"It's perfect," Agronak offered, nodding towards the strangely decorated clay pot marking his seat at the table. At some point Evie must have caught the mistake, having Elyn correct Agrynak into Agronak—though the effect of the O over the Y made his name look much more like Agrgnak than anything else. A green stick and a tufted splash of yellow were the other adornments painstakingly painted on—he had even less of an idea what they represented than why he needed a pot (filled with dirt, by the looks of it) in the first place.
"That's your sword 'cause you're ra gada," Elyn stated proudly, pointing towards the slash of green. "And a crown 'cause you're no shira."
Even more confused by the explanation, Agronak settled for a polite nod and attentive expression. Cyovta smiled at him, fingers gently smoothing her son's wayward ebony curls.
"Ra gada—warrior, no shira—noble. Your village is lucky to have a ra gada no shira as lord. It brings great honour to your people." She spoke with a cultured dignity, everything about her suggestive of an innate poise and elegance—from the crisp folds of her gown to the straight curtain of black hair, snipped with precision to fall in a perfect fringe of bangs and shoulder sweeping lengths.
It brought to mind the ingrained confidence excellent warriors in the Arena possessed, usually matured by the time they reached the champion level. But unlike them he had a feeling she was always this way—not a developed trait, but a quirk of personality since birth. The thought of living under the perpetually serene gaze of those khol-lined eyes was a little intimidating. He'd always prefer a woman who made him comfortable behind closed doors, rather than one he would feel he had to live up to.
Agronak's musing on the quality of life with the happily married Yokudan halted with the commencement of dinner. Or rather, the commencement of the dinner rituals. It started with a brief prayer—a typical offering of thanks and worship to the Gods in hopes for a bountiful season—before each member donned their adorned wreath. The men at the table all wore similar ones, a sparse sprinkling of flowers set amidst the pale wheat, but those of the ladies were much more varied.
Of them all Ria's was the most elaborate: a symmetrical crown of flowers, the wheat almost more of an accent than a base, garnished with trailing ribbons, brilliant coloured strands fluttering from complicated bows. While it was certainly feminine, and she had somehow managed to turn a bunch of dried plants into a flattering accessory, he had to admit that he much preferred the simply decorated wreath Cerisse had created.
The contrast between the black roses and blonde wheat, accented with a simple bow of emerald green silk tied towards the back, drew his attention. At least, he told himself that was the reason he kept glancing at her. Well, that, and the way she kept avoiding his eyes, having done so ever since she'd returned from her 'coughing' fit earlier that afternoon still flushed, but much calmer in demeanor.
It was a relief to have her back. After a small jerk, which Agronak strongly suspected was a reaction to either a pinch or light kick from her brother, Ria had begun her less than subtle flirtations once Cerisse had left the room. Somewhere between the lopsided chewing of her lip, which had brought to mind the absurd concept of a nervous one fanged vampire, and the subtle prompts of her brother that always seemed to precede her affections, Agronak garnered the distinct impression she really wasn't after him. She was, however, trying to give the illusion of pursuing him—at least, so long as Cerisse wasn't around. It was a perplexing riddle he hadn't yet deciphered. Either way, he still didn't want to be alone around her much, especially not since Gondyn seemed to have a hand in the plan. That notion did nothing to soothe his worries. In fact, Gondyn's involvement made Agronak want to brace himself for nothing short of an all out siege.
The first course was served, a salad of bitter, early leaves Evie told him represented the mistakes of the past year—a symbolic form of edible atonement. Fortunately the portions were sparse. The next course, a complicated soup made from a variety of roots , carefully held over all winter, was much tastier. Probably because it wasn't another form of punishment, but rather the start of the celebratory meal; the soup being a reminder of past blessings and bounty.
As the meal grew in quantity and flavour, so too did the talk around the table grow in volume and good humour. By the time the main course made its appearance—the earliest of spring vegetables (a taste of things to come), a hearty serving of beans(in honour of the tale of Arkay and the stablehand), and light, crusty bread (which allegedly had something to do with the sun, but Agronak suspected had more to do with providing a method to sop up the sauce)—the discussions turned into a friendly game.
