“I understand we owe you once more.” Haesychya’s voice is cool.
“Lady, in some ways, we owe you, since we do not have to fight on our lands, and we have suffered far less than you have. Like Afrit, Cigoerne has had to fight off Heldyan depredations for years. Unlike Afrit, we have not faced the magnitude of betrayal and treachery that has been your lot.”
“Are all Cigoernean mages as skilled as you are in the ways of destruction?”
“There are some who are skilled in such. There have never been a great number.” Lerial looks directly into Haesychya’s black eyes. “I would appreciate not being considered one of the black angels.”
A momentary look of puzzlement crosses her face. “Black angels?”
“The ones who called down destruction and devastation upon Cyador from the heights of the Westhorns to the depths of the ocean. I am scarcely a mage compared to them.”
“But you are a mage.”
Lerial shakes his head. “None of the true Magi’i would consider me such. I have mastered a few destructive skills and some healing, but … there is much I cannot do and likely never will be able to do.”
“My consort wanted to reunite Cigoerne and Afrit, you know? You have made that impossible.”
“It was never possible the way in which he wanted to accomplish it.”
Haesychya looks away for an instant. Then she meets Lerial’s eyes again. “So why are you here this morning?”
“To see that your father is well and continuing to improve.”
“I think you will find him much improved.” She turns and begins to walk toward the archway to the north corridor. “You know, you’re not doing Kyedra any favors by coming here.”
“That may be … or it may not be, but I am here at Rhamuel’s request.”
“You would defy your parents’ wishes? They will certainly press for her hand for your brother.”
Lerial manages a rueful smile. “They have not … not yet, and I have found that assuming what others will do, in the absence of evidence of intent, can be most misleading.” What Lerial says is not wholly true, he knows, given his mother’s wishes, but his father has said nothing.
“The needs of power override intent or emotion. They override love, also, especially young love.”
“I will not question you on that, Lady. You have far more experience than I.” Again … this is true, and Lerial’s experience with Rojana would certainly support Haesychya’s point, but he does not wish to concede that directly. He wonders what else he can say when he sees a serving girl—the attractive one he has seen before—slipping out the study door. By the slight change in Haesychya’s walk and posture, Lerial can tell that she has seen as well … and that it is likely that the young woman is more than a mere serving girl.
“Still…” Haesychya says, seeming almost to muse, “we have just seen what two younger brothers have done, and few would have believed how events have turned out.”
“I would not underestimate the power of younger sisters, either,” replies Lerial.
“You have one in mind?”
“I have several,” he counters, pausing to allow her to enter Aenslem’s study first.
Aenslem is alone in the study, but Lerial still manages to smile and say, “You’re looking much better.” He moves closer to the merchanter, stopping short of the desk and letting his order-senses range over the older man. He almost nods as he can find no trace of the chaos that would indicate a lingering effect of the poison.
“You worry too much about me, young Lerial.”
“I worry less than Rhamuel does. He’s the one who asked that I stop and see how you are. He’s going to need your counsel and advice.”
“He’s never asked for it before.”
“He wasn’t duke before,” replies Lerial.
“He hasn’t proclaimed the title for himself. Most of Afrit still thinks his brother is.”
“He’s had a few other things to consider,” Lerial points out dryly. “Are you up to riding?”
“A short ride would do me good.”
“Are you sure, Father?” asks Haesychya.
“I’m sure. You can accompany us, if you’re that worried.”
“I’ll never set foot back in that prison.” Haesychya’s words are cool and matter-of-fact. “Never.”
“’Never’ is a dangerous word, Daughter,” says Aenslem as he rises from the chair behind the table desk.
“When will you be back?” asks Haesychya, as if she has talked about nothing but the weather or a pleasant afternoon.
“When I’m done with Rhamuel. Assuming he’ll listen.”
“He always listens,” replies Haesychya. “He seldom agrees with you.”
Aenslem snorts and turns to Lerial. “You can walk with me to the stables.”
Lerial addresses Haesychya. “Thank you for everything. I do appreciate your kindness and your insights.”
“You are leaving Swartheld soon, then?”
“The arms-commander has asked me to remain for a short time, at least until Subcommander Ascaar arrives in a few days. Perhaps longer, but that is his choice.”
“For now,” suggests Haesychya.