Page 57 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“There is no need,” Osric replied lightly. “The duchess has been awake since before dawn. She carried the oil herself for the cleansing. Eager, and I am told, rather delighted by it all.”

Duncan looked up, blinking once. “Very well. I will meet you both there.”

He crossed to the adjoining bedchamber, bent over the basin, letting the cold water clear his head, then dressed. Goldfire attire was mercifully simple: a tunic of dark grey cinched with a gold cord, and an unlined cloak to match. When he fastened the narrow gold crescent at his collar, he paused before the mirror.

Whatever warmth the Amber Moon promised, it had yet to reach him.

With a quiet scoff, he turned and left the room.

Emberglade Castle’s main courtyard had passed from lively to nearly unmanageable. The air was bright with anticipation. Moonpriests and cityfolk crowded the stones, voices overlapping in low excitement, torches waiting in hand. A head of raven-dark hair moved swiftly through the commotion, and it took Duncan a moment to realize it was his wife.

Koraleise wore a dress of the same dark grey, her hair pinned up, her skirts gathered as she hurried from task to task, offering guidance, straightening garlands, bracing a ladder with her shoulder as though she were the hinge on which the morning turned.

“May the light renew what it touches.”

Duncan turned to find the Moonwarden of Emberglade beside him, genial and middle-aged, with a full head of hair and none at all on his face. A silver coronet sat on his brow, and his vestments caught the sun and flung it back in violet, green, and amber glimmers. Duncan thought, not without amusement, that the man must be sweating beneath all that finery.

“And leave no shadow untouched,” he replied, through clenched teeth and hoping it went unnoticed. “It is good to see you, Estylle.”

“And you,” Estylle said warmly. “It is always good to see a duke returned to his lands. Though I will not say how pleased we would be to see you in the temple more often.”

The look he gave Duncan suggested denying the omission was theoretical at best, so Duncan answered with a tight smile and gestured toward the dais instead. “Shall we begin?”

As they walked, Duncan had the odd sense that each step met resistance, as though he were wading through Aurumierran quicksand.

“I assume Your Grace will wish to speak,” Estylle said while they waited for Koraleise.

“Of course,” Duncan said. He did not.

His wife stepped onto the dais, cheeks flushed from exertion. She wiped her hands on a linen cloth and dipped into a quick curtsy. “May the light renew what it touches.”

“And leave no shadow untouched,” Estylle replied, motioning her into place. She came to Duncan’s side, barely containing her excitement. Her smile was unguarded. Some small part of her joy brushed against his strain, and he found himself returning it.

Briefly.

They turned to face the great unlit pyre and the gathered valley. Beyond, the world bristled with trouble. War nearing. A man, undeserving, imprisoned in Norrelia. Beliefs Duncan carried that had no place here. Shame tangled with his unease; his presence felt less an act of faith than performance.

“People of Lemierre,” Estylle began, drawing the courtyard into stillness, reaching even the gates where more had gathered to listen.

“Today, as Amerieth begins her return from her farthest reach and carries the promise of warmth back toward Oraith, we kindle the fire of Gold. We set down what must be burned, and carry forward what must be kept.”

Moonpriests emerged chanting, each bearing a shallow golden basin filled with oil and sprigs of sage. They moved through the crowd, anointing brows and hands with careful touches. When they reached the dais, Duncan leaned forward, and the feel of the oil on his forehead called back the memory of blood running hot and dark from a head wound. He mastered the instinct to flinch as the Moonwarden poured the remainder into the waiting brazier.

“Your Grace, Lemierre awaits your word.”

The sea of faces blurred into one watchful presence. Duncan opened his mouth, and instead his mind returned to this moment a year before, only weeks after his father, brothers, and nephew were laid to rest. He had stood in this very place, reeling and alone, held upright by duty while grief tore through him within. What returned now was not fear, but that collision of fracture and expectation, and he could not say time had eased it much.

Koraleise’s hand slid into the crook of his arm and closed there lightly.

In the private tumult of his thoughts, Duncan’s first instinct was to pull away. But the part of him worn thin by loneliness leaned toward the touch, and he thought, just this once, he would allow simple comfort to prevail. His arm curved, making a place for her hand.

“Goldfire is not magic,” he said at last. “It does not undo loss. It reminds us only that we do not rebuild alone.” His gaze passed over the garlands, the waiting wood. “Take your flame home tonight. Share it. Keep it lit. When the world turns hard again—and it will—remember you are not carrying Lemierre by yourself.”

Cheers rolled through the courtyard.

Duncan began to step back, but Koraleise tugged lightly on his sleeve and rose onto her toes to whisper at his ear. “May I speak as well? Or is it not customary?”

Duncan lifted his brows and caught Estylle doing the same.