“Can you de-mud us before we get up to the front door?” Rysha glanced down at the slacks she wore, they, too, being adorned with damp spots. The sandals she’d chosen, perhaps dressing according to the current pleasant and calm weather rather than the rain that had dominated previous days, left her skin exposed to the elements.
Though Shulina Arya had offered to land on the rooftop of Rysha’s manor, she had adamantly told the dragon that it wasn’t necessary, asking her instead to drop them off on the opposite side of the lake. A wise choice. The charred remains of her grandmother’s house remained near the shoreline there, and Trip doubted her family would appreciate the appearance of a dragon, even a friendly one.
“De-mud?” he asked.
“With your powerful magics.”
“Hm.” Trip eyed the mud spatters. “I’ve never turned my power to de-mudding.”
“Surely, cleaning clothing must be within a mage’s repertoire. It’s at least as important as incinerating enemies.”
“If Jaxi were here, she would recommend incinerating the mud.”
Rysha touched her shoulder where she’d been shot the month before. “I remember her tendency to consider that a solution to all problems.”
With enough precision, you could incinerate mud, Azarwrath chimed in.
“Oh dear,” Trip said.
“What?”
“Jaxi may have rubbed off on Azarwrath.”
Hardly that. Azarwrath sniffed loudly into his mind. I’ll ensure you look fabulous by the time you reach the door. Later, I’ll give you grooming tips.
That sounds like something to look forward to.
If your lady wishes her attire cleaned, a good sorcerer should be able to assist her. Ah, but what is that I detect? Do you smell it?
Probably. Trip sniffed and turned his nose in the direction of smoke rising from one of the twelve—no, fourteen—chimneys poking above the rooftop of the sprawling manor. I assume you’re sensing things through my nostrils.
I am, indeed. Meat is being smoked. Pork, I believe. And is that the hint of a sweet barbecue sauce simmering in a pot over an open flame? Barbecue was invented in Cofahre, you know. It was originally considered a peasants’ dish, but a couple of centuries back, it grew trendy for culinary experts to refine the sauces and the smoking methods. A good chef today can ensure the meat falls off the bones and melts in your mouth. Telryn, is your mouth watering now?
Trip could smell the meat smoking, but he had no idea about the barbecue sauce. And he was growing more concerned that he and Rysha approached the front doors and were still bedewed with mud.
Worried that Azarwrath was unduly distracted, he focused on his trousers as he and Rysha climbed the three wide flagstone steps. Avoiding thoughts of incineration, he tried to envision every speck of mud that stuck to them, willing them to fly away from their clothing, leaving it pristine.
One of the doors opened as his magic was in the middle of working. All at once, the mud flew from their legs and feet toward the man who stepped onto the threshold. Countless brown droplets spattered against his legs.
Trip cursed to himself, checking the man’s face, hoping he hadn’t felt anything, and also hoping this was the butler or some servant who wouldn’t be horrified by a few dirt smudges. Or make that a few dozen. He certainly had concentrated the grime, hadn’t he?
“Father,” Rysha said at the same time as Trip recognized the man from their previous meeting.
Her father’s lips started to curve upward at Rysha, but he noticed Trip right away, and those lips shifted into a frown. Not one of recognition, Trip decided, sensing the man’s surface thoughts. Maybe because Trip was clad in his dress uniform instead of the fatigues he’d worn when he flew Rysha down to see her family a couple of months earlier? Or maybe because on that day, the man had dismissed Trip as someone worth forgetting.
“Rysha,” her father said—Trip groped for his name, but didn’t think she’d ever given it. Lord Ravenwood would have to do. “It’s good to see you.” He stepped forward and gripped her wrists, but then decided a hug was preferable and gathered her into his arms.
Trip sensed surprise from Rysha—apparently, her father wasn’t one to show affection through physical means, especially in front of others. From Lord Ravenwood, Trip sensed a mixture of relief and sincere happiness at seeing Rysha.
Feeling uncomfortable witnessing the man’s emotions, Trip almost walled off his mind so he wouldn’t sense them, but he remembered this was the reason he was here. To spy.
“Your mother didn’t lead me to believe you were coming down,” Lord Ravenwood said.
“Just for tonight.” Rysha returned the hug. “For dinner. I’ve missed you all and wanted to make sure everyone is all right.”
Trip sensed her discomfort at the partial truth.
“Only for dinner?” Lord Ravenwood released her and stepped back to look her up and down.
She had chosen not to wear her military uniform or the newly awarded badge that proclaimed her a member of the elite troops. Only her civilian clothes. Trip knew she was proud and would have loved to come in the military attire, but also that she knew her family wouldn’t appreciate it. It stung her that they couldn’t accept her choice and that her parents wanted her to leave the military, that they had no interest in celebrating her achievements within it.
Trip looked away. He hadn’t meant to spy on her thoughts.
“Yes, sir,” Rysha said. “I have work tomorrow.”
“Ah.”
“This is Captain Telryn Yert. He goes by Trip. I invited him to dinner.”
Trip sensed Rysha bracing herself and wondering if her father had heard the story of the barracks-room nudity.
“I see.” Lord Ravenwood didn’t scowl at Trip, not exactly, but his expression wasn’t welcoming as they made eye contact. He didn’t hold the gaze for long, instead looking back to Rysha. “It’s unfortunate that you didn’t let us know you were coming. I know your mother and aunt have a list of appropriate young men that they would love to invite over to meet you.”
Rysha gritted her teeth, and her cheeks grew pink. “Because that’s what’s important now, I’m sure. Dragons are invading Iskandia, and there’s civil unrest all over the countryside, but let’s make sure to find Rysha an appropriate nobleman to make babies with.”
Lord Ravenwood lifted his hands and stepped back, truly seeming apologetic. “Neither of us intends to pressure you to have children—” He glanced at Trip, appearing appalled at speaking so bluntly about such things in front of a stranger. “I just know they want you to have a reason to stay closer to home.”
“To quit the military, you mean.”
“Rysha—”
“Can we come in, please? It was a long ride down here.”
“Ride?” Lord Ravenwood looked past them. “Did you already take your horses to the stable?”
“Our mount is cared for.”
They had left Shulina Arya to hunt for some of the rabbits she’d spotted darting in and out of the hedgerow along the road. While rabbits were but a scant appetizer to dragons, the flavor was appealing, especially with the plump ones, or so Shulina Arya had informed them.
“Mount?” Lord Ravenwood asked, his thoughts hitching on the singular use of the word.