“MERCIFUL Domi,” Sarene breathed, “where did he come from?”
The gyorn strode into the king’s throne room with the arrogance characteristic of his kind. He wore the shining bloodred armor of a Derethi high priest, an extravagant crimson cloak billowing out behind him, though he bore no weapon. It was a costume meant to impress—and despite what Sarene thought of the gyorns themselves, she had to admit that their clothing was effective. Of course, it was mostly for show; even in Fjorden’s martial society, few people could walk as easily as this gyorn while wearing full plate armor. The metal was probably so thin and light that it would be useless in battle.
The gyorn marched past her without a second glance, his eyes focused directly on the king. He was young for a gyorn, probably in his forties, and his short, well-styled black hair had only a trace of grey in it.
“You knew there was a Derethi presence in Elantris, my lady,” Ashe said, floating beside her as usual, one of only two seons in the room. “Why should you be surprised to see a Fjordell priest?”
“That is a full gyorn, Ashe. There are only twenty of them in the entire Fjordell Empire. There may be some Derethi believers in Kae, but not enough to warrant a visit from a high priest. Gyorns are extremely miserly with their time.”
Sarene watched the Fjordell man stride across the room, cutting through groups of people like a bird tearing through a cloud of gnats. “Come on,” she whispered to Ashe, making her way past the peripheral crowd toward the front of the chamber. She didn’t want to miss what the gyorn said.
She needn’t have worried. When the man spoke, his firm voice boomed throughout the throne room. “King Iadon,” he said, with only the slightest nod of his head in place of a bow. “I, Gyorn Hrathen, bring you a message from Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth. He declares that it is time our two nations shared more than a common border.” He spoke with the thick, melodic accent of a native Fjordell.
Iadon looked up from his ledgers with a barely masked scowl. “What more does Wyrn want? We already have a trade treaty with Fjorden.”
“His Holiness fears for the souls of your people, Your Majesty,” Hrathen said.
“Well then, let him convert them. I have always allowed your priests complete freedom to preach in Arelon.”
“The people respond too slowly, Your Majesty. They require a push—a sign, if you will. Wyrn has decided it is time you yourself converted to Shu-Dereth.”
This time Iadon didn’t even bother masking the annoyance in his tone. “I already believe in Shu-Korath, priest. We serve the same God.”
“Shu-Dereth is the only true form of Shu-Keseg,” Hrathen said darkly.
Iadon waved a dismissive hand. “I care nothing for the squabbles between the two sects, priest. Go convert someone who doesn’t believe—there are still plenty of Arelenes who hold to the old religion.”
“You should not dismiss the offering of Wyrn so casually,” the gyorn warned.
“Honestly, priest, do we need to go through this? Your threats carry no weight—Fjorden hasn’t held any real influence for three centuries. Do you seriously think to intimidate me with how powerful you used to be?”
Hrathen’s eyes grew dangerous. “Fjorden is more powerful now than it ever was before.”
“Really?” Iadon asked. “Where is your vast empire? Where are your armies? How many countries have you conquered in the last century? Maybe someday you people will realize that your empire collapsed three hundred years ago.”
Hrathen paused for a moment; then he repeated his slight nod and spun around, his cloak billowing dramatically as he stalked toward the door. Sarene’s prayers were not answered, however—he didn’t step on it and trip himself. Just before Hrathen left, he turned to cast one final, disappointed look at the throne room. His gaze found Sarene instead of the king. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she could see a hint of confusion as he studied her unusual height and blonde Teo hair. Then he was gone, and the room burst into a hundred prattling conversations.
King Iadon snorted and turned back to his ledgers.
“He doesn’t see,” Sarene whispered. “He doesn’t understand.”
“Understand what, my lady?” Ashe asked.
“How dangerous that gyorn is.”
“His Majesty is a merchant, my lady, not a true politician. He doesn’t view things the same way you do.”
“Even so,” Sarene said, speaking quietly enough that only Ashe could hear. “King Iadon should be experienced enough to recognize that what Hrathen said—at least about Fjorden—is completely true. The Wyrns are more powerful now than they were centuries ago, even at the height of the Old Empire’s power.”
“It is hard to look past military might, especially when one is a relatively new monarch,” Ashe said. “King Iadon cannot fathom how Fjorden’s army of priests could be more influential than its warriors ever were.”
