A Bowl of Soup

Illustration by Margarita Bourkova

A few stories have come out of The Rill Lord that I could not release before now because they are spoilers for the series ending. Like this one, for example. This story is kind of cozy, kind of an epilogue for a certain character. And it is chock full of spoilers.

If you want to read The Rill Lord completely unspoiled,

DO NOT READ THIS STORY.

A Bowl of Soup

Robdan squinted into the sun at the new bridge. Only seven months had passed since the sorcerer Nammuor’s flood of the Dazun River had destroyed the ancient bridges linking the lands of Essera and Amallar. Robdan had chosen to ride the ferry today with his baggage and his entourage in part for nostalgia’s sake, though also because he wanted to properly see the new bridge. It was nearly impossible to see very much of the structure when using it. But from here on the river the bridge—a dark blue as vivid as Rappeleye runestone—cut across the sky overhead in a single, logic-defying span.

Dorilian fancied himself an architect—but he was definitely an engineer.

“At least folk weren’t taxed to build the bridge.” Robdan hoped his observation might mollify the ferry man, who’d complained about losing fares. Being able to provide coin to a hard-working local was Robdan’s other reason for having chosen to use the ferry. “The Rill Lord created it after all, and he did it freely. A gift to Gustan for the lives and livelihoods lost when the hill awakened. A new bridge and a new port.”

The ferryman grunted as he turned his boat to line up with the wharf, itself a new construction. “And grand gifts they be, all that he’s done—even gave gold to the families for their losses, he did. Lives up to his good name, making us whole. I lost too little to put my hand out for gold... but I still don’t like the damn bridge. The Mother-cursed thing killed my business!”

The bridge likely had cut into the ferryman’s business, but Dorilian’s other accomplishment—the Rill—had brought blessings. A great many blessings, including to this man.

“Things will work out for you, I’m sure,” Robdan counseled. “After all, there was a bridge before this one—and your business thrived then.”

“That it did. And will again I’m sure. When it comes to crossing, it’s hire me or hire a cart.” The man’s frown relented. “Shame about that old bridge though. Had carved my name on one of the piers.” He granted Robdan a grudging half-smile. “Don’t get me wrong. Bridge out and all, I made good coin doing crossings. Filled my pockets. But I’m glad the war’s done with. Even if it brought us everything new.”

A new hill. A new town. A new King. A new World. Seven months had passed since the Dazun had flooded—a bridge and town-destroying flood followed by grueling months of war and the near end of the World. But that war had concluded in the spring, four months ago, and peace had reigned since.

The ferry moored at some planks fronting a wool merchant’s storehouse. Like most of its neighbors in the original riverfront district, the storehouse was new. The waterfront boasted a host of buildings erected in the last few months, all with hastily built additions put up at odd angles. West along the riverbank loomed the wharves and machinery of new commercial docks, presided over by massive, river-transport ships and barges. Between the river and the Rill mount, recently constructed warehouses and hastily erected merchant offices crowded the waterfront like cliffs. New power had come to Gustan—vast, foreign, and ambitious.

Robdan sighed at the change. As vibrant as the new town was, he much preferred the quaint charms of the old village. Even the river looked different now. The Dazun’s placid surface mirrored the new bridge’s otherworldly span in a fan of shifting, iridescent hues. More striking still, a web of whiter reflections laced the river beneath the bridge like a skirt and danced there in transcendental patterns.

Robdan had only to raise his eyes skyward to look upon the source. Perched atop Gustan’s tall hill like a shining crown, the Rill was even more monumental than its reflections or the bridge that led to it. Robdan felt both sadness and wonder every time he gazed upon the god-machine’s ethereal structures. Some called the Rill unnatural and a monster, but even they knew it for what it was: the Creation’s immortal, World-binding heart.

Once ashore Robdan tasked the small party of men who traveled with him to convey his baggage to the Manor outside of town, where they would await his arrival.

“Two of us should go with you, sir,” advised Bron, the sturdiest of the three.

“That’s not necessary,” Robdan reassured him. “I know the town and I’m among friends here. Go on ahead. Settle in and order a carriage for me. I’ll be along.”

Bron nodded and signaled to the others. They knew Robdan well, and Gustan well, and would do what he wanted. He watched them attend to the baggage and knew they would get their own hard-earned rest at the Manor. As for himself, Robdan was hungry and happy for the chance to relax in the town for a while. Even more than that, he welcomed a chance to blend in. He’d spent most of his life being a man of little consequence. Times had changed however and these days Robdan’s greatest freedom was any which allowed him to simply stroll along a street or sit at a table unmolested. Though Gustan had become crowded with prosperity, the town proper possessed charming streets, narrow and cobbled with river stone, lined by crafters’ shops and houses with neat steps and pretty plantings.

