Page 132 of Stardust Child

“It’s the least I could do,” she said, feeling keenly that this was the truth. The soldiers before her were only a little less thin and ragged thanthe refugees, but they formed up in tidy rows nonetheless, inspecting their gear and setting it out neatly for transport to the barracks. Remin’s soldiers took a great deal of pride in their order and discipline. “Thank you for going, and even more for coming back,” she said. “I know it meant a great deal to His Grace. Was it very terrible? In Meinhem?”

Sir Ortaire’s eyes flicked to Sir Edemir and Sir Justenin in silent question, and Ophele’s lips pressed together. Her ignorance of these terrible things was a form of innocence, and perhaps Remin would have wanted them to preserve it, but she disagreed. She would not allow them to keep this from her.

“How many died?” she asked, lifting her chin.

“Seventeen of my men, most of them on the journey there,” Sir Ortaire said reluctantly, and she marked again the bloodstains on the men behind him, waiting patiently to be seen by Genon. “And two hundred and twenty-six in Meinhem.”

“Oh. Stars,” she said, and fell silent.

She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know what to think. And looking up at him, she knew he understood, they all understood. Was there really nothing they could have done? What it must have been like in Meinhem, night after night! She had been so terrified of the devils, when she first came here, but these poor people had been living every one of her worst nightmares.

Herpeople. They belonged to Remin, and so they belonged to her.

“My lady,” Sir Justenin prompted, and Ophele started and hastily wiped her eyes, embarrassed.

“You did well,” she said again, looking up at Sir Ortaire. “How many—how many did you save?”

“Seventy-six.”

“Seventy-six.” It was very cold comfort. “Thank you for bringing them back. You and your men must be tired and hungry. We have food for you, too, and there are baths waiting. Unless you must speak among yourselves,” she added, glancing back at Sir Edemir questioningly. She had no idea what business the knights might have to discuss; did he have to report, or something?

“We can talk later.” Sir Edemir offered his hand to the other man, and Ophele accepted his bow, releasing him and his soldiers.

“Was there really nothing we could do?” she asked, once he was gone.

“None of us could think of anything,” Sir Justenin replied softly. “All we can do now is learn from it, my lady, and hope to prevent such a circumstance in the future. But it does no good to dwell on it. It will not bring back the dead.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the men behind her, and no doubt they were right. They would know, after all these years. It couldn’t be a purely mathematical question, but she couldn’t help trying to understand it, wondering at the calculus that judged the worth of such sacrifices. How had Remin decided such a thing? Seventeen men dead out of fifty; one third. Would the numbers be better, from the other villages? Or might it be even worse?

Silently, she stood and watched as the people of Meinhem were fed, and she could see Madam Sanai and the other Benkki Desans pointing up the road in the direction of the bathhouses. It would be a long walk for such exhausted people, and Ophele called for the horses and wagons to be brought back, to transport anyone who wanted to go there. To be sure, they must all be so very tired, but they would sleep better when they were clean, and the warm water would soak the chill from their bones.

Was there anything else she should say? Ought she to go with them? She didn’t know. It was the sight of the children that really upset her, ragged little starvelings limp as dolls, with sticks for limbs. The sight shocked her so badly that she had to turn away, covering her mouth to stifle a sound of dismay. Those wasted little legs with their bulging knees were the worst thing she had ever seen.

“I’m fine,” she said, waving Davi away hastily. “I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong with me. Oh, stars above, those poor babies…”

When she was certain that she could do nothing more for them, she let Lady Verr and Leonin usher her away. At least many of the refugees had chosen to go to the baths, and Elodie’s family would see them settled in the cottages afterward, where fresh clothes and blankets and beds awaited them. From their windows, they would be able to see the high white walls of Tresingale, and tonight there would be soldiers posted on the ground outside, with instructions to murmur among themselves about how there wasn’t the least sign of any devils.

It had made Ophele feel better when Yvain and Dol used to do that, on those endless nights when Remin did not come home until dawn.

Would it have been worse, in Selgin and Isigne? And how terrible it must have been in Nandre, which was so close to the Spur.

Where Remin had gone.

If only Remin would come home.

She was dreading his return. Hoping for it, longing for it, fearing it with an intensity that left her sleepless by night and frozen by day, searching the skies with the guilty anguish of a child awaiting a terrible punishment. She would have to tell him about Lady Hurrell and the Emperor. She would have to tell him the truth about herself. And then she would have to endure whatever followed.

Ophele would never forget that night in Granholme. It was seared into her soul like a branding, the night that she learned Remin could show her love and joy and passion in one moment, then turn on her with blackest hate. Lady Hurrell had pretended to love her for years and smiled when Lord Hurrell slapped her bloody.

She didn’t know what she would do if Remin did that again.

“Have you started something new, my lady?” Lady Verr asked when they sat together later that afternoon, before Ophele’s fire.

“A handkerchief.” Ophele took care to hide the pitiful object behind Remin’s mother’s embroidery box. “For His Grace’s birthday.”

“How nice. I used to make all my husband’s handkerchiefs,” Lady Verr said reminiscently. It never seemed to trouble her to talk about her dead husband. “The emblem of House Verr was not terribly impressive, I’m afraid, some sort of extinct spotted cat…”

She was so good at talking, Ophele thought enviously. Light, amusing, and endless, leaving room for Ophele to participate or not, as she liked. And little though she enjoyed sewing, it was this humble handkerchief that held her together through the darkest hours of the night.

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