“He made that rather clear.” Emerya’s tone is gently humorous. “I am glad I was able to come. At times, what one wishes and desires is not always possible.”
Lerial can almost hear the unspoken words—and one seldom gets a second chance. Yet he knows she will not stay merely to be Rhamuel’s healer … and that could make matters even more awkward—again—between Cigoerne and Afrit, especially if Lerial’s father feels Rhamuel has acted badly.
Kyedra smiles softly and again says, “Thank you,” before turning to Lerial.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, “and glad your mother came.”
“I couldn’t have come to dinner if she hadn’t.” Kyedra’s voice is barely above a murmur. “She didn’t want to come, but she did. Only for me, she said.”
Those words send a chill through Lerial because the implication is that he will not be seeing much—or any—of Kyedra before long. He manages not to swallow. “Would you like a lager?”
“Please.”
Lerial obtains two beakers of lager, presenting one to Haesychya and the other to Kyedra, before reclaiming the beaker from which he has barely sipped.
“When did you know you were a healer?” Haesychya asks Emerya.
“I was not quite ten…”
Lerial returns his full attention to Kyedra, but for several moments neither speaks. Finally, he says, “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re at a loss for words?” Kyedra smiles, a forced expression, Lerial can tell. “You never are.”
“Almost never. This is one of those times.” He doesn’t want to mention anything about leaving Swartheld, and yet that is uppermost on his mind, with the knowledge that he does not control their fate, and neither does Kyedra.
As they stand there, unspeaking, the door opens, and two palace guards wheel Rhamuel into the salon. The duke still wears the dress uniform.
“Greetings, everyone.” Rhamuel’s voice is cheerful, and while he looks first and quickly at Emerya, his eyes do not linger on her, but turn to Haesychya. “I’m glad you came. Thank you.”
Haesychya does not speak, but nods in reply.
“Because I obviously can’t stand and talk,” Rhamuel continues cheerfully, “I suggest that we move to the table.”
When Lerial and Kyedra reach the table, he sees placards before each setting. Rhamuel is seated facing the window, with Emerya to his right and Haesychya on his left. Aenslem is to Emerya’s right, with Kyedra between her grandfather and Lerial and facing her uncle. As he sits down, Lerial takes in the platters and crystal, noting the eggshell-shaded porcelain banded at the edge in crimson and gold, and both crystal beakers and goblets at each place setting.
Once everyone is seated, the guards have left, and the servitors have filled either a goblet or a beaker for each diner, Rhamuel lifts his goblet. “To Mykel.”
The others raise their goblets or beakers, then drink.
At that point, Aenslem raises his beaker. “To Cigoerne and Afrit.”
There is no third toast, and the servitors begin serving.
Lerial turns to Haesychya and says, barely above a murmur, “I do appreciate your coming this evening.”
“Kyedra has asked for very little, Lerial. This is something I could do. There are others that I do not have the power to affect.”
“I understand.”
“You would. We will not speak more of that this evening.” Her voice strengthens. “Has anyone heard anything from that barbarian Khesyn?”
“Not a word or a dispatch,” replies Rhamuel, “but I cannot recall one in years. He prefers to make his point with blades. Now that we have replied more emphatically and effectively than he expected, I doubt we will hear anything in either fashion for a time.”
The server eases a split fowl breast covered in a thin glaze onto the eggshell-white porcelain plate. Normally, the thought of basil-cumin glazed fowl might have had Lerial’s mouth watering, but he is still thinking about Kyedra … and having to leave her.
“What does your brother think of the matter?” Haesychya asks Emerya. “Or has he discussed it with you?”
“He was greatly concerned when he heard of the scope of the battles involved. But he was pleased that it turned out as it did. He was saddened by the treachery that claimed so much of your family. He did say that there was no action too base that Khesyn wouldn’t attempt if he thought it might succeed.”
And none too base for some merchanters, either in Afrit or Cigoerne.
“That would be true, unhappily, for a few merchanters as well,” adds Aenslem dryly, a comment that vaguely surprises Lerial. “Have you thought about what to do with the assets Alaphyn left behind?” He looks to Rhamuel.
“What would you suggest?” asks the duke.
“Take them for the duchy, and perhaps a share of Jhosef’s as well.”
“We can talk that over in a day or so. Perhaps you might mention it … to others.”
“I can do that.”
“It’s said that there is some beautiful Cyadoran verse,” Haesychya begins, looking at Emerya.