Not wanting to address that, since any response he can immediately think of would be unsuitable, Lerial merely smiles and says, “I had not expected to find you here alone.”
“Oh … I’m not. Kyedra and Natroyor are out on the terrace. Atroyan will be here shortly. He’s always had difficulty in arriving on time for family affairs, even for refreshments or dinner.” She turns as a young woman steps through the open terrace doors. “Here comes Kyedra.”
Lerial inclines his head in greeting, taking in the young woman with the black hair and eyes, and the slightly olive skin. She is a digit or two shorter than her mother, but with slightly larger bones, Lerial thinks, making her somewhat more muscular, if still trim. Her nose is straight, if slightly stronger than he recalls, as is her chin, but her skin is clear and unblemished. Her face is a gentle oval, and she is pleasant to look at, if not a raving beauty. But neither are you the handsomest fellow to ride into town.
“You might remember Lerial from your time in Cigoerne.”
At that comment, Kyedra smiles, if slightly ruefully, but the expression transforms her face almost into radiance. “I must say I don’t recall much except your kindness … and, well, your hair. I wasn’t all that happy.”
“You did get a bit tart when I didn’t describe my grandmere to your satisfaction.” Lerial grins.
Kyedra drops her eyes. “I hoped you wouldn’t remember that.”
“That’s all right. I avoided answering some of your questions.”
“Not exactly. You just didn’t finish some sentences.”
Lerial laughs. “That’s true.”
“What, might I ask, is true?” asks Natroyor as he slips past his sister and stops, inclining his head in greeting to Lerial. The heir is actually a touch shorter than his sister, and more slightly built, with a narrower face, framed by straight dark brown hair. His eyes are a muddy brown, and there is a slight darkness under them.
Lerial immediately tries to sense the presence of chaos or wound chaos. He cannot, but he does gain the impression that the heir carries less order strength than he should. “That I left some sentences unfinished the last time your sister and I spoke.”
Natroyor does smile, and the expression is nearly identical to that of his father. “Welcome. I’ve heard about you. You must tell me how you’ve managed so much on the battlefield.”
“He will,” says Haesychya quickly, “but not at the moment. We’ll not be talking of fighting and war now or at dinner.”
“Why not?” asks Natroyor. “We’re fighting one now, and so is Cigoerne.”
Lerial detects a certain sulkiness in the young man’s words, but that is overshadowed by the chaotic feelings from his mother, although Haesychya’s face remains almost serene, and she says nothing. Since she does not speak, Lerial does. “Because your mother expressed a preference, and I intend to honor it.”
Natroyor looks stunned, if but for a moment.
Before the young man can speak, Lerial turns back to Kyedra. “You never met my sister, as I recall, nor my cousin Amaira.”
“I never had that privilege.”
“I’m not sure it would have been a privilege to meet Ryalah then,” Lerial replies, “since she was only two. Even Amaira would only have been four.”
“I didn’t meet your brother, either. They said he was ill with a flux.”
“You’d never know that now,” replies Lerial. “He’s also an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers, in charge of the post at Sudstrym.”
“Which of you is better with a blade?” demands Natroyor.
“The answer would likely depend on which of us you asked … but I believe we were talking about family. Have you ever accompanied your uncles on hunting trips or elsewhere?”
“Just to Lake Reomer and a few other places. Mostly with Uncle Mykel and his friend Oestyn…”
The mention of Oestyn’s name, whoever he may be, and the flutter of chaos from Haesychya suggests certain … aspects of Mykel’s inclinations.
“… They say that since I’m the only heir, I must be careful. You and your bother are lucky to have each other.”
“We still have to be careful. None of us ever commands Lancers in the same place at the same time. That includes my father.”
“You see,” says Haesychya gently, “there are similar rules in other duchies.”
“I’m late … again!” calls Atroyan from the archway to the salon. “Or rather, we’re late.” He gestures to Rhamuel.
“Not terribly,” replies Haesychya. “We’ve been having a pleasant talk with Lerial.”
“Except he won’t talk about real things,” murmurs Natroyor, in such a low voice that Lerial doubts anyone hears his words other than Kyedra and himself.
With Natroyor’s words, Lerial cannot help but think about the times the silver mists of death have washed across him. You only think you want to hear about them.
“He’s seen a great deal,” says Rhamuel warmly, before turning to Kyedra. “You’re more beautiful every time I see you.”
Lerial can almost sense what Rhamuel has not said, that he wishes he could see his own daughter.