Page 53 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Kora nodded eagerly. “And evenings?”

“Supper in the dining hall. It would please him if you joined.” Osric cast her a glance that brought color to her cheeks. “Afterward he withdraws to the private study adjoining his chambers. Ledgers multiply like rabbits there.”

“A full day,” Kora murmured.

They descended a stair and crossed an arched gallery overlooking a small inner court where herbs grew in neat boxes. The air smelled of thyme and mint. Beyond it stood the library doors, tall oak banded with brass. Kora nearly hurried to reach them.

“Histories here,” Osric murmured. “Law and charter-books near the desk.”

Kora wandered between the shelves, fingers brushing the ranks of neatly labeled spines. A quiet pang followed, memories of evenings in Marrowgate with Yaoaya beside her.

“If you wish, you may sponsor new copying, commission texts from Ardor’s presses, and oversee the archives. The staff can bring volumes to your rooms as well.”

Kora shook her head, a genuine smile forming. She imagined restoring worn bindings, arranging the shelves. “I will come here myself.”

“Master Rhalen spends many hours here as well when he is not teaching,” Osric added.

Kora followed him out, reluctantly, as the tour continued. They passed the stillroom and the laundry. They paused at the castle shrine, where Osric explained the duke no longer came; the space seemed to hold its grief quietly in stone. Then the infirmary, where a boy sat with a bandaged hand and a face fixed in brave misery. Osric patted his shoulder rather than scolding, and the boy’s tension eased enough to make Kora smile.

They reached the guardroom and found Isander waiting in polished captain’s armor, already restored by rest. Before he could speak, Kora crossed the room and hugged him. “Forgive me,” she said as she stepped back. “It is simply very good to see a friend.”

“And you, my lady,” he said. “What have the two of you been about this fine morning?”

“Osric has shown me the castle,” Kora answered. “Every corridor, I think, though I expect I’ll lose my way a dozen times before I learn them.”

“You’ve had the best guide in Lemierre,” Isander said with a grin toward Osric. He nodded toward the outer arch. “Have you visited the muster yard?”

“Not yet,” Osric admitted. “But it would make a fine end to the tour.”

“I’ll join you,” Isander said happily, clasping his cloak.

The muster yard was a wide stretch of packed earth, ringed by palisades. Sounds of training carried through the air: boots striking, pikes dropping, horns marking intervals. “Left! Left! Shields!” Brannoc thundered with it. “Don’t stare at your feet. They know where they are!”

When Kora entered, curious whispers rippled and the men straightened instinctively, chests puffing despite the sweat on their brows.

“Duchess!” Brannoc roared, catching sight of her. “You honor us. You’ve doubled their effort just by standing there. Look at them strut!”

Kora laughed, feeling her cheeks warm. “They do look very proud.”

“They’d march into fire for a smile like that!” Brannoc declared.

“Let us not test that,” Osric said dryly. “We need them alive.”

Brannoc clapped sharply, startling two recruits. “You hear that? The steward says you’re not useful yet! Prove him wrong!”

Kora watched as the drills resumed, both impressed and a little somber. “He is very good with them,” she said, noticing how Brannoc corrected a stance, clapped a recruit’s shoulder, then beamed as though the boy were his own son.

“And he never lets us forget it,” Isander said, amused.

“But he has earned it,” Osric allowed. “The late duke found Bran among an Ardorri mercenary band. Reckless and mostly drunk, by his own telling. Yet when the fighting ended, he was binding wounds and sharing his pay with boys who had lost fathers. His Grace brought him into the Council not because he loves battle, but because he cares for those who survive it.”

Kora looked over the yard again and saw the truth of it. “What was the duke like as High Marshal?” she asked. “He must have held the post before… I cannot quite picture it.”

“Captain,” Osric said, turning to Isander, “you have fought beside him.”

Isander shrugged lightly. “Between the two of them, Bran is certainly louder. But Duncan leads armies much as he governs. He decides quickly, never carelessly. He gives few speeches, yet I have seen him turn a failing line simply by riding to the front and setting the standard.”

“Lemierre is fortunate to have him,” Kora said quietly, meaning it.