If there is one thing in this world that I was raised and trained to know, it is that there is only so much you may ask of the gods. Victory in battle is their lightest gift; a quiet heart is your own concern. Even before I opened the door, I was already lowering my eyes to the point where they would meet his eyes. I think I may already have said his name.
“I was worried,” he said, so low that I could hardly hear him. He said, “Your hand. Is your hand better? I was worried.” There was straw chaff in his hair.
I did not invite him in. That I will swear until my last day. Whatever I may have mumbled, as thick-voiced as he, it was bloody drunken Lal who called behind me, “Welcome, Rosseth—welcome, come and join us, come meet the Dragon’s Daughter.” Bloody Lal, not me. I swear I would have sent him away.