“It was a wolf demon, Your Grace,” Laide said heavily. “Late in the season, it was, and it got his arm. We thought we’d surgeoned it proper, but a fever set in. Sir Miche sent him ahead on one of the sledges, so he may not be far behind me, if the stars are good to us.”
“Take Genon and go meet him. Now.” His body chose that exact moment to betray him; Remin was furious as a fit of coughing abruptly wrenched him over, a short but wracking spasm. He had to take a sip of tea before he could speak again, and he pulled himself up straight, his hands gripping his armrests until the wood creaked in his grip. “Two hundred? Marching from Isigne? I’ll send a party of men with sledges andsupplies behind you. Keep lanterns lit, and send up smoke when you make camp.”
“I will, Your Grace.” Laide wrapped himself back up with gratifying energy. “He was hanging on, you know everyone always says there’s iron in Sir Huber—”
“I know. Go. Bless you,” Remin added, and though he knew the stars were uncaring, and offered neither comfort nor aid, the prayer came to him anyway. “Bet Agasse, witness the courage of one born in your light…”
“And Ise Arun, bring him home,” Ophele finished for him. She was learning the names of all the stars.
Maybe that was the last refuge of a helpless man, Remin thought, despising his own weakness, the tightness lingering in his chest. When a man did not have the strength to move mountains himself, he could do nothing but appeal to heaven.
***
The survivors of Isigne and Selgin blew into Tresingale on the wings of another blizzard.
When the messenger came, Ophele did not even attempt to talk Remin into staying home. There was a certain wetness in the frosty air, a scent that tingled on her nose that made her think of snow as they rode down to the cookhouse from the manor, alerted by an errand boy that the survivors were approaching the North Gate. All her preparations stood them in good stead. The people were sent straight to the cookhouse, where everything was ready and waiting for them.
Mistress Amise Conbour was there, as were Mionet and Madam Sanai, and there were even a few women of Meinhem who had escaped the sickness and were eager to help. Behind them were Genon’s journeymen, and two of Auber’s older nephews to fetch and carry. Everyone was scrubbed and well-wrapped in the hopes that they would not pass on the sickness to these already-weakened people.
Anyone who had coughed within the last twenty-four hours was forbidden to enter the cookhouse, and Remin had met this requirement through sheer brute stubbornness. Since his fit before Miche’s messenger, he had not allowed a single cough to escape, even if it meant he had to stop and hold his breath mid-sentence.
“This is mostly what we did for the folk from Meinhem, too,” Ophele told him quietly as the survivors came in, directed to long rows of cots by the women. “Amise has a nice way with them, and she and the other women get them seated and fed so the healers can look them over. And if Genon says it’s all right, then Madam Sanai will take them for a bath. I really think it helps, it warms them right through.”
“It is well thought, wife,” Remin agreed, taking her arm to keep them both out of the way. Leonin was with them, guarding them from this multitude of strangers, but Davi was still confined to his bed.
“I just wish we could do something ourselves,” she murmured, watching helplessly as they limped in, or were carried. Huber’s men were almost indistinguishable from the refugees: ragged, starving, and injured. More than half of Remin’s villagers had been killed by devils.
“Let them get settled first, and then we can go speak to them,” Remin promised, though she could see the frustration in his dark eyes. “It’s enough for them to see us here and watching, for now.”
Like the stars. Ophele stifled a sigh.Shedid not find it especially comforting, especially when Miche himself arrived a few minutes later, bringing up the rear to make sure no one was left behind.
“How’s Huber?” he asked instantly, shaking the snow off his shoulders.
“He’ll live,” Remin replied. This news had come up to the manor at sunrise. “His arm is gone.”
“He can wrangle horses with one,” Miche said, but there was no lightness in his gaze as he turned to Ophele and bowed. “My lady. I’ve brought back as many as I could, but this is Huber’s work. There’s a trail of dead from here to Isigne and as deep as the snow was, it’s a miracle he came back at all. They saw their last devil two weeks ago, Rem.”
“Why not?” Remin said bitterly. Every other assumption had already been upended, why not this one? “Why wouldn’t they linger late if they arrived early? Devils can survive in the cold in the mountains, can’t they?”
“They can survive in thedark,”Ophele replied, the thought striking her all at once. “Was there early snow to the west?”
“I’ll ask,” Miche promised, pushing his head back with an enormous yawn. He looked a proper barbarian with his golden beard and long hair, but his face was very lean, his tawny eyes shadowed and grim as he watched the activity before them. The first few rows of people had found their cots, and Genon’s journeymen were among them, peeling back boots and taking off gloves to reveal ill-healed wounds and purple-black flesh.
For a moment, Ophele thought she was going to be sick.
“What—what,” she tried to say, covering her mouth with her hand. “That man—Remin, his feet—”
“That’s frostbite, wife,” Remin answered, turning her away from it. “Don’t let them see you upset. That foot will have to come off, I expect. It happens when the flesh freezes, and then it goes foul and begins to rot.”
She had heard of frostbite; adventurers in books got it, especially on their noses. But the books of the Aldeburke librarydid not have pictures of such things, and once again, her imagination was not equal to reality.
Miche went on with his report as she tried to collect herself, both men neatly covering for her until she could turn back and face this latest horrible thing. She was finding it hard to accept that there was something worse than the emaciated children of Meinhem.
“…about forty miles away,” Miche was saying, accepting a mug of savory beef tea from one of Wen’s kitchen boys. “Sledges worked a treat, we might see about breeding up some of those dogs they use in Navatsvi for winter travel. We took turns walking on the way back. I tell you, we take our shovels for granted in Tresingale…”
His humor was black, black as their feet, Ophele thought, and was horrified at herself. But Miche was telling the same type of jokes, and worse, and even his smile seemed to show biting teeth. Remin listened, but his gaze was on the healers moving from one person to the next, checking extremities for frostbite and examining emaciated bodies. Those who needed to see Genon or Mr. Brestle immediately had a red ribbon tied to their cots, while those who needed extra watching got a green one. Those who had been examined and cleared got white ribbons.
There were not many white ribbons.
