Chapter the Tenth

 

 

How the Arrival of an Envoy
Caused Turmoil in Whitecrest Manor

 

 

 

By contrast with the sentiment with which we closed the previous chapter of our history, it was a discontented and ill-humored older man who, in the form of our friend Khaavren, woke up early the next morning and, after dressing himself, made his way down the stairs. We trust that we have dropped sufficient hints to prevent the astute reader from being unduly startled by the changes that have taken place in our old friend since we last saw him two and a half hundred years before; and we do not, moreover, wish to give needless pain to those readers who have done us the honor to concern themselves with the brave Tiassa whose activities have formed the center of these histories; all of which is to say that we propose merely to glance briefly at the Count of Whitecrest, and give only the barest outline of what he has become, thus saving ourselves from the vicarious unhappiness the poor soldier has suffered in the time that has elapsed since the assassination of the Emperor and the fall of the Empire.

As the reader will, no doubt, have deduced, Khaavren’s failure—or, rather, what Khaavren perceived as his failure—to protect the Emperor had preyed upon his mind and spirit, leaving him, to some degree, a sad and bitter man, inclined to keeping his own counsel, and to torment himself mercilessly for every failure in his long and active life. To be sure, this bitterness had occurred only gradually during the last two hundred and fifty years, yet the alteration of his character, like the rot in a fruit, had come with ever-increasing speed once first begun, so that the last thirty or forty years had seen more change than the previous two hundred.

These changes were reflected in the set of his jaw, which gave the appearance of hiding teeth perpetually clenched; and in his hair, which had become quite grey; and in the unnatural rigidity of his posture, which gave the impression, when he walked, of an utterly inflexible spine, as if he had suffered some disabling injury, and above all in his eye, which lacked the gleam of joy and ambition that had marked his countenance even when he had been, for all anyone could see, content to be merely a soldier, carrying out the humble yet exacting duties of his office. Moreover, though he retained, perhaps, some skill in swordplay, for such skill is based in part on knowledge of the art and science of defense that is not subject to the whims of the body, he had lost nearly all of the strength, quickness, and stamina which had made him, at one time, such a formidable opponent and one of the most feared and respected swordsmen in the Empire. His condition could be observed from the sagging of his muscles and the shortness of breath that accompanied even such a mundane task as climbing the stairs up to his bedchamber. To all of this, for the sake of completeness, we should add that his left hand, wounded on that long-ago day in the last, desperate battle to stop Adron, had never entirely healed, so that it remained somewhat stiff, and unable to close, and caused him a certain amount of discomfort, especially on cold, wet nights.

And yet no one, least of all a Tiassa, is made up only of one characteristic; no one, that is to say, can be entirely lacking in complexity and contradiction. In the case of our old friend, the reader ought to remember that, at nearly the same time as the events which had marked what he saw as the great failure of his life, he had met a woman—to be precise, Daro, the Countess of Whitecrest—who had brought him a kind of happiness and contentment he had long despaired of achieving. His life with her, which resulted in a son in whom he had no small degree of pride, had worked, in some measure, to offset the sense of defeat that beset his spirit, so that at times, most often in the evening, as he sat in the drawing room before the grand hearth and played at sparrows with his son, or drew rounds with the Countess, or dealt dog-in-the-wood with both of them at once, a certain aspect of peace and happiness would settle over him; too often, however, it would be dispelled by some stray thought which would bring to mind those last days and hours of the Empire, and he would fall silent, and Daro (and, later, Piro) would know that he was asking himself once more what he could have done differently to have saved the life of that well-intentioned but ineffectual man whom the gods and the Cycle had made the last Emperor. At such times, wife and son would fall silent, as if in respect for his thoughts, and provide what little comfort they could by their presence.

To be sure, in case it is insufficiently clear to the reader, it was the influence of his wife and son that had, as it were, held off for so long what might be called the disease of his spirit. These spells of bitterness or despair seemed to grow worse and more frequent as Piro grew older; almost as if the son in which the Count took such pride were a reminder to him of his own ambition, and the devastating blow it had suffered. Yet both mother and child knew him to be of a kindhearted disposition, and loved him all the more for the pain—physical and spiritual—that he carried with him.