Listening in, he quickly deciphered the loose rules. It was a contest to stump Alabyval that everyone could play, the challenger giving a word and the language it was to be translated into. The only catch was you had to know the answer yourself before asking the question. Alabyval had already disqualified Gondyn for asking for the Argonian version of 'tiger.' It had stumped both of them, and once it was established there was no known answer amongst the guests Alabyval had become very excited, threatening to start in on an interminable monologue on the potential translation. It was only through thinly veiled threats from the opposite end of the table—Evie not about to let the festivities turn into a lecture—as well as the light hearted teasing from the rest of his family had Alabyval finally relented, beginning the game again with a simple challenge from Lara for 'snow' in Aldmeris.
In between Evie's explanation on the importance of the meal being meatless, even so far as to be prepared without milk or eggs, Agronak listened to the remarkable variety of languages being bandied about. Cerisse had just finished a quick duel of words in Ta'agra, trying to trip up her father with some of the more obscure vocabulary from her recent readings, when Cyovta attempted to win with some difficult words to be turned into Yokudan, her native tongue. But the game was not to be won so easily, Alabyval fending them off after a bit of memory searching. During a small lull in the conversation, a contented pause of satiated appetites, Agronak decided to give it a try.
Abandoning any thought of asking for something in Orcish, or even Dunmeris, he tried to think of any of the words he knew in foreign tongues that didn't have inappropriate translations, the Common versions being words he certainly didn't wish to teach the children. Finally clicking on one he'd heard too much of during a strange span of time—a matter of days that felt like eternity—he nodded down to the cheerful Breton. "I've got one you might not know. Outsider, or outcast if you prefer."
"What language?" Alabyval asked, clearly intrigued by the new challenger. His children were all busy offering suggestions of tongues to avoid, certain their father would know the answer.
"Daedric," Agronak replied.
A flurry of whispers followed, like a whirlwind through fall leaves, excitement amongst the siblings palpable. Shaking away the curious musings that he spoke Daedric—which he didn't—Agronak returned to his previous discussion with Evie about the evening meal. The last course was served, a decadent hand rolled pastry filled with spiced nuts, carefully coiled into the shape of a bird's nest, then sweetened with a honey syrup and sprinkled with candied flowers. The dessert was a celebration of the sweetness of a new beginning—the old business of the past year left behind, the potential of a fresh start stretching out in the year ahead.
As fork-cleaned plates lay empty upon the table, all eyes turned towards Alabyval, expectation lying thick in the air. He'd been musing to himself, occasionally conjugating verbs and mumbling phrases as he struggled to come up with an answer. From what Agronak could gather the game finished with the meal, the lone morsel of pastry sitting on Alabyval's plate the only thing preventing its conclusion.
"Gra'ravi, tell him the word." Lara's whispered encouragement was loud enough to be heard by all. Gondyn repeated it glibly while trying to steal the remaining piece of dessert with his fork. Fending off his youngest son with his silverware, Alabyval fell for the ruse, Rodyrick quickly darting in his hand to steal the obstinate morsel and ensure its destruction with a well-timed bite. Judging by their coordinated efforts this wasn't the first time he'd stalled with his food.
"I sure hope you have an answer for us, Agronak, because I don't," Alabyval finally admitted, hands waving down his family's friendly jeers at the announcement. "Tell us, what is the Daedric word for outsider?"
"Nikyn." The answer was given with his best attempt at the strange metallic growl of a dremora. It was comfortable enough to mock their odd voices surrounded by good friends and fine ale, a pastime he'd indulged in as a sort of therapy after the intense battle at Bruma, but it still wasn't a language he wished to think of when alone.
"Of course!" Alabyval exclaimed, tossing his napkin onto the table. "Not kin, or more accurately not us. With a grammar structure that mimics the rigidity of their caste system, their compound words can almost be predicted. If you examine the uses of the word kyn, you'd find that-"
"Dear," Evie interrupted, her soft bark halting the start of a lecture mid-sentence. "Please don't make me use up my wish before I plant it."
"Ah, yes, the wishes." Gentle prods with his cane into the wiry fur of Dar eventually stirred the sleeping hound from his spot beside Alabyval's chair, allowing the man to rise with a soft grunt as age-worn joints lamented their renewed use. Limping somewhat stiffly at first, he left the room, the staccato rhythm of the tip of his cane a counter-beat to his footfalls.
The family remained seated, chatter springing up amongst them as they waited Alabyval's return. Answering Cyovta's question as to where he'd learnt Daedric, Agronak caught Ria's hastily whispered conversation with her mother. The tense young woman, who'd spent the meal nibbling on her lip almost as much as her food, didn't seem to take much comfort from Evie's repeated placations that he'll be here soon.
