“It’s a wonder … what you did…”
“No.” Lerial wants to shake his head, but stops himself. “Just fortune. Some poisons … what I could do wouldn’t have helped … but those are the kinds that are slower-acting and must be given continually in small doses.” He lifts the goblet and takes another swallow, realizing for the first time just how good the lager tastes.
“You’re an expert on poisons, too?”
“Hardly. That’s something I’ve picked up from some reading and from listening. Some plants and foods are actually like that. Not many, or we’d all have trouble.”
At that moment, Kyedra hurries back into the study, carrying two loaves of bread, one white and one dark. She stops just short of Lerial.
He takes the dark bread, breaks off a chunk, and slowly eats it. After several mouthfuls, most of the light-headedness is gone, but that might have been from the lager he’d drunk earlier. He also discovers he has regained the tiniest bit of order-sensing. That’s hopeful.
“I’m so sorry,” Kyedra says. “I didn’t think about what healing might do. I was so worried about Grandpapa.”
“I understand,” Lerial replies, offering what he hopes is an understanding smile.
“Don’t you think you should stay here?” asks Haesychya. “You’re not in the best of health at the moment.”
“I’m not, but I need to be closer to the Mirror Lancers. I hope what I did will continue to help you,” Lerial says to Aenslem before turning and offering a wry expression to Haesychya. “You might suggest to your father that the lager you gave me will do him far better than any tonic.”
“I’m … not much for lager … more a wine man,” says Aenslem slowly, “but I’d hate to waste your effort, Lerial.”
“Then don’t,” says Haesychya, her voice so curt that she is almost snapping at her father. “Drink the lager. Otherwise you might not ever drink your wines again.”
“Women … daughters…” Aenslem offers a tired smile.
Lerial walks over to the merchanter, close enough that order-sensing is not a strain. The chaos in Aenslem’s gut is definitely weaker than before. Considerably weaker. He nods. “You are doing better.”
“Stay with your grandfather,” Haesychya says to her daughter, her words an iron order. “I’ll escort Lerial out.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Once Lerial and Haesychya are outside the study, escorted once more by the Lancer rankers, she asks, her voice barely above a murmur, “He’s better, isn’t he?”
“He is. There’s still some chaos there, but it seems to be fading. I’d keep him on bread you’ve seen baked and lager for a while.” Lerial does not mention the obvious again: that someone should look into whoever provided the “tonic”—or who might have adulterated it, since Aenslem had acted as though it was something he took regularly.
“You will take care of yourself, will you not?”
“As I can, Lady.”
“Please do. For all our sakes.”
“You also need to take care … after everything.” He realizes his sympathy is belated, but better later than not at all.
“You’re kind.”
There is little enough Lerial can say to that. So he nods. “Thank you.”
When he leaves Haesychya at the double doors to the villa, he is surprised that it is only twilight. But then, it is midspring.
As he rides out through the iron gates on his way back to the palace, Lerial wonders why, among other things, if Kyedra had not known about Natroyor’s death, Haesychya never asked anything about her son. Had Rhamuel already let her know? But it that were so, why hadn’t anyone told Kyedra?
And you thought your family kept things close!
XL
Lerial does not wake on twoday morning until full light spreads across Swartheld, although there is no direct light coming through the shutters of the senior officer’s chamber he occupies at Afritan Guard headquarters. He feels far better than when he had dropped onto the bunk the night before, although he can order-sense only out into the hallway outside his door. Still … after what had happened at Aenslem’s villa …