The Pig and Port was busy when Robdan stepped through the door. He saw at once that Rill traffic had done wonders for business. Tall, fair-skinned lords with hair the color of gold coins mingled with sun-browned Trongorians and black-haired Gae. Prosperous foreigners crowded tables where just months before only Khelds and townsfolk would have gathered. Now, because of the Rill, people who had arrived in Gustan just that morning could, if they wished, sleep that night in their own beds on the other side of the World.

Robdan paused, blinking in the inn’s doorway, until Ferg spied him and waved him in.

“Rob!” The big, balding man wiped his hands on his apron. A few strides later, he took Robdan by the arm and steered him to a quiet table at the back. “A talisman of good luck, you are. A paragon of fortune! I drink to your health daily. Sit yourself here and I’ll see you aren’t disturbed. I imagine you have your fill of folk intent on polishing their own buttons.”

“Please don’t tell me they’re here already, lying in wait.”

“The town is full of their kind. Magpies and braggarts. What’s a body to do? All things happen for some god’s good reason.”

“Your Rill business is good, then?” Robdan settled his weary bottom onto the broad, high-backed chair, good maple and solid, polished by decades of use.

“Better than good! Day in or night out, I never lack for customers. The blessed Rill never sleeps—so neither do I! My rooms are always occupied and my tables always full. The old bridge and our little port never brought as many people here in a fortnight as the Rill brings in an hour! I bought the house and shop next door just so I could make new rooms. I’ve had to hire more jens and bobs and will soon need a new kitchen!”

“An innkeeper’s dream and a Kheldman’s ambition,” Robdan acknowledged. It pleased him that Ferg was doing well. They were both graybeards now and had been friends for many years.

“They’ve been pouring in the last few weeks, Staubauns and outlanders. Come from every corner seeking contracts for lumber, cheese, or wool. Building warehouses—and palaces! They say the Rill may go next to Amroset, make another port on the sea! Not just the Triempery anymore but unite all the World. Why some say the Rill might even cross the ocean! That there might be something on the other side of the Bounding Fog!”

“That’s what the high folk think.”

“Then how’s no ship that ever sailed that far ever made its way back?”

“Same reason, I suppose, that no one’s ever found where the Dazun empties into the sea or found a pass through the Pillars of the Sky to the east.”

“World’s full of wonders.” Ferg gave his head a shake that made his chins dance. “I can barely keep track of what’s happening here in this little town! It’s all politics and promises. So much talk! The King is at the Manor, meeting with the mighty, and every new visitor brings along a new supply of stories, money counters, and builders. Puts me in mind of the Old King. High folk from all over.”

“There’ll be more of it. Our Hans is energetic and full of plans. So many plans. He’s always planning.”

Ferg signaled a bob over and plucked a mug off the lad’s tray. “Take a load off. I know your liking. Chicken pie and a second pint when this is gone. And don’t even try to pay for it. I won’t have it.” He placed the mug on the table and walked away before Robdan could protest.

Robdan would pay anyway. Give his coin to the jen who brought his food or to the bob who served him another ale. Maybe he would drop the coins in Ferg’s blessings jar. The blessings of innkeepers went straight to the Sated God’s ear. If nothing else, someday Ferg McCovvern would call upon him for a favor. It would be a small favor, some matter requiring influence, and Robdan would comply as he was able.

He dreaded that day. Influence made him uncomfortable and so he seldom used his.

“Your pie, sir.” The woman spoke with the remote politeness of one doing her job. Her strong, reddened hand set a solid brown crock on the table. A mouth-watering aroma wafted from a flaky brown crust.

Robdan glanced up with thanks, then paused to study the serving jen more closely. He had seen her before at some other place and time. The tiredness in the woman’s face did not detract from pretty eyes the blue of winter hyacinths or the gentle sweep of neat dark brows. Remnants of pride firmed a practical, no-nonsense mouth.

“Hello,” he said, as pleased as he was surprised. When she turned a blank stare on him, he recalled that he had looked quite rough the last—and only—time she had seen him. “We met at the farm on the hill, Gygesarn, this winter past. During the War. You gave me lentil soup to warm me.”

Her gaze dissolved into a question. “Lentil soup?”