Alabyval, however, did return soon, carrying a small handled bowl that rattled with each step. Lara and Elyn promptly began arguing over whose turn it was to bestow the wishes, the argument ended by the decisive proclamation of their father that Lara would have the honour this year. Eagerly bouncing out of her seat, she ran to wait beside her grandfather's chair.
Amidst the helpful calls of her aunts and uncles, she solemnly carried the silver vessel, rimmed with a pattern of vines and berries, towards the only guest. Unsure what he was supposed to do, Lara whispered that Agronak needed to choose one of the small speckled beans currently rolling around in the bottom. Plucking the least wrinkled one, earning a surprised look from Lara at his decision, he watched as she moved back to Alabyval.
It seemed to be offered by age amongst the family, Lara working her way down the generations. Tongues loosened by good food and fine company, they gently teased each other, jokes being fashioned from long ago memories. They conjured ghosts of past selves to flit about in his imagination—Evie as a child, accidentally catching her ribbons on fire by leaning too near a candle; Cerisse fighting with her sister Wynny over the bowl, the beans flying onto the floor; a very young Gondyn trying to convince a dog to help him get his wish, bursting into inconsolable tears when the treacherous hound ate it instead.
At last all had chosen but Cerisse and Lara. The child, after intense concentration, finally made her decision. With no others to choose from, Cerisse gladly accepted the sole remaining bean, Gondyn taking the opportunity to explain this method was to keep her from cheating with her witch magic.
Evie, noting his hesitancy, instructed Agronak to plant his bean into his pot while making a wish at the same time. Before doing so he glanced around the table, amused by the various methods the others were employing. Ria's eyes were closed, both hands clutching her little bean close to her heart, lips moving in a silent prayer. Rodyrick, by contrast, popped his into his pot without ceremony.
Fingers poised above the dirt, regally ensconced in his majestically decorated pot, it occurred to Agronak he wasn't entirely sure what to wish for. So many of his dreams had already come true—success in the Arena, the recognition of his heritage, the inheritance of his village. Wishing for more money seemed somehow too base for an occasion like this, nestled as he was in the warm glow of a happy family.
Grin tugging at his lips, he pushed the black spotted bean into the earth, a very simple wish guiding it down. It was frivolous, fanciful, and yet sincere. There were many things he could wish for to occur in his life, but as he sat here amongst the love and history at the table, he knew there was one thing no amount of gold or fame would ever bring him.
This.
There was no question about it—Ria adored him completely. Hanging onto every word, soft eyes sending secret messages of warm places and waiting arms, it was blatantly obvious how she really felt.
He appeared to feel the same way; his well-practiced speech given to all, clearly meant for her. Grace, beauty, devotion—a discussion of ideals masking a poorly coded love letter.
It was so sickly sweet, Agronak had the sudden urge to lick a block of salt. Probably not the effect the Priest intended with his sermon about the coming year, and his prayers for the blessings of Dibella. Strange that She was the only one of the Nine being mentioned—the temples in Cyrodiil were devoted to a specific deity, but they all shared the same ideology. Rarely did it translate into such a strongly worded statement about the divinity of one Goddess compared to the others.
The small pots, each cradling a secret hope in the form of a wrinkled little bean, were pronounced blessed amidst the moonlight and cloying clouds of incense. The night air was unfortunately still, the perfumed smoke of the braziers unmoving as it hung thickly around his face. A small headache threatened to be the first thing of the new season to bloom.
Grateful for an opportunity to change position on the terrace, Agronak edged behind Cyovta in a bid for fresher air as Ria exchanged places with the Priest of Dibella, another poorly hidden wordless exchange passing between them. Finding a relatively fragrance free spot, he tried to get comfortable as he wondered how much longer the ceremony would last. It hadn't been fully explained, but it was easy enough to guess at its origins. The swollen form of Masser filled the sky, lighting the night in a brilliant glow, while Secunda was nowhere to be found. Little wonder someone in the distant ages had decided to take things outside. At least they didn't have to dance around under the moon—some of the ancient superstitions could be so ridiculous.
