“Uncle Rham … you’re impossible,” banters Kyedra.
“No. Merely difficult. Unlike Lerial, who is neither impossible nor difficult … just inscrutable.”
“Pour yourself some wine, Rham,” orders Atroyan as he fills his goblet with a generous amount of the dark red wine, before looking at Lerial. “You don’t have anything to drink.”
“Which lager would you recommend?”
“If you like the bitters, the dark. If you don’t, the light.”
“Definitely the light,” suggests Rhamuel.
Lerial moves to the sideboard and looks to Haesychya and then Kyedra. “Might I pour something for either of you?”
“No, thank you,” replies Atroyan’s consort. “While I like either wine or lager, neither likes me.”
“The light lager, if you would.” Kyedra smiles and adds, “Just half a beaker, please.”
Lerial pours two half beakers of the light lager, a pale golden shade. The last thing he needs is to drink too much, especially inadvertently. He checks the beverages for chaos, but senses none, and then hands one beaker to Kyedra, waiting until she takes a sip before he does the same. He has to admit that the lager is excellent, possibly even better than that of the majer. “Excellent lager.”
“My father would have no other,” says Natroyor proudly.
“You have outstanding taste,” says Lerial to Atroyan, “I imagine the wines are just as superb.”
“The Reoman red—that’s what I have—is indeed,” replies the duke. “The Halyn white … it is merely good.”
Rhamuel makes a face. “That might be an exaggeration, on both counts. The Halyn white is as good a white as the Reoman is a red.”
Haesychya offers the smallest of headshakes, accompanied by a fondly rueful expression that vanishes immediately.
“What have you been telling my son?” asks Atroyan.
“Only about family … well, really, just about my sister Ryalah and my cousin Amaira, and a bit about my older brother Lephi.”
“Do you two look alike?” asks Haesychya.
“Most brothers share some likeness. I suppose we do, but he got the blond hair from our mother, and I got the freckles.”
“Is your father red-haired, then?” asks Natroyor. “It must come from somewhere.”
“From my grandmere and my aunt. They both had red hair.”
Natroyor looks at Rhamuel, almost dubiously.
The arms-commander nods. “They both do … did.”
“There were many redheads in Cyador, according to the history,” interjects Kyedra.
“There are still quite a few in Cigoerne,” replies Lerial. Among the Magi’i, anyway.
“What do you think Duke Khesyn will do?” asks Atroyan abruptly as he settles into one of the armchairs and motions for Lerial to take the one facing him.
The question startles Lerial, especially after Haesychya’s insistence on not speaking about fighting and war. Maybe that’s because she knew what her consort would want to talk about. “I’m not certain anyone can say what he will do,” Lerial says cautiously as he seats himself. “At the least, I think he will continue attacks of some sort, if only raids, on both Afrit and Cigoerne.”
Rhamuel nods as he takes an adjoining chair, while Haesychya and Kyedra share the settee.
“You don’t think he will launch an all-out attack?”
“Sooner or later, I think that is likely, ser.” Lerial smiles wryly. “I have no idea when sooner or later might be.” He wonders why Rhamuel has not spoken, but assumes that the brothers have already spoken about that.
“Neither does anyone else, I fear,” responds the duke. “It makes matters less certain than a throw of the bones.” He turns to Haesychya. “What do you think, my dear?”
“He will attack until he is stopped. That is his nature.”
“Why do you think that, Mother?” asks Kyedra.
The very fact that she asks the question suggests to Lerial that such matters are not normally discussed in the family salon.
“Khesyn wants to rule all of Hamor. Afrit is the greatest bar to that. He also dislikes Cigoerne because he blames Duke Kiedron for the loss of his niece.”
“The loss of his niece?” asks Lerial. “That is something I’ve not heard.”
“She fled his palace years and years ago, only a short time after Cigoerne … was … established. Word reached the duke that she had taken refuge with relatives in Amaershyn, but she and her sister attempted to flee once more before his men arrived. Somehow, the sister died, but the favored niece found a boat and paddled into the river. She headed for Cigoerne. The Heldyans gave chase. The Cyadoran fireship destroyed them, and days later the duke’s men found her ruined boat and some of her garments on a mudbar.”
Lerial manages only to nod, hoping he has concealed the shock at what Haesychya has revealed. Was that niece Maeroja? How could it not be? Yet … will he ever know?
“If she was so favored…?” Kyedra frowns, then goes on, “Or was it because she was perhaps too favored?”