Lerial smiles. “I’ve seen more of him, and yet I’ve seen less. He seems to be a man walking a narrow path whose greatest abilities are those best left unseen.”
Haesychya laughs so softly that Lerial can barely hear her. After a moment, she shakes her head. “I fear you are wasted as the second heir, necessary as you are as the real arms-commander of Cigoerne.”
“I’m not the arms-commander. In time, perhaps, but not now.”
“I might better have said the champion of Cigoerne. Do not argue with that.”
“Since that is a command, I shall obey.” Lerial keeps his voice light.
“You mistake me, Lerial. I never command.”
“Then I accede to your wishes. Certainly, you have wishes?”
“Don’t we all?”
“What else do you wish for?”
“That the ceaseless fighting would end.”
“It will end only when Hamor is one land … and then it will resume intermittently with other lands.”
“Are you a prophet?”
“I’ve been tutored in history, and that is one of its lessons.”
“Yet you don’t claim to be a historian.”
“I don’t know enough to claim that.”
“You noticed that Mykel is not able to bear weapons, not those with blades…”
Lerial avoids the trap by saying, “That is what he has told me. I have no reason to doubt that.”
“Why not? It is clear you have no aversion to doubting … when necessary.”
“I am most certain that his stance on weapons has been put to the test. Rhamuel has informed me that Mykel is most adept with a staff. That suggests that he is not averse to violence, or even killing, only to edged weapons.”
“A staff…” Haesychya gives the tiniest of headshakes.
“Hardly the weapon of a ducal legacy, you fear.”
“I know … sadly.”
Why is she bringing this up? “A lance is little more than a longer staff with a point.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Mirror Lancer officers do not carry lances.”
“Not any longer. The Emperor Lorn did. So did the Emperor Alyiakal. The lesson might be that we should,” Lerial keeps his tone light.
“Times change.”
“They do.”
“Are you always so agreeable?”
“In public I do my best not to be disagreeable. In private, I try harder. I don’t always succeed.”
Before Lerial knows it, the dance is ending, and Haesychya turns to him.
“For someone who has seldom danced, you’re excellent.”
“Thank you, but it’s only because you’re an excellent dancer. I just followed what you wished to do.”
A faint smile crosses Haesychya’s face. “Wise man. Would that more understood that.” She inclines her head. “Thank you. I did enjoy that.”
“Perhaps later?”
“Perhaps, but now…”
“I should see to Kyedra.”
Haesychya nods.
Lerial inclines his head. “My thanks for the dance, Lady.”
Haesychya does not reply, except by inclining her head in return.
Lerial steps back, then turns to where Kyedra stands beside Rhamuel, the arms-commander almost guarding his niece, or so it seems. Lerial can well imagine Rhamuel doing the same with Amaira … and he swallows.
Studying Kyedra as he steps toward her, Lerial sees that she is also wearing a gown of flowing silk, of a color he can only describe as an intense pale green with the slightest hint of golden lime, trimmed, of course, in silver, with a matching silver-trimmed head scarf. He cannot imagine a color that would look any better on her, although there must be some. He can also sense the strength of the black order within her, far the deepest of all of her family.
“Might I have the honor of the dance?” Lerial smiles as warmly as he can.
“You might, Lord Lerial.”
“Thank you, Lady Kyedra.” His words are gentle, if with just a touch of humor.
“I’m not…”
“And neither am I. ‘Lerial,’ please.”
“Then you might … Lerial.”
“Thank you, Kyedra.”
The music begins, and Rhamuel is already dancing with Haesychya before Lerial takes Kyedra’s hand, or rather barely more than her fingertips. For several steps, he is hesitant, until he can adjust to her reactions to the music, a piece just slightly faster than the previous one.
“Have you been to many balls?”
“Every one since I turned eighteen. Father only allowed me two a year after I was sixteen.”
“I doubt if I’ve been to as many in my entire life as you were between sixteen and eighteen.”
“That is not the greatest of losses.”
Several couples away, Lerial sees Mykel dancing with a much older woman.
“Who might that be with your Uncle Mykel?”
“That’s Nelyani. She’s Maesoryk’s consort. Properly speaking, he ought to be dancing with the consort of the head of the Merchanting Council. That would have been Grandmother, but…”
“She’s … no longer with you?”
“She never was. Not with me. She died having Uncle Mykel.”
“Thank you. I’d wondered about that.” Lerial pauses, then asks, “Your grandfather never took another consort?”
“No.”
The reply is so cold and short than Lerial immediately says, “I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry.”