Trailing ribbons vibrating as she cleared her throat, Ria waited for her unspoken demand of attention to bring all eyes to her. Everard's surely were, though Agronak couldn't see to confirm his guess, blocked as he was by the man's mass of blonde curls as he chose to stand smack dab in the middle of his view. His head sure was large when seen from behind, nothing at all visible of Ria or the small table pressed into service as a makeshift altar. Hemmed in by the irritating incense, Agronak decided to listen with a clear mind rather than watch with a pained one.
The first pure notes of the melody surprised him in their clarity, Ria's voice having the quality of a finely tuned instrument. He'd never suspected her to possess such talent, a calibre he felt rivaled that of the celebrated singers in the Imperial City. Transfixed by the sound, he enjoyed it as the hymn pulled old associations from his mind. Standing in the temple as a small child, watching his mother's intense concentration as the priest intoned his prayers; sitting in the corner of the Feed Bag, captivated as an old bard, long of hair and short of coin, sang a song of separated lovers with such feeling it brought unbidden dampness to his eyes; listening to the thin voice of a skittish Bosmer awaiting her first match, calming herself with nervous strains of an ancient lullaby.
The desire to applaud vanished as he observed the others bowing their heads in silent prayer. Unsure who he was supposed to be supplicating, Agronak's mind wandered, musing over the rabid affections of Ria towards her pretty priest.
The bold knock, intruding on the idle chatter after dinner, had prompted a comical flurry of activity from her. In between harried questions if her hair was still in place, and harsh commands that nobody else should answer the door, she'd almost knocked Elyn over in her rush to the hallway. Maybe he should offer a prayer of safety on the young priest's behalf.
While a relief to know Ria hadn't been serious in her earlier flirtations, it did beg the question of why she'd done it, and what role Gondyn had in it all. The motive of the young man's perpetual pushing of his sister in Agronak's direction remained a mystery. Had he done it just to tease? Perhaps. He must have known there wasn't any possibility of something developing between Agronak and Ria. The Breton appeared fond of mischief, but didn't seem to be malicious.
Had he really been so unsubtle in his reactions to Ria's flirtations? Probably, or why else would Gondyn insist she keep up the charade? If not for his own amusement, there hadn't been anything accomplished other than Agronak's determination to stay away from her. He felt sure he got along well enough with Gondyn that the man hadn't been trying to drive him out of his home. So what purpose would it serve to use Ria to push him away? Unless they were trying to push him towards something...
The sweet ringing of the small silver bell held by Everard served as a bright herald of the new season, marking midnight as the beginning of a new day. With the completion of the ceremony the family slowly began to break up; Rodyrick and Cyovta herding their tired children off to bed, Evie fussing along after them; Ria silently stalking around the edges of conversation as Alabyval and Gondyn paid their respects to the priest, waiting for them to depart before pouncing; Cerisse earning a perplexing command from Evie to not tarry on her way home as she headed towards the barn.
Politely bidding goodnight to the group, he jogged to catch up with Cerisse, wanting to discuss the plans for tomorrow. She'd mentioned they'd be journeying to Tamborne, but he wasn't sure when they'd be leaving. Ria and Gondyn would also be traveling to the city, rideing in Rodyrick's carriage, and he wanted to know if they'd all be cramming into the confined space. Large as it was, it didn't appear big enough for six adults and two children.
He found her in the barn, busy unbridling a spotted mare, the horse sedately standing in the middle of the hay-strewn floor, patiently allowing her to work. She moved with haste, her wreath flung off into a pile of straw, her hands unbuckling at top speed.
"Here, hold onto this," Cerisse commanded once she noticed Agronak, indicating for him to grab the saddle before it slipped off to the side. Her exasperation came out in peevish mutters, each one accompanying another fastened latch. "Hjoldir was supposed to do this. Hours ago. But it seems he forgot. Again." she growled.
"I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow-"
"There!" Her triumphant exclamation as the saddle came free, the horse finally unfettered, cut off his questions. She whispered something he couldn't understand, her voice so faint the words were inaudible, before she leapt onto the mare's bare back in one remarkable hop. "Can you ride?" she suddenly asked, perched high up above him. Her impatience seemed to be shared by her horse, the animal shifting from one hoof to the other, eager to depart now Cerisse was ready.
"Of course, why?"
"We ride to Tamborne tomorrow afternoon," she answered, calloused heels nudging the mottled white mare towards the barn door.
"Wait," he called out, "where are you going?"
