Page 63 of Stardust Child

It was an important night. Tonight, they would meet the spirits of each other’s families.

“You look beautiful,” he told her, drawing her to him for a kiss. She looked like the coming of autumn in crimson and gold, her rich brown hair gleaming.

There was always an uncanny feeling in the air on the night of the Feast. The sky was clear, and the stars shone so bright and close, it was as if a veil had drawn back between heaven and the earth. The night was cool and crisp, scented of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and apples, and the moon was rising early and yellow over the distant mountains.

All around them, people streamed toward the town square, washed and dressed in their best clothing. It made the square look even more plain in contrast, especially when Remin remembered other feasts: the grand tables at Ereguil, the beautiful banquet hall of his father. Here was only a large space paved in stone, surrounded by iron lamp-posts, with rough-hewn tables and benches packed together. There was a row of white tapers down the middle of each table and a fine place setting at each end, plates made of fine china and crystal glasses, guest seats prepared for the spirits of the dead.

These notes were incongruous rather than graceful. But it was the best hospitality he could offer.

“Everyone looks so nice,” Ophele whispered as they took their seats at the high table, looking with wonder at the knights lined up beside them, dressed in their court finest. Even Bram had donned a velvet doublet, though he usually said he’d rather be hanged.

When all the seats were filled and the tables were groaning under the weight of the food, Remin rose to lead the prayer. Normally, it would have been the cleric’s place, but the Temple was taking its time in selecting just the right cleric to send to Remin Grimjaw.

“The harvest is in,” he said, leading with the most important point. “The valley’s first harvest, and everyone contributed something to it. The food on these tables is here because we put it here. We broke our backs putting it here,” he added, with a nod that included everyone. “Tonight, in the presence of the beloved departed, we share the products of our year’s labor, and honor them with the guest’s portion.”

He paused. At every table, Wen’s boys cut and served thick slabs of roasted meat, filling the guests’ plates with potatoes, honey-roasted carrots, and generous slices of bread. Bram and Wen did the honors at Remin’s table, then filled the glasses with a rich dark wine. Only when they were all filled did he speak again.

“From the hunters, who brought in this meat. From the planters of the wheat, last spring. From those who foraged the forest…”

So saying, Remin reached for Ophele’s hand to his right and Edemir’s hand to his left, simultaneously ink-stained and calloused, the hand of a warrior scholar. He spoke of everyone that had contributed to this feast, and also those who had guarded the gatherers and farmers, the community that was joining hands even as he watched. Two thousand people could not fit in the town square. The invitation to this feast had been extended only to those who had made their oaths to him as their lord, the people who would live here all their lives.

“Beloved dead, come and rest from your journey,” he said, and heard the answering murmur of all his people. “Beloved dead, we have set you a place. Beloved dead, come sit among us, who would share what we have in our season of plenty.”

Every candle went out, as if one breath had puffed them all at once.

This was a very good omen.

The smoke from the candle wicks wafted up to the starry heavens, and Ophele’s hand squeezed his, her head tilted back as she looked at the sky.

“Blessed be the bounty before us,” Remin said, loud and steady. “May the grace of the stars lie forever on our land.”

“So long as the Covenant endures,” said everyone else, up and down the tables, and Remin pulled out Ophele’s seat for her, then took his own.

For the first few minutes, it was quiet as everyone served themselves from immense platters, and Wen brought Remin his food, separately prepared and guarded with the usual ferocity. Everyone kept glancing at the ends of the tables, wondering who might be there, aware of the open sky overhead as if every star were the eyes of the departed. Some years were better than others; last year, it had rained, and they had never managed to light the candles. But this year, Remin was sure the spirits were present and listening.

“Rasiphe would have liked this,” said Tounot, the first to speak a name as he skewered a thick slice of bear meat, slightly sweet to the taste. “Remember that time Lord Polyeon sent us all that beef? Early in the war, when everyone was still enthusiastic. Rasiphe must’ve eaten half a cow by himself.”

“Rasiphe, Huber, Victorin, Clement, and I were pages together,” Remin murmured to Ophele. Huber had been much on his mind as theweather chilled, and he was hoping that he had not already joined the beloved dead. That would have put a final punctuation on their complicated friendship. “I’ve never seen anyone eat like Rasiphe.”

“And he was skinny as a pike, for all that,” agreed Edemir. “Maybe we should have had the hunters kill an extra bear for him.”

There was a gentle peace as the decanter went around to fill their wine glasses again, not enough to become drunk, but enough to dull the pain as they spoke of their dead. They had all been burned and buried in the valley, part of its soil, part of its air. The dead did not want their grief tonight, the one night of the year when they could come and dwell among the living.

“Stars, Miche hated him.” Remin said, leaning back in his chair. “Rasiphe had an answer for everything. I remember once, we were sneaking out to sample some wine while old Grout—that was Gronoult, the butler, wife—was busy attending on the duchess’s ball. Miche caught us coming down from the window, and Rasiphe said we were testing Duke Ereguil’s defenses and congratulated him for catching us.”

That sent a low chuckle around the table.

“His plans always involved climbing,” said Tounot, shaking his curly head. “Only Rasiphe could’ve spidered up under the Gresein Bridge like that. Long arms.”

They drank to Rasiphe’s long arms. They spoke of Bon, who had loved to sing, and used to fill the quiet around the campfire with music. They drank to Clement, an unlikely swordsman if there ever was one, nervous and stuttering and a lion in the end. Ludovin had used his gift for mimicry as a spy, but what they remembered now was how he made them laugh with the contortions of his mobile face. He had been especially good at mimicking Juste, and used to borrow Juste’s gentle voice to say the filthiest things…

And Victorin.

“Duke Ereguil’s middle son,” Remin said, for Ophele’s benefit. He was not drunk, but he felt a little light as the wine tingled on his tongue. “We met when I was…five, I think. The duchess kept us often together, when I first came to Ereguil.”

She had been wise to think that Victorin’s sunshiny nature was exactly what Remin needed, in the unbearable days after his family hadbeen executed. Maybe no one else could have drawn him back out of himself. Everyone said he was the son of traitors, and his family deserved to die; Remin would not let them see him cry. Except at night, when the tears came no matter how hard he tried to fight them. And every time, Victorin had slipped out of bed to come stand beside him in the dark, patting his shoulder and sayingit’s all right, it’s all right,as many times as it took.

Victorin had been Remin’s brother in every way but blood.

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