“You don’t remember me, do you? It was after the battle, after Elithegh. The sky was white as milk. There was another man with me—he was in a bad way.”

She nodded then, her expression softening. “I remember, yes. It was a terrible time. Did your friend survive?”

Robdan blinked. Didn’t she know?

***

Just a little further, Dor. Just a few steps more. Every step the wounded man took was agony. Pain rolled off Dorilian in waves. The last time had knocked Robdan to his knees along with the man he was trying so hard to help toward safety. A projective empath, the high folk said. The last several hours had hammered Robdan with the full force of Dorilian’s gift.

The battle had gone all wrong, gone to ruin. What had they expected in a contest between sorcerers? That those arcane weapons would not be needed—or used?

“There’s a farm up ahead, just across this field.” Robdan’s breath billowed in the milky, sorcery-spewed glow that glazed the night. His words produced more frost than sound. “Just a few steps more.”

Dorilian stumbled, then fell. Snow gathered where his lashes feathered on ice-white skin. Blood from his wound reddened the snow in ruby beads. Not now! Not when help is so near! Robdan thought for a moment of leaving his companion, to run from the pain and impending death, go to the house, fetch aid… but he was so spent himself that he dreaded fainting on the doorstep. At best help would find him and not the man he hoped to save.

Nearly blinded by driving wind, Robdan shrugged off his cloak, laid it on the snow, and rolled Dorilian onto it. It was not beyond his strength to drag his burden the rest of the way across a snowy yard. Shaking from cold, his wounds, and exhaustion, with Dorilian’s mortal pain a dull scream in his skull, Robdan fell to his knees at the foot of plank steps leading up to the house.

A woman answered his calls for help. As she stood in the doorway her voice was nearly as cold as the storm.

“Go away! We give no handouts here.”

“Please, lady. My friend is hurt. Have pity on him, at least.”

Despite Robdan’s bloodied and battered appearance, despite the storm, the woman listened. Taking a lantern from someone inside the house, she descended the steps to join him in the snow. By the light of the lantern’s glow he saw her clearly. She looked competent, her mature body wrapped in a shawl of soft russet wool. Dark brown hair laced with silver swept above vivid blue eyes that told him she was Kheld like he was. She knelt and assessed the wounded man.

“I have no way to help your friend.” Her voice was low and sympathetic. With a soft hand, she touched Dorilian’s cold, bloodied cheek. “He is too gravely hurt.”

Though Robdan hoped for her help and pleaded for it, the true mistress of the farm appeared at the door—a woman towering and tall, with stony dark eyes beneath a crown of pale hair buoyed by pearls. A gold-haired young woman and two youngsters with darker, curly locks stood in shadow behind her.

“You will not demean this house with that filth, Mellona!” Even then the woman’s words had stung. “Beggars, dripping blood all over the floors! See them gone or I’ll set the dogs on them.”

Mellona. Robdan remembered her name now. She had asked that they be allowed to stay in the barn.

“Anything they steal comes out of your wages!” With a snort, the farm’s mistress retreated back inside, the fair-haired girl going in with her. The other children, the dark-haired ones, stayed on the stoop.

Mellona and her two children helped Robdan move his dying companion into the barn.

***

“Yes. He survived his wounds. What are you doing here?” Robdan took up his fork and stabbed at his pie, the aroma of which tempted him irresistibly. “I had thought the end of the war would allow you to return to the great house on your lady’s estate.”

Mellona drew a breath. Perhaps she thought to preserve the privacy of her business. After a long moment, she relented. “My lady feared plunder by the Prince’s troops. They were in the area, looking for survivors and spoils, as soldiers will do. We fled toward the safety of her kin in Dannuth. While on the road we learned the war had ended and we parted ways. With the estate in ruins, and also in forfeiture until the King decides its fate, the lady no longer required my services. She bid me leave and take my children. Which I did.”

Robdan didn’t hide his surprise. “I had thought you were more important to her than that. You served the estate’s lord well and managed his household.” 

“Yes, but dead men don’t hold property. Until the estate is decided, Lady Elenia lives with her daughter and niece in Kyrbasillon and keeps other staff.” She took up her apron, perhaps to hide her roughened hands. “What I do now is honest work and puts food on our table.”

“Do you live in town, then?” She had her children to house and feed. He wondered how she lived.

“I have a room.” Mellona turned her head to check if other patrons needed her. Seeing a man wave his mug, she turned to leave, but not before adding, “I’m glad to see you among the living.”