"Tamarilyn. I'll be back after dawn." The reply was tossed over her shoulder as the horse trotted away, leaving Agronak in the middle of the paddocks, wondering where he should put the old leather saddle still in his hands.
A sneaky shaft of sunlight, fighting its way through the thin crack in the curtains, mounted an aggressive assault on his eyes. Victorious in its quest to vanquish the last foggy remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to his mind, Agronak awoke feeling refreshed in spite of his late night. Finishing his packing as he dressed, carefully searching amongst the books under the watchful guard of perpetually blooming roses, he made sure he left nothing behind.
With the exception of Cerisse the household was already awake, grabbing bites of breakfast in between debates about luggage, seating arrangements, and what time to leave. Ria's loud protests about the vital necessity of her large trunk were firmly countered with Rodyrick's insistence that nobody needed so many changes of clothes for a week long stay.
Grabbing a plate from the simple buffet laid out in the kitchen, Agronak was greeted with a surly grunt by Elyn. It took Lara's helpful translation to explain that her brother's was put out because Agronak's bean had sprouted first, a tiny pale shoot poking out from its cradle of dirt. Elyn's annoyance stemmed from the fact he wouldn't get his wish, since Agronak's wish would come true.
He attempted to mollify the petulant boy by telling him it must have been his masterful artwork that had encouraged the bean to grow. By the time Evie came back to the kitchen, a whirlwind of gentle instructions being issued to anyone who passed by, Elyn was convinced he'd done magic, eagerly tugging his grandmother's hand as he expounded on the arcane symbolism behind the pot's illustrations.
Trying to stay out of the way, Agronak assisted where he could until the carriage was finally loaded, his bag securely tucked away to ride on ahead of him. There wasn't much in it he'd be upset at losing—his finest clothes stolen, his money already gone, the only thing it contained besides his functional wardrobe and basic toiletries was the irritatingly useful Telvanni salve.
Somehow convinced by Evie to carry a crate back into the house, he ran across Ria in the upstairs hallway. Choosing to test his theory, he leaned into her as she passed by, giving her an overly friendly wink as he complimented her dress. The flash of panic his words brought to her face confirmed his suspicions; the way she scuttled off amused him greatly. Seems she wasn't the only one who could play that game.
Goodbyes were exchanged, the family circling around amongst themselves until they'd shared farewells with each other twice over. Agronak stood on the porch, waving off the carriage in the company of Evie and Alabyval. Dar chased after it, barking until he reached the hedge that marked the edge of the property. They stood in silence, watching as the small clouds of dust on the road settled back to the ground. Evie finally broke off with a sniff, murmuring something about needing to write to her married daughters and convince them to bring the families for a visit.
Invited by Alabyval to join him in his study, Agronak accepted. They conversed in Orcish—fluent on the Breton's part, mangled on his side. Nestled comfortably in a room filled with the scent of dry parchment and saturated in sunshine, they spoke of Cyrodiil, Alabyval curious about the changes time had brought to the province since his last visit so many years ago.
The discussion somehow turned to languages, Alabyval speaking with passion about the grammatical similarities between Common and Orcish. Agronak occasionally got lost with the vocabulary—the terms so obscure they meant little in either tongue—but he found it interesting. This wasn't a dry musing about verb conjugation, but a fascinating journey through history, detailing the way armies and the pursuit of gold had shaped each language.
When Cerisse finally appeared in the doorway, dark smudges under her weary eyes, Agronak didn't wish to leave. But the horses were waiting, everything prepared for their journey, so he regretfully nudged Morag from his awkward spot draped over his shoes and followed her out to the hall.
With promises to write, thanks for their hospitality, and invites for them to visit Crowhaven should fortune ever bring them to Cyrodiil, Agronak took his leave of Evie and Alabyval. He waved back at them, twisted around in the saddle, surprised at the slightly bittersweet parting. After living in the maelstrom of the Hawkton family, he hadn't suspected he'd miss the chaos, but he might—just a little.
Leaving Cerisse be, occasionally checking to make sure she hadn't fallen asleep on the chestnut stallion, he let his thoughts drift while enjoying the day. The wakening world was saturated with the brilliant sunlight, a dazzling display of colours—clear turquoise overhead, vibrant emerald dotting the branches of the overhanging trees, crimson wildflowers blossoming beside the dry earthen road—stirred an excitement in his heart, precursors of long days and lush harvests. There were so many plans he had for Crowhaven...