This was Khaavren, then, as, dressed in dark, baggy pants tucked into his tall boots and a thin blue blouse, he made his way down the wide central stairway of Whitecrest Manor, and so into the kitchen, where he found the cook deep in conversation with a Teckla he did not recognize, although the reader, jumping ahead to the correct conclusion that it is none other than Lar, will have knowledge ahead of the good Tiassa.

Khaavren, whose ears had remained as sharp as they had been on that long-ago day when the Emperor had done them the honor to make an observation respecting their obedience to their owner’s desires, was able to ascertain that the conversation between the unknown and the cook concerned the identity of the unknown, wherefore from the force of old habits he took a moment to wait and listen. A moment was all it took for the Tiassa to learn something concerning the identity of the unknown, at which time he stepped forward and said, “I bid you good day. I am the Count of Whitecrest.”

Lar bowed very low and stated his own name, adding, “I was informed—”

“Exactly,” said Khaavren. “You have letters of recommendation?”

Lar, remembering Piro’s advice of the night before, contented himself with nodding, bowing, and respectfully offering the documents in question. Khaavren accepted them and led the way back into the drawing room, where, after sitting and inviting Lar to do the same, he asked many of the same questions Piro had asked earlier, albeit in briefer form and receiving more laconic answers. At one point in the interview, the side-door clapper made its sonorous report, and Khaavren suggested Lar find out who was there; upon returning the latter announced coolly and without expression that a certain Teckla was at the door inquiring about a position as doorman and lackey.

“You may tell him,” said Khaavren evenly, “that the position is filled.”

Lar bowed without comment and turned to carry out his duty. Upon his return, Khaavren suggested that he see if he could find something with which to break his fast, after which he might introduce himself to the cook, the maid, and the stable-boy (who was also the night-groom), these being the only three other servants currently employed at Whitecrest Manor. “You will,” remarked Khaavren, “be informed of your duties at a later time, save that, as you know, you are to answer the door and—” He was interrupted again by the door clapper. He smiled and said, “To-day you will, no doubt, be spending a certain amount of your time informing those who arrive of your new position.”

“Yes, lord,” said Lar, and once more went off to answer the door, this time returning to say, “My lord, a messenger.”

“How, a messenger?” said Khaavren, frowning. “And from whom?”

“He would not say, my lord. But he is dressed in the livery of the House of the Phoenix.”

These words had such a profound affect on Khaavren that even Lar, who scarcely knew him, could see that he was experiencing strong emotion. The Tiassa nevertheless mastered himself sufficiently to say, “Pray find the Countess and inform her, after which you may show the messenger into—well—into whatever room the Countess may wish.”

“Your pardon, my lord, but—”

“Well?”

“Where might I find the Countess?”

“Ah. At the top of the stairs, turn there to the right. At the far end of that corridor, on the right, will be a small anteroom where you will find her maid. Speak to the maid.”

Lar bowed and went off to fulfill his orders, which he did with careful precision. Khaavren sat where he was, thinking and remembering, but not speculating. That is, it is not so much the case that he knew, or thought he knew, what the message was; or even that he didn’t care; it was that he had long ago simply stopped wondering about things. He knew that he would either find out or not, and it would have an effect on him or it would not, and it would be good or it would be bad, and he saw no reason to permit his thoughts to run ahead of the facts, especially when his thoughts were so entirely occupied with all of those recollections engendered by the phrase “House of the Phoenix,” which recollections we will, in respecting Khaavren’s privacy, refrain from making explicit to the reader, although the reader can, no doubt, form whatever conclusions he wishes, especially recalling that the Viscount had already spoken of a certain turmoil engendered by a letter. Should the reader conclude that the earlier letter and the present messenger are related, we will at once endorse this opinion; but should the reader choose, instead of speculating, to merely await the unfolding of events, a choice by which we are flattered in that it indicates trust in the narrator, we will give our word that the source and purpose of the messenger will be revealed before too many pages have passed.

After some few minutes, Lar returned and stood before Khaavren.

“Well?” said the Tiassa.

“Madam’s compliments, and would the Count be kind enough to attend her on the terrace?”

“Very well. Do you, then, bring us coffee.”

“I will do so at once,” said Lar. “Unless—”

“Well? Unless?”

“If Your Lordship should wish it, and you have the filter, I know how to brew klava.”

Khaavren’s visage brightened slightly, and something like a smile came to his lips as he said quietly, “Do you, then? I have not tasted klava in three hundred years. Yes, by all means, bring us a pot.”

