Scion of Cyador

CXXVIII

As Lorn passes the fountain, its cold spray drifting around him, he wonders if they should shut off the water to it before long. Then he smiles as he sees Ryalth standing on the veranda, waiting for him. She is not smiling.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Mryran sent a messenger, saying that she wasn’t feeling that well, and asking if she could come another time,” says the red-haired trader. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“I worry about her,” Lorn replies, stepping forward and hugging his consort.

Ryalth hugs him back, warmly, but for a moment. “She also sent word that she must have dinner with Ciesrt’s parents tomorrow, and that she will need to be strong for that.” She shakes her head. “I would not wish to wear her boots.”

“We’re all different. I doubt she’d wish to wear yours.” He glances around. “Where’s Kerial?”

“Sleeping. He was awake all afternoon. I didn’t have to meet with any outlanders, and that was fine. I just hope he isn’t awake all night.”

“Two of us share that wish,” Lorn affirms, following her into the foyer from the chill of the veranda.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” Ryalth asks, turning as they stand in the sitting room just off the front foyer. “We’ve never met Ciesrt’s family. Vernt and Mycela have, but we haven’t.”

“We’re not Magi’i,” Lorn points out. “The honorable Kharl’elth appears to count that of great importance. Even to encouraging Ceyla to consort to Rustyl.”

“That was last eightday, Myryan said.”

Lorn shrugs. “You see. We weren’t considered important enough to invite.”

“I’m glad we’re not. I’m glad you’re not. You’re better than they are.”

“So are you,” Lorn replies with a smile. “So are you.” He embraces her again.