***

The barn was dry and smelled of animals and feed. Robdan settled Dorilian on a cot in the tiny room meant for hired help during more prosperous times. While doing so he tried to set his benefactress at ease by talking about himself. Hoping to evoke something they had in common, he told her about his daughters and grandchildren.

Robdan could not speak about his wife. Losing Bridda during the birth of their stillborn only son had left him bereft, his heart good only for moving blood. He also didn’t speak about how after Bridda’s death he had left their daughters to be raised by their grandmothers. Neither had he talked about how he’d poured his energy into his duties as a scribe to his country’s leaders and, later, as a diplomat for his nation in the high councils of Essera.

He didn’t need Mellona to tell him the lady of the estate was set against the Prince.

When the young daughter returned carrying a pot by the handle, Robdan smiled at her. She smiled back with lips shaped just like her mother’s. He took the spoon she offered and sampled the pot’s contents, delighted when he encountered a savory lentil soup. Stiffly kneeling by the bed, he raised Dorilian’s head and attempted to spoon some of the broth between pale lips. “Please, just a little,” he beseeched.

Whatever twilight state into which his companion had wandered, at least Dorilian attempted to take the nourishment. The girl found Dorilian fascinating and wanted to prattle but her mother propelled her toward the door. “Go now, Thenna. We can do nothing here. Join Cressi at her lessons. You know how she mopes if you’re not there to turn her pages.”

Pausing, Robdan glanced back at Mellona, marking the fine features and lingering beauty that had gained a Staubaun nobleman’s attention. “She’s your lord’s daughter too, isn’t she?”

Her eyes flickered with hurt, then hardened. “I’m not a loose woman. I manage this estate. I should be asking questions of you. Pray my lady did not see the color of your friend’s garments.”

***

A bob soon appeared with a second pint of ale, for which Robdan gave the lad two full coppers. Mellona returned to take his plate when he was done, politely answering his questions but never staying longer than was needed to attend him. With only his ale to keep him company, Robdan watched Mellona as she tended Ferg’s tables, carrying heavy trays of food and drink, clearing messes that other patrons, less tidy than Robdan, left behind. Her body still appeared fit and strong, but he thought she looked worn down. Her hair had lost some of the sheen he remembered; her mouth pulled toward a harder shape. When Ferg returned to see if there was more he needed, Robdan shook his head but nodded toward the woman.

“One of your new jens?” he asked.

Ferg grunted as if satisfied. “Mellona. Took her on two months ago.”

“Do you know where she lives?” The money she made here could not be much and living quarters in Gustan, a small town with its population swollen by Rill commerce, had to be scarce.

The tavern owner gave him a keen look. “Now why would you want to know about that, Master Rob?”

“I knew her before. Not quite an old friend, but—” Robdan held the man’s gaze. “I never thought to find her doing this sort of work.”

“Don’t suppose it’s what she started out doing. She’s got book-learning from what I can tell. But the war, you know, changed things for folks, and not all for the better. She and her pups live in an attic above Widow Loftmoss’s kitchen.” Ferg named a nearby boarding house. “The girl does scullery and the boy runs laundry and errands in exchange for board. Mellona works here for coin six days a week.”

“No wonder she looks tired. But why her, Ferg?” he asked. “Younger jens bring in more business.”

The innkeeper laughed. “Aye, and they waste a good lot of their time flirting with men who’ll tip extra coin into their cups or slip them more for a poke behind the shed. They’re all giggles and wiggles, but I see none of the gold for it.”

“The gold is in the extra traffic.”

“True. But thanks to the Rill, I have more traffic than the Dazun has fish! Do you know how many of my jens have run off with new swains flush with coin from the thing? Seven! In three months! Mellona turns four tables while four other girls making love eyes turn one each—she’s saving me coin!”

If Ferg’s broad grin was any indication, he was looking for more like her. The man had a nose for gold and appreciated hard work purchased for very little of it. The burgeoning town was awash with struggling war widows and their broods. It saddened Robdan to think of Mellona barely scraping by. No matter how hard she worked for such masters as now would hire her, she would find it difficult to escape her new poverty.  

Not everyone had cause to rejoice at how the war had ended.

***

After persuading Dorilian to swallow as much of the broth as he could, Robdan ate the rest of the soup himself. His tongue massaged each mouthful, savoring every bite of lentil, every scrap of ham, nip of sage, bite of pepper. He could not eat lentil soup without thinking of his wife’s merry laugh or her capable hands chopping vegetables for the pot.