Sarene tapped her cheek in thought for a moment. “Well, Ashe, at least now you don’t have to worry about my causing too much unrest among Kae’s nobility.”
“I seriously doubt that, my lady. How else would you spend your time?”
“Oh, Ashe,” she said sweetly. “Why would I bother with a bunch of incompetent would-be nobles when I can match wits with a gyorn?” Then, more seriously, she continued. “Wyrn picks his high priests well. If Iadon doesn’t watch that man—and it doesn’t seem like he will—then Hrathen will convert this city out from under him. What good will my sacrificial marriage do for Teod if Arelon gives itself to our enemies?”
“You may be overreacting, my lady,” Ashe said with a pulse. The words were familiar—it seemed that Ashe often felt a need to say them to her.
Sarene shook her head. “Not this time. Today was a test, Ashe. Now Hrathen will feel justified in taking action against the king—he has convinced himself that Arelon is indeed ruled by a blasphemer. He’ll try to find a way to overthrow Iadon’s throne, and Arelon’s government will collapse for the second time in ten years. This time it won’t be the merchant class that fills the void of leadership—it will be the Derethi priesthood.”
“So you are going to help Iadon?” Ashe said, sounding amused.
“He is my sovereign king.”
“Despite your opinion that he is insufferable?”
“Anything is better than Fjordell rule. Besides, maybe I was wrong about Iadon.” Things hadn’t gone too poorly between the two of them since that first embarrassing meeting. Iadon had practically ignored her at Raoden’s funeral, which had suited Sarene just fine; she’d been too busy watching for discrepancies in the ceremony. Unfortunately the event had occurred with a disappointing level of orthodoxy, and no prominent noblemen had given themselves away by failing to show up or by looking too guilty during the proceedings.
“Yes…” she said. “Perhaps Iadon and I can get along by just ignoring each other.”
“What in the name of Burning Domi are you doing back in my court, girl!” the king swore from behind her.
Sarene raised her eyes to the sky in resignation, and Ashe pulsed a quiet laugh as she turned to face King Iadon.
“What?” she asked, trying her best to sound innocent.
“You!” Iadon barked, pointing at her. He was understandably in a bad mood—of course from what she heard, Iadon was rarely in a good mood. “Don’t you understand that women aren’t to come to my court unless they’re invited?”
Sarene blinked her eyes in confusion. “No one told me that, Your Majesty,” she said, intentionally trying to sound as if she didn’t have a wit in her skull.
Iadon grumbled something about foolish women, shaking his head at her obvious lack of intelligence.
“I just wanted to see the paintings,” Sarene said, putting a quaver in her voice, as if she were on the brink of crying.
Iadon held his hand palm-forward in the air to forestall any more of her drivel, turning back to his ledgers. Sarene barely kept herself from smiling as she wiped her eyes and pretended to study the painting behind her.
“That was unexpected,” Ashe said quietly.
“I’ll deal with Iadon later,” Sarene mumbled. “I have someone more important to worry about now.”
“I just never thought I’d see the day when you, of all women, gave in to a feminine stereotype—even if it was just an act.”
“What?” Sarene asked, fluttering her eyes. “Me, act?”
Ashe snorted.
“You know, I’ve never been able to figure out how you seons manage sounds like that,” Sarene said. “You don’t have noses—how can you snort?”
“Years of practice, my lady,” Ashe replied. “Am I truly going to have to suffer your whimpering every time you speak with the king?”
Sarene shrugged. “He expects women to be foolish, so I’ll be foolish. It’s much easier to manipulate people when they assume you can’t gather enough wits to remember your own name.”
“’Ene?” a sudden voice bellowed. “Is that you?” The deep, scratchy voice was oddly familiar. It was as if the speaker had a sore throat, though she had never heard someone with a sore throat yell so loudly.
Sarene turned. An enormous man—taller, broader, pudgier, and more muscled than seemed possible—shoved his way through the crowd in her direction. He was dressed in a broad blue silken doublet—she shuddered to think of how many worms had toiled to make it—and wore the ruffle-cuffed trousers of an Arelene courtier.
“It is you!” the man exclaimed. “We thought you weren’t coming for another week!”
“Ashe,” Sarene mumbled, “who is this lunatic and what does he want with me?”