“Honey and cream?”

“Exactly.”

“Are there biscuits and bacon?”

“Perhaps. Bring us what there is.”

Lar bowed and went off to attend to his duties, while Khaavren made his way onto the terrace, which stood in the rear of the house and offered a view out over the ocean-sea—a view which had, in fact, improved with the Interregnum, now that Kieron’s Watch no longer stood in the way off to the southwest. The morning breeze came in from the sea, which required use of the appropriately named “morning-coats,” which were left on pegs near the terrace door. Khaavren donned his, which was colored a pale blue with white embroidery, then sat in his chair facing the wide expanse of reddish-orange ocean far below him. An instant later the Countess emerged, in a morning-coat of lyorn red against which elaborate stitching in brown could barely be seen (the Countess, we should add, though a Tiassa, always affected the colors of the House of the Lyorn, because they suited her and because she cared very little about the dictates of fashion). Khaavren rose and took both of her hands in his, smiled, and escorted her to a seat next to his, where they sat together for a few minutes, until Lar appeared and announced, “An envoy from the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain,” causing Khaavren and Daro to frown in sudden consternation, because Lar, in his inexperience, had first announced the visitor as a messenger rather than an envoy, the latter of which required the hosts to rise to greet him out of courtesy for his principal.

They managed this, however, without any clumsiness. Daro bowed her head and said, “I am Whitecrest, and this is Lord Khaavren.” The envoy bowed very low and did not, of course, give his name, but did accept the chair that was offered, out of respect for his office, and he also gratefully accepted the klava that Lar brought, and which was so good that the Count and Countess immediately forgave Lar his error.

The envoy, we should add, was not a Teckla, but appeared from his features, at first, to be verily of the House of the Phoenix itself, so that for just an instant the Countess and Count found themselves startled, until they recognized, by the shape of his cheekbones and nose, that the visitor was, in fact, a Dragonlord—those of the House of the Dragon tending to often resemble superficially those of the Phoenix.

“Your Lordships perceive,” began the envoy, “that I wear the Phoenix livery.”

“We had even remarked upon it,” said Daro.

“It is for this mission only. I have taken service for this task at the request of she whom I serve. You might say that I have been loaned from one master to another. Yet I daresay my visit is not unexpected.”

“That depends,” said Daro, “on whose behalf you come.”

“I serve one called Sethra Lavode, whose name is, I expect, not unknown to you.”

“That is true,” said Daro. “I have heard that name pronounced before.”

“Sethra, on her part, serves one called Zerika.”

“Zerika?” said Khaavren. “I do not believe I know her, but—”

“But the name,” said Daro, “is significant.”

“She is,” said the envoy, “the last being born of the House of the Phoenix.”

Khaavren and Daro looked at each other.

“Her mother,” continued the Dragonlord, “was the Princess Loudin, the Phoenix Heir at the time of the disaster. Her father was—”

“Vernoi,” said Khaavren, suddenly remembering a conversation he had had with that worthy gentleman, a scant few days before the fall of the Empire.

“Exactly,” said the other. “Vernoi died in Adron’s Disaster, but he had—”

“Sent his wife out of the city some days before.”

The envoy frowned. “Ah. You knew of this circumstance?”

“At one time,” said Khaavren. “And yet, until you brought it to mind, I had not given it a thought in more than two hundred years.”

“Well, yes. It seems the Lord Vernoi had a premonition of catastrophe, and sent his wife, the Princess Loudin, to a safe place some days before the Disaster, where she was delivered of a child.”

“Zerika.”

“Exactly. Now the Princess herself scarcely survived the birth of her child by a year, falling to the first wave of Plagues that accompanied the Disaster, but the child survived, and has been raised by foster parents, and it is now at last time …” His voice trailed off and he looked expectantly at Khaavren.

“Yes? It is now time?”

“Well, Sethra Lavode deems the time is ripe.”

“The time is ripe for what, my dear sir?”

“As to that, I cannot say.”

To hide his confusion, Khaavren busied himself in pouring more klava, adding cream and honey, and drinking. At this moment Lar, who had slipped away unseen, returned with a plate full of warm biscuits, a tub of butter, and a jar of apple marmalade, all of which conspired to put the conversation in abeyance for some few minutes. During this time, Daro, who had spoken little, studied her husband, wondering at his thoughts but unwilling to intrude upon them.

