Page 45 of Of Iron and Moonlight

The duke cleared his throat. “Rest. Osric will send someone to help you settle in.”

“Where will you go?” The question left her before she could stop it.

Her husband looked startled, then cleared his throat again. “To meet with my advisors.”

She had expected that answer. What she had not expected was the pulse of yearning that followed, and her tongue outrunning her hesitation. “May I come with you?”

The duke’s dark brows lifted. “It isn’t customary.”

“I know,” she said, pushing through the friction that refused to fade. “But if I am to be the Duchess of Lemierre, I ought to know the concerns that weigh upon it.”

He studied her, openly perplexed.

“It isn’t customary,” Osric interjected gently, “but perhaps sense outweighs custom.” He lifted a greying brow toward the duke. “If she is to live among us, she should know the minds that keep this duchy breathing.”

The duke considered this carefully, as she had seen him evaluate every decision on the road. At last, he nodded. “Very well, just this once. To meet everyone.” His mien softened. “Though I should apologize for whatever comes out of Brannoc’s mouth.”

Osric let out a quiet chuckle.

Kora blinked.

“You’ll see,” the duke said, an amused smile curving his lips. After a beat, he inclined his head toward the corridor. “Come, then.”

Kora followed eagerly, quickening her pace to match theirs as they crossed into the southern tower and descended a long stair that breathed cool, mineral air. At its end, a narrow passage opened into the castle’s study.

It was a long chamber shaped by necessity rather than design, one side given entirely to windows overlooking the manicured gardens below. At the center stood a great oak table, surface worn by diligent use. Five chairs were already occupied. Another figure sat near a window, caught between shadow and light. Conversation thinned as they entered, followed by a hush born not of formality but recognition.

Kora had prepared herself for earls and counts, for jeweled fingers and the careful venom of courtly smiles. Instead, she found faces that looked like the duchy itself: work-worn, sun-colored, bright with plain intelligence. Two of them were women, one old and wild-eyed, another with ink-stained wrists and a boy of perhaps three perched contentedly on her lap. The men wore wool and linen, patched at the elbows, some with dust still clinging to their boots.

“Your Grace!” boomed a voice large enough to shake the beams. Its owner, a broad man in a weathered cuirass and a vest the color of good wine, lurched from his chair and barreled forward, arms flung wide. “About time, Duncan. I was wasting away.”

“You,” the duke returned dryly, meeting the embrace halfway, “could feed a muster.” He thumped the man’s forearms in greeting, the clasp hearty.

“Bran,” said the woman with the child, rising. Her gown was plain but well-cut, black hair coiled into a sturdy twist. “Stop frightening the stonework.”

The jovial man’s grin only widened, flashing beneath his blond mustache. He waved a hand with alacrity as the duke laughed and crossed to her side.

“Nelayne Corven,” the duke said, reaching for the boy and lifting him easily into his arms. “Our Mistress of Trade,” he added, for Kora’s benefit. “She can turn a famine into a market.”

“By buying the grain before anyone remembers they’re hungry,” Nelayne replied, watching the duke and her son with unguarded affection before her eyes swept to Kora in shrewd appraisal.

“This is Styfan,” the duke continued, every line of his face softening, “who appears to have doubled in size since I last saw him.”

Styfan tugged at the duke’s cravat, then made a delighted grab for his beard. Her husband retaliated with tickling fingers until giggles spilled free. The sight cut cleanly across every grievance Kora carried against him, leaving her feeling oddly unmoored.

“Brannoc Teyne, you’ve already heard,” the duke said, returning Styfan to his mother and motioning to the blond mountain of a man still beaming. “High Marshal of the Lemierre musters. Shouts louder than horns. Feeds his men better than bears.”

“And drinks better than both,” Osric added mildly.

“Only when I’m paying,” the duke accused.

“You wound me,” Brannoc protested with feigned grief. “But it’s true.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and Kora couldn’t help but join them.

“Rhalen Morrec,” her husband went on, nodding toward an older man whose white hair and heavy beard framed a kindly face and knowing eyes. “Master of the Schools.”

“Welcome, child—ah. Forgive me. Your Grace.”