“He looks familiar, my lady. I’m sorry, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Ha!” the enormous man said, scooping her up into a bear hug. It was an odd feeling—her bottom half squished into his oversized gut while her face was crushed by his hard, well-muscled chest. She resisted the urge to whimper, waiting and hoping the man would drop her before she passed out. Ashe would probably go for help if her face started to change colors.
Fortunately, the man let go long before she asphyxiated, instead holding her by her shoulders at arm’s length. “You’ve changed. When I last saw you, you were only knee high.” Then he looked over her tall figure. “Well … I doubt you were ever knee high, but you were certainly no taller than a waist. Your mother always said you’d be a lanky one!”
Sarene shook her head. The voice was slightly familiar, but she couldn’t place his features. She usually had such a good memory for faces. Unless …
“Hunkey Kay?” she asked hesitantly. “Gracious Domi! What happened to your beard?”
“Arelene nobles don’t wear beards, little one. I haven’t had one in years.”
It was him. The voice was different, the beardless face unfamiliar, but the eyes were the same. She remembered looking up at those wide brown eyes, always full of laughter. “Hunkey Kay,” she mumbled distractedly. “Where’s my present?”
Her uncle Kiin laughed, his odd scratchy voice making it sound more like a wheeze than a chortle. Those had always been the first words out of her mouth when he came to visit; her uncle brought the most exotic gifts, delights that were extravagant enough to be unique even to the daughter of a king.
“I’m afraid I forgot the present this time, little one.”
Sarene blushed. However, before she could squeak out an apology, her uncle wrapped a large arm around her shoulder and began towing her out of the throne room.
“Come, you have to meet my wife.”
“Wife?” Sarene said, shocked. It had been over a decade since she had seen Kiin, but she remembered one fact quite clearly. Her uncle had been a sworn bachelor and a confirmed rascal. “Hunkey Kay is married?”
“You aren’t the only one who has grown over the last ten years,” Kiin rasped. “Oh, and as cute as it is to hear you call me ‘Hunkey Kay’ like you did as a child, you’ll probably want to call me Uncle Kiin now.”
Sarene blushed again.
“So, how’s your father doing?” the large man asked. “Acting properly regal, I assume.”
“He’s doing fine, Uncle,” she replied. “Though I’m sure he would be surprised to find you living in the court of Arelon.”
“He knows.”
“No, he thinks you left on one of your voyages and settled on one of the far islands.”
“Sarene, if you’re as quick-witted a woman as you were a girl, then you should have learned by now to separate the truth from the stories.”
The statement came like a bucketful of icy water. She vaguely remembered watching her uncle’s ship sail away one day and asking her father when Hunkey Kay was going to return. Eventeo’s face had been morose when he replied that this time Hunkey Kay would be taking a long, long voyage.
“But why?” she asked. “All this time you were living just a few days’ trip from home, and you never came to visit?”
“Stories for another day, little one.” Kiin shook his head. “Right now, you need to meet the monster of a woman who finally managed to capture your uncle.”
* * *
KIIN’S WIFE WAS hardly a monster. In fact, she was one of the most beautiful mature women Sarene had ever seen. Daora had a strong face with sharp, statuesque features and a well-styled head of auburn hair. She was not what Sarene would ever have placed with her uncle—of course, her most recent memories of Kiin were over a decade old.
Kiin’s large fortress of a mansion was not a surprise. She remembered that her uncle had been a merchant of some sort, and her memories were highlighted by expensive gifts and Kiin’s exotic clothing. He had not only been the younger son of a king, but he had also been an extremely successful businessman. Something he still was, apparently. He’d been out of the city on business until that morning, which was why she hadn’t seen him at the funeral.
The greatest shock was the children. Despite the fact that Sarene knew he was married, she just couldn’t reconcile her recollections of the unruly Hunkey Kay with the concept of fatherhood. Her preconceptions were neatly shattered the moment Kiin and Daora opened the door to the mansion’s dining hall.
“Father’s home!” called the voice of a young girl.
“Yes, Father’s home,” Kiin said with a suffering voice. “And no, I didn’t bring you anything. I’ve only been gone a few minutes.”
“I don’t care what you did or didn’t bring me. I just want to eat.” The speaker, a young girl about ten years old, had a very serious, adult-sounding voice. She wore a pink dress tied with white ribbon, and had a bob of stark blonde hair.
“When do you not want to eat, Kaise?” a little boy, who looked almost identical to the girl, asked with a sour look.
“Children, don’t squabble,” Daora said firmly. “We have a guest.”