After a biscuit or two had been consumed by each of the three, the Countess said, “We were not expecting you until next week.”

The envoy nodded. “In the event, the passage was not as difficult as we anticipated, yet it is a long passage, and through treacherous regions.”

“I understand. Well, you are welcome here.”

The envoy bowed his head solemnly and said, “Here is my signet and a letter.” He rose and gave these items into the hand of the Countess, who looked at them and passed them on to Khaavren, who, after making certain of the handwriting and the description contained in the letter, and the authenticity of the signet, gave them back to the envoy. Reading Sethra Lavode’s description, however, caused Khaavren to pay closer attention to the individual before them than perhaps he had hitherto, whereupon he frowned suddenly, and staring hard at the Dragonlord, suddenly pronounced the word “Uttrik.”

The envoy nodded. “I have the honor to be his son.”

“Well,” said Khaavren, smiling for the second time that morning, “You resemble him.” Then, no longer smiling, he said, “And how is my old friend?”

“Alas, sir, he was in Dragaera at the time of the Disaster.”

Khaavren bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. “I had not known that he was so close by in those last days. I wish …” His voice trailed off from a whisper to less than a whisper—in fact, to silence.

“I scarcely knew him, sir,” said the envoy.

Khaavren nodded and said in a stronger voice, “I had the honor and pleasure of knowing him well. Your name, young man, is Kytraan?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, Kytraan, you are always welcome in my home, whether you have an errand or not, in memory of a good man, a good fighter, and a good companion.” He glanced at Daro for confirmation, and she nodded solemnly.

“Thank you, Lord and Lady,” said the envoy.

As if to emphasize this greeting, Lar appeared once more, this time with a plate full of bacon and onions, which he set on the table before drawing discreetly back, which bacon and onion dish was at once sampled by those present.

We trust the reader will allow us, during this lull in the conversation, to briefly sketch Kytraan, the son of that Uttrik whom some of our readers may recall from our history of The Phoenix Guards. He was, then, a well-proportioned young man of about three hundred or three hundred and twenty, perhaps slightly short for a Dragonlord, yet with long arms and legs that gave the opposite impression when he sat. His hair was of a light brown shade, as were his eyes, and he bore a Dragonshead pendant with the jewels that marked the line of Lanya. His movements were slow and graceful, almost like a Lyorn’s, and from his countenance one would think that he smiled but rarely.

After a few minutes of silence, during which the three of them ate bacon and onions, drank klava, and stared out over the sea, Daro said, “We received a message from Dzur Mountain, that is, from the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain, that we should prepare to receive an envoy, and that we should prepare our son for a journey, but there was no reason given.”

Kytraan smiled. “And yet, you began to do so at once, didn’t you, even though you had no notion of what would be asked?”

Khaavren shrugged. “I know Sethra Lavode.”

The envoy started to speak, but Khaavren cut him off with a gesture. “Lar,” he said, “have the Viscount dress, and bring him here.”

The servant, who had been standing by some distance away, bowed and left to carry out his orders, and some half an hour later Piro, dressed and alert thanks, in spite of his abbreviated rest, to the recuperative powers of youth, appeared before them, with a cheerful word to his father, a kiss of the hand to his mother, and a respectful bow to the stranger, who was introduced at once as an envoy from the House of the Phoenix.

“The House of the Phoenix?” said Piro, frowning in bewilderment.

The envoy bowed his agreement, after which they all sat down, having, we should have mentioned, stood upon the Viscount’s entrance. Piro was then given some time to eat and drink, during which he manfully attempted, with only limited success, to conceal his curiosity and impatience and to give the impression of eating and drinking with the relaxed ease that became his rank. Both the effort and its failure were noted, we should say, with both pleasure and amusement by the Count and the Countess.

“My son,” began Khaavren without preamble when at length Piro had set aside his plate, “you are called upon to serve—I will not say the Empire, for the Empire no longer exists, but the memory of what was, and the hope of what may be again.” He stopped and spoke to Kytraan. “Will you say I am wrong?”

“I will not,” said Kytraan.

Daro said, “What exactly does the Enchantress wish of our son?”

“That I do not know. Only that he is to come with me to Dzur Mountain, a distance of some sixty-five or seventy leagues. I have arrived sooner than I had expected, and so if you wish to delay the departure, there is no reason why you should not, but I can give you no more information than I possess.”

