“Mykel … this is Lord Lerial. Lerial, my younger brother Mykel.”
For some reason, Lerial has pictured Mykel as slight, almost feminine, but the youngest of the three brothers is barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with an open smile and the same warm brown eyes and hair as Rhamuel. He is perhaps a digit or so taller than his older brother, and definitely taller than the duke. His face is smooth-shaven and youthful, suggesting he is one of those men who look youthful until they suddenly age, although Lerial doubts Mykel is more than fifteen years older than Lerial himself, at the most. He also carries more of the black of order than most people, almost enough that he might have some slight order-handling skills.
Mykel inclines his head and says, “I’m very pleased to meet you. Rham has spoken of you most favorably, particularly of your prowess with arms.” He shakes his head self-deprecatingly. “Much to our sire’s regret, and that of my brothers, I have proved less than adept with any form of weapon.”
“But he is most skilled with a paintbrush,” says Rhamuel. “The fellow with him is Oestyn, the youngest son of merchanter Jhosef, whom you met the other night…”
“The largest merchanter in dairy and cheese and related goods?”
“The very same,” replies Oestyn. “The uncoroneted deity of all things caprine and bovine, and, of course, dried mutton, the staple of the crafter and peasant. He is a great supporter of what he calls natural.” Oestyn is slightly shorter than any of the others, and more slender, if muscular, with bright green eyes and short but curly blond hair.
“We have wine and lager, and the food on the sideboard,” announces Mykel, “thanks to Rham’s persuasiveness with the palace cooks. And some excellent provisions from Oestyn’s sire.”
Oestyn murmurs something into Mykel’s ear.
“As the honored guest, Lord Lerial, perhaps you would begin,” Mykel goes on.
“‘Lerial,’ please, except where required by custom and ceremony.” Lerial cannot say what prompts his qualification, other than perhaps Oestyn’s description of his father, and he quickly adds, “Certainly not here.” He takes one of the large plates stacked at one end of the sideboard and moves toward the platters. He pauses, looking at the platters. He recognizes the rice as the same kind that had been truffled at the dinner the night before, but it has been prepared with mushrooms and a butter sauce. There are also new green beans with slivered almonds, and slices of fowl with a tannish sauce. He does not recognize the last dish—some sort of shredded meat with a pale green sauce.
His hesitation must have been noted, because Oestyn says, “The last dish is shredded pork with green saffron. It’s an Atlan dish and very spicy.”
Lerial serves himself a small portion, then adds more of the rice, after which he pours himself a beaker of light lager. When he turns back to the table, he sees that four places have been set, two on each side of one end of the table. He lets Rhamuel take a seat, and then sits across from him, leaving Mykel to sit beside him, and Oestyn, who sits down last, beside Rhamuel.
“No toasts, no formality,” says Rhamuel.
Mykel nods.
“I hadn’t heard that you were here in Swartheld at present,” Lerial says, looking to Mykel.
“Not for long. We’ll be leaving for Lake Reomer early tomorrow morning,” Mykel replies. “We’re staying because Oestyn likes the music at the balls. So do I, but that’s because he’s taught me about it.”
“Music was not to be studied in the palace, not by sons, at least, and since Father had no daughters … there was little music,” explains Rhamuel.
“And not verse, either?” suggests Lerial after taking a swallow of the lager.
“Verse was worse,” declares Mykel. “As bad as marionettes and puppetry.” A certain irony infuses his last phrase.
“Yet,” says Oestyn with knowing smile,
“When words spoken come from the soul,
All praise to the man who is whole.”
“That’s from Maorym,” says Mykel. “He’s one of the best poets in Afrit, indeed in all Hamor. The lines of his that I like best are these: “Fair words, like trees, must seek receptive ground,
For logic’s chill is worse than stony ground.”
“But then, Father wouldn’t have understood that, would he?” With the question, Mykel looks not to Rhamuel, but to Oestyn.
“From what you’ve said…” demurs Oestyn gently.
“Did you study verse and the great poets of Cyador?” Mykel asks Lerial.
“My father is not the greatest enthusiast of verse,” replies Lerial, and that is an understatement, “but I have read some of the old Cyadoran verse.” Rather than say more, Lerial takes a small bite of the Atlan pork, followed by some of the rice.
“Can you quote any?”
His mouth full, Lerial shakes his head.
“That’s too bad. I’d hoped…”
“Some of us have been trained in skills that allow others the liberty of writing and enjoying verse,” Rhamuel says dryly.