“Sarene,” Kiin said, “meet your cousins. Kaise and Daorn. The two biggest headaches in your poor uncle’s life.”
“Now, Father, you know you would have gone mad from boredom long ago without them,” a man said from the far doorway. The newcomer was of average Arelene height, which meant he was an inch or two shorter than Sarene, with a lean build and a strikingly handsome, hawkish face. His hair had been parted in the center and flopped down on either side of his face. A woman with black hair stood at his side, her lips pursed as she studied Sarene.
The man bowed slightly to Sarene. “Your Highness,” he said, only a hint of a smile on his lips.
“My son Lukel,” Kiin said.
“Your son?” That was a surprise. Young children Sarene could accept, but Lukel was a few years older than she was. That meant …
“No,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Lukel is from Daora’s previous marriage.”
“Not that that makes me any less his son,” Lukel said, smiling broadly. “You can’t escape responsibility for me that easily.”
“Domi Himself wouldn’t dare take responsibility for you,” Kiin said. “Anyway, that’s Jalla next to him.”
“Your daughter?” Sarene asked as Jalla curtsied.
“Daughter-in-law,” the dark-haired woman said, her speech marked by an accent.
“You’re Fjordell?” Sarene asked. The hair had been a clue, but the name and accent were giveaways.
“Svordish,” Jalla corrected—not that it was much different. The kingdom of Svorden was all but a Fjordell province.
“Jalla and I studied together at the Svordish university,” Lukel explained. “We were married last month.”
“Congratulations,” Sarene said. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only newlywed in the room.” Sarene meant the comment lightly, but was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She felt Kiin’s large hand grip her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, ’Ene,” he said softly. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but … You deserved better than this; you were always such a happy child.”
“No loss to me,” Sarene said with an indifference she didn’t feel. “It isn’t like I knew him, Uncle.”
“Even still,” Daora said, “it must have been a shock.”
“You could say that,” Sarene agreed.
“If it helps,” Kiin said, “Raoden was a good man. One of the best I have ever known. If you knew a little more about Arelene politics, then you would understand that I don’t use those words lightly when referring to a member of Iadon’s court.”
Sarene nodded. Part of her was happy to hear she hadn’t misjudged Raoden previously; the other half thought it would have been easier to continue thinking that he was like his father.
“Enough talk about dead princes!” a small but insistent voice declared from the table. “If we don’t eat soon, Father will have to stop complaining about me because I’ll be dead.”
“Yes, Kiin,” Daora agreed, “you should probably go to the kitchen and make sure your feast isn’t burning.”
Kiin snorted. “I have each dish cooking on a precise schedule. It would be impossible for one to…” The large man trailed off, sniffing the air. Then he swore and barreled out of the room.
“Uncle Kiin is cooking dinner?” Sarene asked, amazed.
“Your uncle is one of the best chefs in this town, dear,” Daora said.
“Uncle Kiin?” Sarene repeated. “Cook?”
Daora nodded, as if it were an everyday occurrence. “Kiin has traveled more places in this world than anyone in Arelon, and he brought back recipes from each one. I believe tonight he’s fixing something he learned in JinDo.”
“Does this mean we’re going to eat?” Kaise asked pointedly.
“I hate JinDo food,” Daorn complained, his voice almost indistinguishable from that of his sister. “It’s too spicy.”
“You don’t like anything unless it has a handful of sugar mixed in,” Lukel teased, mussing his half brother’s hair.
“Daorn, go run and get Adien.”
“Another one?” Sarene asked.
Daora nodded. “The last. Lukel’s full brother.”
“He’s probably sleeping,” Kaise said. “Adien’s always sleeping. I think it’s because his mind is only half awake.”
“Kaise, little girls who say such things about their brothers often end up in bed without supper,” Daora said. “Daorn, get moving.”
* * *
“YOU DON’T LOOK like a princess,” Kaise said. The girl sat primly on her chair beside Sarene. The dining room had a homey feel, more like a study, filled with dark wood paneling and relics from Kiin’s traveling days.
“What do you mean?” Sarene asked, trying to figure out how to use the odd JinDo dining utensils. There were two of them, one with a sharp pointed end and the other with a flat shoveled end. Everyone else was eating with them as if it were second nature, and Sarene was determined not to say anything. She would figure them out on her own or she wouldn’t get much to eat. The latter was looking much more likely.