“That is only natural,” said Daro, who glanced quickly at Piro, and then looked away. We trust the reader is able to understand what might be passing through the mind of a mother at such a moment—a moment, that is, when she is preparing to see her only child leave home for the first time, and, moreover, to leave home on a quest of uncertain results and unknown dangers. As for Khaavren, he was not immune to these feelings, yet there were other emotions as well flitting through his nerves—emotions having to do with recollections of when he had first set out from home, and of what he considered his failures since that time, and of a certain hope that his child might in some measure redeem him, and of sorrow that he would not have the chance to redeem himself, and of many other delicate shades and nuances of feeling that accompanied these.

As for Piro—for we will not hesitate to take advantage of our position as narrator to flit hither and yon into the mind and heart of whomever we wish—it may be that buried somewhere within him was a certain regret for leaving his family, perhaps for-ever, and there may have even been the smallest hint of apprehension with regard to setting out toward unknown dangers, and it is even possible that he felt some strains of loyalty toward the cause his father had served for so long; but all of these emotions were drowned and submerged by one: the sudden longing to set out and to make his way in the world, for better or worse, for good or ill, for fortune or catastrophe.

Each of the Great Houses has, as is well known, its own characteristics: the heroism of the Dzur, the ferocity of the Dragon, the cleverness of the Yendi, the nobility of the Lyorn, and, of course, the enthusiasm of the Tiassa. But some of these Houses, as is also well known, have also their similarities; and it is worth noting one point of similarity that the Tiassa share with the Dragon and the Dzur: their inability to keep their thoughts from being fully and immediately reflected on their countenances. Daro and Khaavren, then, saw at once what was passing in the mind of their son, and responded in the same manner: They gave a smile that was at once fond and a little sad, and reached out and took each other’s hands. Kytraan, upon witnessing this conjugal meeting of minds, coughed in confusion and looked away.

“Well,” said Daro after a moment, letting go of Khaavren’s hand with a gentle squeeze and recovering herself, “we must confer as to details, but, at any rate, you, good Kytraan, will spend the night beneath our roof, to which end you must be shown to a room. The servant—” She paused, realizing she didn’t know the servant’s name and the servant could not yet have knowledge of the manor. “The servant,” she continued, “will have the maid show you to a room, and we will meet again at dinner.”

Kytraan rose and bowed, and allowed himself to be escorted from the room, leaving Daro, Khaavren, and Piro alone. When they had seated themselves again, Khaavren said, “You understand there may be danger.”

“I understand that.”

“I trust you will acquit yourself bravely, because you are, after all, a Tiassa.”

“Yes, Father, and more-so because I am your son.”

“Well, it is true I have never lacked for courage, although there have been times—”

“None of that,” said the Countess gently. “Be brave, my son, but not foolish.”

“I give you my word,” said the Viscount, “that I will be inspired and guided by your examples, and I will always hold to those principles by which I have been raised.”

“Well,” said Daro, “let us hear those principles.”

“You wish, then, for me to recite them?”

“Exactly. We will see what you have learned.”

“Very well. I think you will not be disappointed. I will recite them now.”

“I am listening. What are your principles?”

“To seek understanding before taking action, yet to trust my instincts when action is called for. Never to avoid danger from fear, never to seek out danger for its own sake. Never to conform to fashion from fear of eccentricity, never to be eccentric from fear of conformity. To preserve the honor of my name and House, and to cherish the memory of the Empire. To always care for my horse, my lackey, and my equipage as if they were part of my own body. To hold myself to higher standards of conduct than I hold another. To never strike without cause, and, when there is cause, to strike for the heart. To respect, love, and obey those whom the gods have made my masters, for their sake when deserved, for my sake should my masters be unworthy, and for the sake of duty at all times. To be loyal to my House, my family, my name, and the principles of the Empire.”

“That is it,” said Daro. “Now see to your horse, lackey, and equipment, for you will leave in the morning.”

Khaavren responded to this with a sharp intake of breath. Daro looked at him quickly, but he nodded. “A delay,” he said, “would only …”

“Yes,” said Daro.

Piro stood, respect battling excitement in his address, yet he bowed and walked from the terrace without unseemly haste before breaking into a run that took him through the manor and out to the stables, to give his favorite horse an extra measure of grain, and to begin the other preparations necessary for his journey.

