Page 68 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“How are we getting there?” Kora asked, watching him move through the stables.

“By horse,” Duncan said. “It is fastest.” He caught the brief hesitation in her expression and paused, reins slacking in his hands. “Do you ride?”

Kora shook her head. “Mother said a true lady need not trouble herself with horseback.”

The corner of his mouth dipped slightly. “Then you will ride with me. We have no time for a carriage, and the road is too narrow besides.”

He returned one horse, then came back to her and set his hands at her waist, lifting her smoothly into the saddle. Once she was settled, he swung up behind her.

She sat rigid at first between his arms, braced against the motion as he gathered the reins and urged the horse forward. That tension gradually eased, and she leaned into his chest.

Duncan tried to keep his attention on the path ahead, but he could not escape the awareness of her: the warmth of her body through their layers, the soft brush of her hair beneath his chin, the trace of moon orchids that rose from her whenever the wind shifted.

He drew a breath and reached for discipline, meaning to forget he was anything so inconvenient as a man, forcing his mind elsewhere.

Only to find his thoughts caught on an old memory.

Once, barely past boyhood, he had ridden this way with his father. Alaric had led, and the five boys had followed in a loose line behind him. A duke’s road is never his alone, his father had said. If you ride it, your men ride it. If you falter, they falter. Learn not only to stay mounted, but to look up. Know who follows. Know what lies ahead. Be ready for all who rely on you.

It had been the moment Duncan first understood derWhitte was more than a name. It meant carrying the weight of those loyal to it, and those who depended on it. The memory felt heavier now, set against the threat of war waiting beyond the valley.

Kora shifted against him, breaking the quiet.

“I can see how some of the others came to be on the Lemierre Council,” she said. “But Rensaya feels different. Stranger than the rest.”

Duncan gave a low chuckle. “That is precisely why she is indispensable. My father met her before I was born. She lived half-wild in the woods even then and knew the rivers and hills the way most people know the rooms of their own houses.” He paused, feeling his father’s memory pass through him again. “One spring the rains came hard and the river threatened to break its banks. Rensaya told him exactly where to dredge, and an entire village was spared.”

After a moment he smiled. “She refused a place on the Council at first. Said she had no use for tables or titles. But she kept appearing whenever there was trouble.”

Kora tilted her head. “So she advises on matters of home and harvest.”

“And war,” Duncan murmured. “My father never went to battle without her. She could tell him how the ground would bear weight, when the rains would fall, whether the wind would carry arrows true. It sounds excessive, but it is not. In war, that knowledge keeps men alive.”

“I see,” Kora said thoughtfully. Her expression suggested the answer pleased her.

She sighed, then rested her head lightly against his shoulder. Duncan adjusted his grip on the reins, steadying himself against the unexpected lightness he felt.

Rensaya’s cottage was tucked near the Ember River where the current widened and turned silver in the afternoon light. Smoke drifted from the humble but sturdy chimney. The air smelled of alder, wet earth, and crushed herbs.

“Good day, Rensaya,” Duncan called, swinging down. He assisted Kora as she slid into his arms, then set her carefully on the grass. “How are the woods?”

“The owls quarrel, the trout grow plump, and the foxes sleep too near men’s paths,” the old woman answered without looking up, her wrinkled hands still working. She stood knee-deep in the river, dragging a woven reed trap heavy with wriggling fish.

To Duncan’s quiet surprise, Kora stepped straight into the river. She crouched beside Rensaya and took hold of the trap’s end, helping her brace against the current. The sight made him smile. More than smile. It tugged at him like a tide he had no choice but to follow.

Muttering at himself, he waded into the cold water. They heaved until the trap thudded onto the bank, spraying water in bright arcs and sending fish flopping in the grass.

For a while they worked without speaking, unfastening reeds, sorting the catch into baskets, resetting the cords. It was companionable work, and its honest simplicity pushed Nelsyn’s earlier visit to the edge of Duncan’s thoughts. His shoulders loosened.

“You know,” Rensaya said, lifting her dark eyes to Kora, “there are old tales that speak of great power resting behind eyes like that.”

Duncan glanced at Kora. Sunlight caught her eyes and the amulet at her throat. Then he looked back at Rensaya and noticed the faint thread of green in the black of her eyes, easily missed unless one knew to look.

“You have the feel of the earth on you,” Rensaya went on, turning back to the last of the reeds. “It is a good thing.” She added nothing more.

Kora looked at Duncan, the question plain on her face.

He shrugged, confirming no clear answer would be offered. “She speaks like that sometimes,” he murmured, leaning closer in a conspiratorial aside.