words back. “If you had to make a bet…”

“I don’t believe she’ll die. We’ll know more when she wakes up. I’ll be back at first light to check on you.” The herbman paused at the door, gripping the handle. “She’s too thin, Rem. At least a stone underweight. You didn’t notice?”

Remin shook his head.

The door closed and latched. It sounded like a condemnation.

* * *

Color faded with the daylight, and Remin never took his eyes from her.

All this time, he had been trying so hardnotto see her. Forcing his eyes to go past her, pushing her to the furthest periphery of his life. That had been a mistake. Perhaps it was the reason why he was so wrongfooted every time she appeared. He had never been able to shake her out of his mind. But in this one, crucial area, he had succeeded very well.

Stretched out on the bed, it was impossible not to see it, now. He could see how terribly prominent her ribs were, the jut of her hip bones, even the knobby little protrusions of her wrists. And he knew what she was supposed to look like. Remin remembered every moment of their nights together, how her body had felt in his hands, against his lips, under his tongue. He had kissed those ribs, he had felt those fragile bones jerk as she gasped with pleasure. He had tried so hard to forget, but he never could.

Remin washed one thin arm, noting the bruises dotting her fine white skin, the scratches and scrapes, the stringy, starveling muscle from months of heavy labor. Her hands shocked him. New blisters layered on top of old, ragged fingernails. Those were not the hands of a lady.

This was not what he had intended. If someone had returned a horse to him in this condition, he would have had them whipped. And this was hiswife.

An Imperial wife, a daughter of the stars, a princess of the House of Agnephus. He had gone through fire and blood to be sure his new House would be built on bedrock, on the divine blood of the Emperor himself, so it could never again be taken away. And for seven years he had imagined the spoiled, pampered princess he would marry, growing up with every kind of luxury, while he starved and worked and fought and froze. And the whole time he had thought: he was going to make the Emperor’s daughter work. He was going to show her what deprivation was like. Let her go wailing to her father about the harshness of the world. Let the Emperor gnash his teeth. Let him taste bile. Let him feel helpless.

From the day he met Ophele—no, from theinstantthey met—Remin had been trying to force her to play this part.

And she had never complained. Not once.

Not when he took her from her home without so much as a chance to pack a bag. Not when he forced her to marry him. Not when he hurt her on their wedding night and dragged her straight into the saddle the next morning. Not when, fresh from their lovemaking, he had all but accused her of trying to have him assassinated. Not even after he gave her too much wine and she had been so sick, sobbing into the blankets until Remin wished someone would take him off and hang him.

She had endured it all without a word of protest. Why? Why would anyone do that? Was it just because she was timid? Was she that afraid of him?

Outside, it grew dark, and he rose to light a lamp and set it on the trunk beside the bed, illuminating the sleeping girl. Her delicate face, the eyes that saw and showed so much. He remembered every cruel word he had spoken, every time he had snapped at her, every time he had driven her into flinching, bewildered retreat. All those times she had fallen silent, her words trailing away inaudibly.

More times than he could count.

This was not pointless self-flagellation. Remin was thinking. He had done nothing to earn her loyalty, and a great deal to make her hate him. That had not been his objective, but it didn’t matter. The more he thought about it, the more he thought he wouldn’t blame her if shedidtry to have him killed.

“Rem,” said a voice outside, and he opened the door to find Miche with his supper and a small pot of honey. “Gen said she would live?”

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