“Well, for one thing you’re way too tall,” Kaise said.
“Kaise,” her mother warned in a threatening tone.
“Well it’s true. All of the books say princesses are petite. I’m not exactly sure what petite means, but I don’t think she’s it.”
“I’m Teo,” Sarene said, successfully spearing something that looked like a marinated piece of shrimp. “We’re all this tall.”
“Father’s Teo too, Kaise,” Daorn said. “And you know how tall he is.”
“But Father’s fat,” Kaise pointed out. “Why aren’t you fat too, Sarene?”
Kiin, who had just appeared out of the kitchen doors, absently rapped his daughter on the head with the bottom of a metal serving tray as he passed. “Just as I thought,” he mumbled, listening to the ringing sound, “your head is completely hollow. I guess that explains a lot.”
Kaise rubbed her head petulantly before turning back to her meal, muttering, “I still think princesses should be smaller. Besides, princesses are supposed to have good table manners; Cousin Sarene’s dropped about half of her meal on the floor. Who ever heard of a princess that didn’t know how to use MaiPon sticks?”
Sarene blushed, looking down at the foreign utensils.
“Don’t listen to her, ’Ene,” Kiin laughed, setting another succulent-smelling dish on the table. “This is JinDo food—it’s made with so much grease that if half of it doesn’t end up on the floor, then something’s wrong. You’ll get the hang of those sticks eventually.”
“You can use a spoon if you want,” Daorn said. “Adien always does.”
Sarene’s eyes were immediately drawn to the fourth child. Adien was a thin-faced boy in his late teens. He had a pale white complexion and a strange, discomforting cast to his face. He ate awkwardly, his motions stiff and uncontrolled. As he ate, he mumbled to himself—repeating numbers, as far as Sarene could tell. Sarene had met people like him before, children whose minds weren’t completely whole.
“Father, the meal is delicious,” Lukel said, drawing the attention away from his brother. “I don’t believe you’ve ever fixed this shrimp dish before.”
“It’s called HaiKo,” Kiin said in his raspy voice. “I learned it off a traveling merchant while you were studying in Svorden last year.”
“Two million one hundred six thousand two hundred and thirty-eight,” Adien mumbled. “That’s how many steps it is to Svorden.”
Sarene was a bit taken aback by Adien’s addition, but the rest of the family paid him no heed, so she did likewise. “It truly is wonderful, Uncle,” Sarene said. “I would never have figured you for a chef.”
“I’ve always enjoyed it,” Kiin said, sitting down in his chair. “I would have fixed you some things back when I visited Teod, but your mother’s head cook had this inane idea that royalty didn’t belong in the kitchen. I tried to explain to her that, in a way, I partially owned the kitchens, but she still would never let me set foot inside to prepare a meal.”
“Well, she did us all a disservice,” Sarene said. “You don’t do all of the cooking, do you?”
Kiin shook his head. “Fortunately, no. Daora is quite the cook herself.”
Sarene blinked in surprise. “You mean you don’t have a cook to fix your meals for you?”
Kiin and Daora shook their heads in unison.
“Father is our cook,” Kaise said.
“No servers or butlers either?” Sarene asked. She had assumed the lack of servants was due to an odd desire on Kiin’s part to keep this particular meal personal.
“None at all,” Kiin said.
“But why?”
Kiin looked at his wife, then back at Sarene. “Sarene, do you know what happened here ten years ago?”
“The Reod?” Sarene asked. “The Punishment?”
“Yes, but do you know what that means?”
Sarene thought for a moment, then shrugged. “The end of the Elantrians.”
Kiin nodded. “You probably never met an Elantrian—you were still young when the Reod hit. It is hard to explain how much this country changed when the disaster struck. Elantris used to be the most beautiful city in the world—trust me, I’ve been everywhere else. It was a monument of glowing stone and lustrous metal, and its inhabitants looked like they were chiseled from the same materials. Then … they fell.”
“Yes, I’ve studied this before,” Sarene said, nodding. “Their skin turned dark with black spots, and their hair began to fall from their skulls.”
“You can say that with the knowledge of books,” Kiin said, “but you weren’t here when it happened. You can’t know the horror that comes from seeing gods turn wretched and foul. Their fall destroyed the Arelene government, throwing the country into total chaos.”