The Count and Countess of Whitecrest took klava on the terrace overlooking the Southern Coast of Dragaera; the sight, smell, and sound of the sea filled their senses. Khaavren never took his eyes from the reddish waves.

“My lord,” said the Countess. “For what do you look?”

“Ships, my lady, from distant ports.”

“Someday you will see them,” she said.

After this they spoke no more for the better part of an hour. At length, Khaavren said very softly, “It seems that I did some good after all.”

“You speak of the Princess Loudin?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, but speak more clearly.”

“It is nothing,” said Khaavren. “Only that, in this one matter, it seems that I was a tool of the gods.”

“And does this give you joy?”

“I feel that, in some measure, the burden is eased.”

“Then I am glad.”

Khaavren looked at her quickly. “It cannot have been easy, my dear, to—”

“Come, do not speak of it. Rather, let us watch the ocean-sea and wonder at its farther shores.”

“Yes, let us do that.”

And that is what they did, until at last Daro took her leave to be about the business of Whitecrest. Khaavren sat where he was until, well after noon, he was joined by the Viscount, who saluted him respectfully and, at Khaavren’s sign, sat next to him.

“You are ready to leave in the morning?” said Khaavren.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“How will you travel?”

“Sir, I will take my horse, and, with your permission, we will load the supplies on the seveck gelding, who is large and strong and will also carry the lackey; unless you, my father, believe we should take a mule. Yet I thought to bring as little as possible, and thus travel the more quickly.”

“No, no, my son. I subscribe to your plan exactly.”

“Then that is what I will do.”

“And you will leave early, will you not?”

“Before it is light.”

“In fact, before the Countess and I have risen.”

“That is our intention, sir, for I know that you have said that an early start on the first day is of utmost importance in a long journey, and so I have taken your words to heart.”

“That is good, Viscount. And you have come to see if I have any other words, that is, any last words of advice to you before you leave?”

“Exactly.”

“I am gratified that this thought came to you. Well, I do not, for I have taught you what I could, in words where I could not do so by example, and whatever you have learned must serve you as best it can. What of your friends?”

“I shall write to them this evening.”

“That is well. It is important that we not neglect our friends, for they are our anchors, and good friends can hold in any storm, provided we do not cut them loose.” He laughed. “You perceive what living near the sea has done to my habits of speech.”

“You have had good friends, sir, have you not?”

“I have indeed. But distances have grown longer since the Disaster, and we no longer have the posts, so that one must remain ignorant of what is passing with old friends, unless one is Sethra Lavode.”

“Apropos, sir.”

“Well?”

“Do you think I will meet her?”

“It seems you may. And if you do, you must not fail to present my respectful greetings.”

“I will do so, sir.”

Neither spoke then, for a moment, until the Viscount said, “My lord?”

“Yes, Viscount?”

“You wish you were going, don’t you, instead of I?”

Khaavren sighed. “I am in no condition to go, Viscount. I could perhaps still lift my old sword, but I could neither cut nor parry. And my old bones do not allow me to sit astride a horse for more than a few hours. And if this mission is what I suspect it is, it requires someone who …”

“Yes, sir? It requires someone who … ?”

Khaavren shook his head. “No, you will go forth, and do what must be done. That is all of it.”

“Yes, sir. I will not disgrace you.”

“No, Viscount, I am certain that you will not. And you will bid a fond farewell to the Countess before you go?”

“I will visit her in her chambers as soon as I have left you, sir.”

“Good.” They sat once more without speaking; then Khaavren said, “What do you think of your lackey?”

“He pleases me, sir, for he seems to have some courage, and his conversation amuses me.”

“That is best. A lackey can sometimes be almost a friend, you know, and I will tell you that, to this day, I wonder what has become of my old servant, Srahi, and I hope that she is happy with her companion, whose name was Mica, and who serves my friend Tazendra of whom I have told you so much.”

“I will not fail to attend to Lar, sir.”

Khaavren nodded, and then, with an effort, he rose. Piro did the same. “Come, Viscount, embrace me, and then take your leave of your mother.”

“Gladly, sir,” said the young man, and embraced his father with enthusiasm and affection, after which, with a last tender salute, he re-entered the manor. Khaavren, for his part, sat down once more and continued looking out over the ocean, where none could see the glistening in his eyes.