Distracted by the future, he lost track of the present, brought back to it with a start when Cerisse suddenly guided her horse close, offering out three little bags. "Your stones. I stopped to get them this morning."
He thanked her, unsure what he would do with some magically charged rocks. As he tucked them into a pocket, she began speaking again, instructing him on how to meditate with his stones—a task he didn't feel much like undertaking, at least not at present. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to cover an escaping yawn.
"Wild night?" he asked. He couldn't begin to imagine what went on in a witches' coven.
She shook her head, giving him a smile. "No, too much dancing. Last night was perfect." She paused, trying to stifle another yawn. "You didn't seem very familiar with First Planting. Don't they celebrate it in Cyrodiil?"
"Not like that." He explained the differences—the rich feast of whatever the cook felt like making, the free-flowing ale, the carousing, and the general lack of visiting clergy. "Does Everard live nearby?"
She nodded, head bobbing deeply with fatigue. "The chapel in Tamborne. He always comes for festivals—you can probably guess why."
Agronak snorted to himself, now certain where Ria's heart lay. That small worry he'd carried since overhearing the hasty conversation dissolved into relief—and then into confusion. "How long has Ria hunted him?"
"You make him sound like defenseless prey," Cerisse said. "Ria's the one we were worried about. I'm sure you know what they say about Hawkton women."
When he couldn't connect what their alleged insanity had to do with the romantic motives of a Priest of Dibella, Agronak finally broke down and asked Cerisse for clarification.
"They didn't tell you? Must not have had the time," she remarked bitterly. "There's a poem, written by some scoundrel when Wynny was at court. She didn't take it very well." Shifting in her seat, eyes narrowing, Cerisse recalled the insult. "It discusses the humiliating ways a poor lord can earn some gold—from chopping wood to selling his body—before finishing with: If all else fails there's a last resort, simply take a trip to Hawkton Court," she finished quietly, her expression stony.
"I don't understand."
"It means we're only worth our gold," she answered. Blinking at his confusion, she continued in surprise. "You didn't know? The Hawktons are one of the richest families in High Rock. We've no political standing in Wayrest, but we're worth more than the lot of them put together. Quite ironic, really."
"How can that be?" he asked in bewilderment. The comfortable standards of their home certainly didn't betray this alleged fortune.
"Frostfire, you really had no idea, did you?" Cerisse blinked in genuine surprise.
"Well, the house was lovely, but it wasn't a castle..." he offered. She snickered at that, patting the head of her horse as if sharing a joke.
"If you judge by appearances here, you'll end up all turned around. The courtiers live on credit and breeding. They might not have a coin to their name, but can still order anything they like. There's always some merchant willing to risk a loss if he can sell to society." She gave him a congenial smile. "One of the reasons we have gold, but no clout, is because we don't try to live like them. No point eating off silver when clay does the same job."
"What do the Hawktons do?" The source of their wealth intrigued him.
"That's just it—they do." The answer came as she leaned towards him, sharing an open secret. "We farm, we buy and sell, we work with foreigners and marry merchants. Completely scandalous. But it's the rent they envy the most. Where they buy country estates, or whole cities, we buy shops and houses. This way it doesn't matter who owns the town—we get paid the rent."
Agronak absorbed this, mentally remarking it sounded like a smart financial plan. "What happened with Wynny?"
Looking up towards the sky she let out a soft sigh. "She fell in love. So did he, but that didn't matter to them. He was from a good family with no gold, and she was...she was a Hawkton. They've been married almost six years, very happily living in Daggerfall." Glancing back over to him, her voice softened. "That's why we were concerned when Everard met Ria. Our sources think he's genuinely in love with her. I pray to the Goddesses he is, because she's fallen hard."
"Hmm," he murmured, pondering this information. "So, then who is Eddy?"
Cerisse's reaction shocked him, all colour draining from her face, leaving her freckles as stark contrast in a sickly field of cream. Nudging his horse closer, he prepared to catch her if she fainted, but her recovery was remarkable. With a bright smile, she answered in such a normal voice he questioned his eyes. "I don't know. There are so many Bretons who go by that name. Whoever he is, he's nothing special to Ria."
Their conversation fell off, lost to Cerisse's musings and Agronak's observations. She was somewhere far away, whatever currently occupying her mind had certainly woken her up.