“If I had to guess. And if you hadn’t been there…” She shakes her head.
“I’m sorry. I tried…”
“Lerial … he should live for many years, and he’s still the same man he was, except he can’t walk. Not many can say that after having part of a wall fall on them. Now … I’ve told you three times how well you did. Accept it, and don’t give me that look that asks for reassurance ever again.”
Lerial grins at the vinegar in her last words. “I won’t.” He doesn’t need to mention that part of how long Rhamuel will live depends on whether she decides to stay … or feels that she can.
“Do you want to consort his niece?”
“What?”
“Oh … even I could sense the longing in your order-probe.”
“Even you? How about only you?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I didn’t,” Lerial admits. “I want to. I admit it, but…”
“You worry about Lephi and your father, and especially your mother. Don’t.”
“There’s also the small problem about whether her mother, grandfather, and Rhamuel would agree.”
“They all owe you.”
“They do, but I’ve noticed that there’s not exactly a great sense of obligation here in Afrit.” Nor of honor, honesty … or much of anything but a love of amassing golds. “Except for Rhamuel, the dukes appear to be constrained greatly by the power of the merchanters.”
“You might want to talk to him about what he could do about changing that.”
“I’ve thought about that … a great deal, but until…”
“Until you finished what had to be done, you didn’t want to bring those things up?”
“Not only that, but I knew how they ended up would affect what I could say.”
Emerya nods. “I’d say the time has come.” She stands. “We can go to the salon and have some refreshments. We don’t have to wait until they ring the glass. I have that on good authority.”
Good authority? Rhamuel? What else has been going on that she isn’t saying?
“Leave it at that, for now, Lerial,” she says warmly, if with a touch of humor.
Lerial wonders, but does not question, since it’s clear she’s not about to say more. He rises, and the two leave the study, walking toward the grand staircase up to the third level. As they climb the marble steps, he cannot but help noticing the dust on the top of the balustrade.
When he and Emerya enter the Blue Salon, Lerial is surprised to see a circular table, rather than the usual oblong, placed at one end of the room before the open windows, with a sideboard and servitor immediately to the left, just inside the salon. The only diner already in the salon is Aenslem, and he has a beaker of lager in his hand.
The merchanter walks toward them before stopping, nodding to Lerial, and smiling at Emerya. “Lady … I had no idea healers were so beautiful.”
“When most people need healers, they’re not inclined to notice how we look.” Both her words and her smile are gently warm.
“You’re looking more rested, Lerial,” adds the merchanter. “My daughter and granddaughter will be here shortly, now that they know you two have arrived.”
“More likely Lerial,” suggests Emerya.
“Both of you,” rejoins Aenslem. “Young Lerial has been fulsome in his praise of your healing abilities.”
Lerial doesn’t recall being fulsome, although he has said that she is the best in Cigoerne, but Aenslem may wish to embellish that for his own purposes. Rather say anything, he has the servitor pour two beakers of lager.
“Lerial might have been complimentary and honest, but I don’t recall him ever being fulsome in praise of anything. He tends to be rather understated.”
Aenslem laughs. “Is such directness a family trait?”
“No,” replies Emerya. “Only Lerial and I seem afflicted with it, one of the few attributes we share.” She takes the beaker of lager from Lerial. “Thank you.”
“The other being healing. I owe my life to him, you know?”
Lerial takes a small swallow of the lager, good, but still not as good as Altyrn’s lager.
“He did mention being of some assistance…”
Smiling, the merchanter shakes his head, but does not say more as Haesychya and Kyedra enter the salon. Kyedra still wears a long-sleeved black blouse and trousers, with a black-bordered white vest, but without the head scarf, and her mother is similarly attired. She and her mother immediately walk to meet Emerya, who sets the crystal beaker on the sideboard and turns to face the two.
“Welcome to Swartheld,” offers Haesychya. “I have wanted to meet you for so many years.”
“I wish it could have been at a less stressful time for you,” replies Emerya.
“We all have times of trouble. This is ours.” Haesychya’s smile is more than polite, but less than effusive.
“Thank you so much for coming,” offers Kyedra, the warmth in her tone obvious. “Lerial so hoped you could come and help Uncle Rham.”