Scholar

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“You’d think the Tilborans would have more sense,” snapped Bhayar. “Some of them, anyway.” His dark blue eyes appeared almost black in the dim light of the small study that adjoined his receiving chamber. In the midafternoon of summer, the air barely moved, even with the high arched ceilings, and when it did, it only brought the smells of the city up the hill to the palace overlooking the harbor of Solis. He walked to the map displayed on the wooden stand, scowled, and then looked to the man in scholar’s brown.

“Why would you think that?” Quaeryt replied in the formal Bovarian in which he’d been addressed, as always. He smiled politely, his thin lips quirking up slightly at the corners. Despite the itching of his slightly-too-long nose, he did not scratch it.

“Don’t bait me, scholar.” The Lord of Telaryn added only a slight emphasis to the last word. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

“Only your best interests, my lord.” Quaeryt shifted his weight off his slightly shorter left leg. The higher heel of his left boot helped, but the leg ached when he stood for long periods.

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