Blessed Bridda. He had loved her competency and good-nature even more than her pretty smile. Though she had been fair enough, her main charm had been how well they fit together. Young scribes were paltry providers. Bridda’s industry in baking had allowed their little family to be comfortable. Robdan hailed from a lofty kin line, but Bridda’s matriarchs held fine land, including the bit of property in Rhodhur on which they’d lived. He was scrawny, sadly, and somewhat plain, but Bridda declared he was perfect in bed after the very first night and she chose him over other suitors. They’d had twelve happy, bountiful years. He still spoke her name to the Mother every night before sleep.

It had been near twenty years since he’d heard her say his.

He stared at the empty pot. Bridda would have washed it already. It would only be proper to give the pot back promptly so his hostess could do so. He gathered his nearly dried cloak and walked from the little room. But as he was leaving he heard a noise in the barn. When he peeked around a corner he saw the barn door stood open. Outside, the Staubaun farm mistress stood swathed in furs, a lantern in her hand as she held up something—it looked like a message—to the dark-haired boy now mounted on a broad-backed gray horse. The boy rode away, and the lady closed the door.

Why send a lad out into a storm? To get help? If that were so, why not tell him? Robdan could have written a message more certain to bring aid.

When he reached the house, Mellona answered his knock on the door. Though she took the pot from him, she would not meet his eyes.

“Did you ask? For your lady to send for help?”

“I did, but there’s no help to be found in this storm. Ask again in the morning.” Her voice sounded broken, desperate. Fear throbbed beneath it.

“She will not send for help?”

“Not tonight.” Wild-eyed, she whispered, “Go!” before she closed the door in his face.

Robdan trotted back to the barn, his thoughts outracing his boots. He was a scribe, a man who wielded pens. His best attacks were across a table, aimed at other diplomats. He had no training as a soldier, none at all—except that of having ridden with them. He had no knowledge of sorcery—save that of having witnessed it. Against his every wish and hope, he had been thrust into a war. And now a battle between sorcerers had left him in possession of the one life in Essera that might save his World from eternal darkness.

What had Dorilian told him? That wars hinged upon interpretations—but victory hinged upon action.

When Robdan got back to the barn, he found Dorilian recovered just enough to respond to his urging. Together, they staggered to the stalls. Only one horse, a broken-down old mare, remained in the barn. With the help of hay bales, prayers, and the girl child who came to the barn to hide from soldiers, Robdan managed to get his wounded friend onto the beast’s swayed back. He gave the girl a belt buckle of Dorilian’s as payment and set out again into the storm.

***

Robdan could not see the Rill from the Pig and Port’s ground floor windows but he could hear it. He sipped his ale and listened to the low thrum as the god-machine reverberated, first far away across the deep hills, followed within a single heartbeat by another resonant thrum… then another, and another… the sounds vibrating ever more rapidly until the thrums merged into a whine. In his mind’s eye he saw the crown of the town’s hill shift, its structure rearrange with sublime purpose. Immense limbs swelled and swayed and reached high above taverns, bridges, warehouses and buildings to capture a silver charys. Within moments, the silver net would have retracted and brought its burden to rest atop the hill. Like an enormous alabaster ship, the charys would disgorge a hundred lords and merchants, diplomats and soldiers, and travelers from distant lands. Its holds would yield grain, produce, gold, or horses, or maybe slabs of onyx meant for Gustan’s new palaces and merchant houses.

And he had played a part in it.

So had Mellona. She was as bound to this war’s aftermath as Robdan was. The only difference was, her part had been less well-rewarded. Surely he could find some honorable way to help her. He asked when her day ended and, finding it was not long off, told Ferg he wished to speak with her.

Mellona approached a minute later, wiping her hands on her apron. Her gaze wore something new—astonished and reverent. Ferg must have told her something.

“Join me, please.” Robdan smiled and hoped he looked approachable.

Mellona took one of the hard maple chairs. Throughout the inn’s main room, heads craned to look toward their corner. Word was getting around. “I never asked your name,” she apologized.

“I never asked yours. Names meant nothing then.”

She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, then back up with a smile. “Robdan Aelfricson.”

“Mellona—”

“Gildarsda.”

Her name settled near his heart and did not feel unwelcome. “I looked for you after the war, to thank you. But I didn’t find you at the farm, just some squatters who didn’t know where you’d gone. After that my responsibilities took me away, back to Amallar and—”

“Sordan. Permephedon. Merath. The great Cities.”

