Page 28 of Traitor Son

She hiccupped.

“That’s nice,” she whispered, her chin tilting up to look at him. Her eyes were hazy and her lips parted, pink and tender. “Remin Grimjaw said he promised. You smell nice.”

He took the wineskin away.

“You,” he said, trying to ignore a certain anatomical stiffening, “are drunk, Princess.”

“Am not.”

“I assure you, you are,” he said, amused. She was bolder with a little wine in her veins.

“Not aprincess,”she enunciated, sounding aggrieved. “But don’ tell. S’a secret. Shh.”

Remin frowned. He had all the paperwork to prove she most definitely was a princess.

“Your father is the Emperor,” he said, looking down at her through narrowed eyes. He hadn’t anticipated this when he gave her the wine, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. “Aren’t you a good and filial daughter to him?”

“How? Never…never seen’n Emp’rer.” Her eyes were closing.

“What about a messenger from the Emperor?” he asked, giving her a little nudge to keep her awake. “Right before I came to Aldeburke.”

“Messjer?”

“Yes. Where did you meet him?”

“Never metta messjer,” she said sleepily. “Not even’on my birthday…”

Her head sank against his chest, and she was asleep. Remin looked down at her thoughtfully. A sweet face could conceal sinister intentions. He had already learned that the hard way. It wasn’t impossible that she was faking her intoxication, or at least pretending to be drunker than she actually was. He had known masters of deceit, spies and killers sent by the Emperor who must have been raised from birth to their calling. Child assassins.

Could she be one of them? Her lips moved, soft lips, innocent-looking lips, her head rocking gently from side to side with the sway of the horse, her delicate body as boneless as a doll’s. Seventeen. He had never been so innocent; he had killed his first assassin when he was fourteen, and took command of an army three years later. Years of war and intrigue sometimes made him feel old and tired, as if he had already lived a lifetime. But if she was innocent…

“She out?” Miche drew his horse over, surveying the sleeping girl.

“Dead drunk,” Remin replied, looking down at her ruefully.

“You still haven’t introduced her to us formally,” Miche noted. “We owe her our oaths too, Rem. She’s our lady now.”

“She is.” Again, he wondered if it really might be true. “We’ll do it properly tomorrow.”

Chapter 4 – The Knights of the Brede

“Sir Tounot of Belleme.” The knight lowered himself to one knee and laid his sword at Ophele’s feet, a burly man with curling brown hair and a cleft in his chin. “I swore my service to His Grace eight years ago, when he was mustering in Norgrede.”

They had heaped fuel on the fires tonight to illuminate these proceedings properly, a ceremony held under the night sky with the stars as witnesses.

“Belleme,” she said thoughtfully. She knew who he was. She had memorized all the major and minor Houses of Argence over one endless winter when she was ten, along with all their banners and words, but even without that, everyone in the Empire knew the Knights of the Brede. “The Earl of Irenvale?”

“Speak louder,” the duke murmured behind her, and she blushingly repeated herself.

“Yes. I am his son.” Sir Tounot smiled and inclined his head. “And now my sword is yours.”

Ophele smiled back shyly. She still felt a little strange from the wine, weirdly disconnected, and was trying very hard not to feel the gazes of forty other knights and a dozen squires on her; she couldn’t find a place to rest her eyes or her hands. And it was embarrassing to be sitting on a tree stump as if it were a throne, with a cushion even, and His Grace looming behind her. All at once he was convinced that she was made of glass and wouldn’t hear of her sitting on the ground.

He had explained the purpose of these formalities at length, as well as what she should and should not do. It wasn’t just an exchange of oaths;she needed to know the men who were sworn to her service, and so ideally, she should offer a few personal words to each of them.

It was a challenge for a timid girl, but the duke was being surprisingly kind. Every time she floundered, she could feel his hand press lightly at her back.

“I will accept your oath, Sir Tounot of Belleme,” she said, just as she had said to Sir Auber Conbour, Sir Huber Adaman, Lord Edemir of Trecht, and Sir Darrigault of Ghis. It didn’t feel real. These were famous men, heroes, the bravest and strongest knights in the entire Empire. What were they doing kneeling to her?

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