“Let one of the journeymen have a look at you,” Remin said when Miche was done, clasping his hand. “I’m glad you didn’t take the sickness with you. I was worried.”
“We had enough trouble already, without bringing more with us.” The two men squeezed hands, and Miche slanted a look at Ophele, one corner of his mouth tugging up in a rueful smile. “You weren’t sick a day, were you? I believe I’ll accept Master Balad’s invitation to the baths. I’ll report for supper later, my lord.”
It might have been worse. That wasn’t much comfort, but Ophele looked at the men who had gone with Miche, lining up for their own inspections by the fire. They might have taken the sickness with them. They might never have come home at all. At least, atleastthey had come back.
“Let’s go and speak to them, wife,” Remin said, taking her arm and glancing over her head to signal Leonin to precede them. Most of the refugees hardly looked capable of picking up a weapon, let alone using it, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
What could they possibly say to these people? She was glad that Remin went first, moving to the nearest cot.
“I’m Remin, Duke of Andelin,” he said to the man seated there, and squatted down and deliberately shifted his gaze to the child in the man’s lap. “Who is this?”
“H-her name is Ylinor, my lord,” said the man, looking from Remin to Ophele to Leonin with clear nervousness. He didn’t look like an old man, but his face was so thin and drawn, it was hard to guess his actual age.
“Ylinor,” Remin said, holding out his huge, gloved hand to the child, palm up. “My name is Remin. How many summers do you have?”
Children were almost always afraid of Remin. Ophele had seen a dozen of them burst into tears at the sight of him, and all the warning signs were there: the round eyes, the quivering lower lip, but he still kept trying. Ophele hastily crouched down next to him, making herself ludicrously small in comparison.
“No, let me guess,” she said, assuming a pose of exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Have you…three summers, Ylinor?”
Mionet’s head would have exploded, to see the Duchess of Andelin crouched down and making faces for a little peasant girl, but by the time she got up to five summers, with escalating drama and suspense at each new guess, the little girlhad forgotten all about the looming Duke of Andelin and was giggling as she offered Ophele her hand. The tiny fingers were socold.
“What good manners,” Ophele complimented, trying to mimic the way Amise and Lisset spoke to children. “Would you like to shake His Grace’s hand? He is very pleased to meet you.”
“Yes, my lady,” piped Ylinor, turning to offer her hand to Remin, who was doing his best to look pleased and unthreatening.
All of that made it much easier to speak to Ylinor’s father, by comparison. Or at least, it was easier for Ophele. It only took a minute to see there was something amiss with the man.
“It was v-very hard, Your G-Grace,” he said, blinking. He had introduced himself as Siyoun Arpelle, a fisherman from idyllic little Isigne. “There were so many d-devils, it was barely May when we s-saw the f-first…”
What was wrong with him? Ophele tried not to stare. He wasn’t stuttering because he was cold; his teeth weren’t chattering at all. Every few words he ducked his head and blinked hard, and then his eyes opened wide and he clutched Ylinor to him, his arms around her as if he thought someone might snatch her away.
“S-so many d-devils,” he repeated, his eyes enormous. “So many d-devils, Your G-Grace. I don’t know…”
“There were a lot this year,” Remin agreed, angling his head to make the man look at him. “But you got here, didn’t you? You brought your girl all this way, just as you ought. Did you see the walls when you came through the gate? Those walls are twenty feet high.”
“I-I saw. Yes. Yes, Your G-Grace.” The man blinked. Gulped. Ducked.
“Nothing will harm you now. I’m very glad you’ve come,” Remin said firmly, and Ophele started as she felt his foot nudge hers.
“Yes. Yes, we have baths waiting for you, if you like,” she said, checking his cot for the white ribbon. “You can take Ylinor with you, so both of you will be clean and warm, and there will be new clothes for you. Would you like that?”
“I’d l-like that. She’s been so cold. Ylinor,” he repeated. “I promised, I p-promised my wife I’d protect her, I did, but she’s been c-cold and hungry—”
“Then you must certainly take her to the baths. Bilaki,” Ophele said, waving over the nearby Benkki Desan woman. “Bilaki will take you to get warm. You did so well, to bring Ylinor all this way. You’re safe now, don’t worry about a thing.”
That was what Amise had told the people from Meinhem, over and over again, repeating it as many times as it took to make them believe it. Ophele stepped back to let Bilaki gently usher him toward the doors, where a sledge and thick furs were waiting to bundle him up for the short trip.
“He’s in shock,” Remin explained under his breath. “Let’s see about putting a green ribbon on his cot. Such folk are unpredictable, they need watching. Were the ribbons your idea?”
“Yes,” said Ophele, too unhappy to be pleased with this small cleverness.
There was just no end of horrible things to learn, was there? Her heart was wrung with pity for that poor man and what he must have endured, and his little girl, and Ophele repeated his name to herself as she followed Remin to the next cot, wishing she had paper and ink. Siyoun Arpelle, a fisherman. Ylinor, his daughter.
It wassomethingshe could do, even if it was only remembering their names. So many names. She saw BrotherOleare moving between the cots, listening, blessing, his head bowed as he prayed with them and over them. Ophele had feared the devils, and she had been fascinated by them, but she was learning to hate them as she moved with Remin from one cot to the next, witnessing the miseries the creatures had caused. They were not like a wolf or a bear at all. Wolves and bears did not seek people out to hurt them and destroy their homes and tear their babies to pieces.
Before each new family, Remin bent down so he wouldn’t tower over everyone, and if there was a child, he crouched to greet them too, determined to win them over, trying to gentle his face. And then he listened. He listened to their losses, and the names of their dead, and then he told them he was glad they had come. He told them they were safe, and that he was sorry for what they had suffered.
“You will have it back,” he said to another small family, who spoke brokenly of the home they had left behind. “It may take some years, but if the day comes when you want to go home, I’ll see that you do. Until then, you’re safe and welcome here.”
