The mother and the father and two daughters sit around the oval dining table that could seat at least another four people. The table is lit but by a single candle. Outside, the cold rain pelts on the windows and the roof.
“You’re worried about Veria?” asks Aetlen, finishing the last bite of a stew that had filled but half the small bowl before him.
“Veria…and Encora,” replies the Matriarch. “We know that the Sturinnese will lay siege to Elahwa, yet we’re still losing trading vessels. Even ships from Wei are no longer porting here. Prices of all goods are going up, and there are some grain futures that the Exchange will not trade, at any price.”
“Mother, why will you not send more lancers to help the FreeWomen?” asks the thin and older dark-haired girl.
The blonde daughter—Verlya—pauses in lifting a goblet. Her eyes flicker from her mother to her older sister.
“We have already sent ten companies, Ulya. What am I to do if the Sturinnese turn their ships south and sail to attack Encora? They can reach us in less than a week if the wind is right, and if their fleet is in the channel. The lancers will need to ride back, and it will take almost twice that for them to return. And they will not be fit for battle for another week if they make such haste.”
“You could send Alcaren,” Verlya says. “The SouthWomen would go with him.”
Alya’s mouth opens, if for but an instant. “Where did you hear that?”
Verlya flushes. “I shouldn’t say, I guess. Should I?”
“You overheard Alcaren talking to someone?”
“No, mother. It wasn’t Alcaren. He wouldn’t do that.”
“I’ll bet it was Scyda,” suggests Ulya. “She was complaining the other day that the SouthWomen could make a difference.”
Alya cocks her head, as if in thought, then glances at her consort.
“Do you know what the Sorceress-Protector will do?” asks Aetlen.
“Whatever is best for Defalk, I am sure. That may not be best for Elahwa or us.” Alya’s lips twist. “Then it may be, but it is not something we can count upon, not in these times.”
“She will not harm us, will she?” questions Verlya.
“That is most unlikely, but she is young, as sorceresses go—”
“Like Alcaren?” interrupts Ulya.
Alya laughs. “In a way. In a way. But he would rather use a blade or a lance, while she prefers indirect spells.”
“That’s why he’s the head of your guard,” Verlya announces.
Aetlen and Alya exchange a quick glance before smiling at each other.
Alya laughs, ruefully. “Why not? If the SouthWomen would have him…then…”
Aetlen nods. “One way or another…it will solve the problem. Or one of them.”
The brief light fades from Alya’s face as she looks at Aetlen’s somber countenance. She forces a smile as she turns back to her daughters. “We do have a little rice pudding.”
“It’s been sooo…long since we had sweetcakes,” Verlya says.
“That’s because the ships haven’t come with molasses and sugar,” Ulya points out. “We’re lucky to have rice pudding. Most people don’t have that.”
“I know.” Verlya sighs.
Aetlen rolls his eyes at the dramatic statement and sigh, but manages to keep a straight face.
“I could give it to someone else,” Alya suggests.
“Please don’t, mother,” Verlya says quickly. Then she pauses. “Perhaps you should. If it’s someone who doesn’t get any.”
“You may have some,” Alya says. “I already had most of it given to some of the families of the lancers of the third company.”
“The ones in Elahwa?” asks the older daughter.
“One of the companies in Elahwa. There was only enough for four families, but they have children your age.” Alya stands and slips from the dining chamber.
“I can eat mine, then.”
“Yes, you can,” Aetlen says with a smile. “Your portion is small enough that you may enjoy it.”
The Matriarch returns with two dishes, one for each child, each portion but two small bites. Neither child leaves a grain of the rice or sauce.
Neither parent smiles.