He paused for a moment, then continued. “It was the servants who started the revolution, Sarene. The very day their masters fell, the servants turned on them. Some—mostly the country’s current nobility—say it was because the lower class in Elantris was treated too well, that their pampered natures inspired them to cast down their former rulers at the first sign of weakness. I think it was simply fear—ignorant fear that the Elantrians had a vile disease, mixed with the terror that comes from seeing someone you had worshipped stricken down before you.
“Either way, the servants are the ones who did the most damage. First in small groups, then in an incredibly destructive riot, killing any Elantrian they could find. The most powerful Elantrians went first, but the killings spread to the weaker ones as well.
“It didn’t stop with the Elantrians either—the people attacked families, friends, and even those who had been appointed to positions by the Elantrians. Daora and I watched it all, horrified and thankful that there were no Elantrians in the family. Because of that night, we haven’t ever been able to convince ourselves to hire servants.”
“Not that we really need them,” Daora said. “You’d be surprised at how much you can get done on your own.”
“Especially when you have a couple of children to do the dirty jobs,” Kiin said with a sly smile.
“Is that all we’re good for, Father?” Lukel laughed. “Scrubbing floors?”
“It’s the only reason I’ve ever found for having kids,” Kiin said. “Your mother and I only had Daorn because we decided we needed another couple of hands to wash chamber pots.”
“Father, please,” Kaise said. “I’m trying to eat.”
“Merciful Domi help the man who interrupts Kaise’s supper,” Lukel said with a chuckle.
“Princess Kaise,” the little girl corrected.
“Oh, so my little girl’s a princess now?” Kiin asked, amused.
“If Sarene can be one, then so can I. After all, you’re her uncle, and that should make you a prince. Right, Father?”
“Technically yes,” Kiin said. “Though I don’t think I officially have a title anymore.”
“They probably kicked you out because you spoke of chamber pots during supper,” Kaise said. “Princes can’t do that sort of thing, you know. It’s horrible table manners.”
“Of course.” Kiin’s smile was fond. “I wonder why I never realized that before.”
“So,” Kaise continued. “If you are a prince, then your daughter is a princess.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Kaise,” Lukel said. “Father’s not king, so his kids would be barons or counts, not princes.”
“Is that true?” Kaise asked, sounding disappointed.
“I’m afraid so,” Kiin said. “However, trust me. Anyone who claims you’re not a princess, Kaise, hasn’t ever listened to you complain at bedtime.”
The little girl thought for a moment and, apparently unsure how to take the comment, simply turned back to her dinner. Sarene wasn’t paying much attention; her mind had frozen at the part where her uncle had said “I don’t think I officially have a title anymore.” It smelled of politics. Sarene thought she knew every important event that had happened in Teod’s court during the last fifty years, and she knew nothing of Kiin being officially stripped of his title.
Before she could ponder any more on the incongruity, Ashe floated in through a window. In the excitement of the dinner, Sarene had almost forgotten that she’d sent him to follow the gyorn.
The ball of light stopped hesitantly in the air near the window. “My lady, am I interrupting?”
“No, Ashe, come in and meet my family.”
“You have a seon!” Daorn exclaimed. For once his sister seemed too stunned to speak.
“This is Ashe,” Sarene said. “He’s been serving my house for over two centuries, and he’s the wisest seon I’ve ever known.”
“My lady, you exaggerate,” Ashe said modestly, yet at the same time she noticed he was glowing a bit brighter.
“A seon…” Kaise said with quiet wonder, her dinner forgotten.
“They’ve always been rare,” Kiin said, “now more than ever.”
“Where did you get him?” Kaise asked.
“From my mother,” Sarene said. “She Passed Ashe to me when I was born.” The Passing of a seon—it was one of the finest gifts a person could receive. Someday, Sarene would have to Pass Ashe, selecting a new ward for him to watch over and care for. She had planned it to be one of her children, or perhaps grandchildren. The possibility of either ever existing, however, was looking increasingly unlikely.
“A seon,” Kaise said again. She turned to Sarene, eyes alight with excitement. “Can I play with him after supper?”
“Play with me?” Ashe asked uncertainly.
“Can I please, Cousin Sarene?” Kaise begged.
Sarene smiled. “I don’t know. I seem to recall a few comments about my height.”
The little girl’s look of disappointed chagrin was a source of great amusement to all. It was at that moment, among their laughter, that Sarene began to feel her tension ease for the first time since leaving her homeland a week before.