He paused, then nodded. “Yes. But mostly Amallar… and here. King Handurin is my kinsman, you see, and he loaded me with new duties. I… have been very busy.” He reached for Mellona’s hand and, when she gave it to him, tentative and trembling, he clasped it firmly between both of his. “I want you to know how much I owe you. How much we all owe you.”

***

Go! she had said, so he had gone. Out into the storm, back into a land where enemies searched not for him—to them he was nothing—but for the man with him.

Dorilian Sordaneon had turned a mighty fortress to hot sand. He had unleashed power enough to unbind the World’s past from its future, turn the sky as purple as a bruise, and leave fifty thousand dead upon the field, friends and foes alike. Robdan did not know which side had won. He didn’t even know who was left. He had seen only enemies along his road, not yet any friend. His sole hope was to reach Gustan. If any allies remained, they would be there.

After leaving the farm, he’d dared a country lane to cross over a hill. Four rough men on horseback had beset him. He had feared most that they would slay him or take the horse. They stripped him of his clothes and gave him a beating before pocketing his purse and journals. They claimed his warm cloak and Dorilian’s too, as well at the Hierarch’s boots and the sword Robdan had kept carefully hidden. Pleased with their booty, the thieves had ridden off, laughing.

They’d taken Robdan’s dignity, three gold coins and two of silver, and his painstakingly written history of the War. They’d taken a dying man’s boots and a fabulous jeweled weapon that had once belonged to the noblest King Essera had ever known. All those things, those precious things, were gone. But they had not taken the horse.

And they had left him the god.

***

“The Prince paid for the horse.” Mellona’s smile was again the one he remembered, though it now looked amazed. “The buckle you left behind—”

“It was Dorilian’s. A bit of Derlon’s Armor, from the time of the Return. Priceless.”

“The Rill Lord? That was him?”

“Yes.”

“We didn’t know what the buckle was, only that it was not gold. The Prince paid us for the horse in exchange for it—we thought because you were both Kheld and men of his.”

“I still have her, you know, the horse. She’s stabled not far from here, in the greatest luxury an old mare can know, and I often visit her. Whenever I visit, I think of you. I didn’t know her name, so I named her Lass. As in Use-lass and Luck-lass and all the other -lasses going on at the time.”

For the first time that afternoon, Mellona laughed, and Robdan could not remember hearing any sound more delightful.

“Because of her, though, we made it back. Both of us. Dorilian nearly died, but… it was just enough—enough to get him back. That bit of soup was just enough.”

“The soup?”

“Yes. He was nearly gone. He needed strength and had none. The soup gave him that.”

“And you— you are legend.” Her gaze roamed his face, recalling perhaps the desperate man she’d seen that night. “All through the lands they call you Rill-Friend… the man who saved a god.”

With a soft sigh, he shook his head. “I saved a man. Dorilian was still a man then, only a man. I saved a friend. To be honest, the only thing I saved was hope. He was dying still, even then.”

“I saw the Awakening.” Remembrance of that day glowed in Mellona’s wide eyes. “I was on the road with my children when the ground shook and the Rill erupted, breaking the road ahead. So tall! Its arms reached to the sky. And people started pointing behind us, at Gustan’s hill which we could all see, and it was changing—” She looked out the window, as if through it she might glimpse again what she’d seen. “We watched the hill give birth to a crown, and we heard the god’s song, and all the World knew the Sordaneon lived. The charys passed over our heads like a thing out of dreams. We all screamed because we’d never seen such. And all of us, every soul on the road, fell to our knees because nothing would ever be the same again.”

“True. And a bowl of soup made it all possible.” Robdan grinned and Mellona threw her head back, tossing her dark hair with amazement. He added, “That, and the horse.”

“Thank you,” she said, “for letting me know. For as often as I’ve thought of you, I never guessed. The Prince never said… he said a kinsman, but neither of you—” She shook her head. “Your companion didn’t look very much like anything but a beggar.”

“His looks have always been deceiving.”

“So are yours.” Dark brows arched above Mellona’s smiling eyes. “Sitting here, dressed as you are… you don’t look the part of a First Minister and high noble.”

No, stripped of formal attire Robdan looked like just what he was: a rather plain-featured scribe who frequented Kheldish inns that served tasty pot pies. He ducked his head before again raising his eyes.

“Let me help you… and your family too. I know of a person who is seeking someone capable to run her household. She could use a woman of your experience.”

Mellona folded her hands and studied them. “I made some inquiries when I first came to live in town. I wrote about my experience, asking to be considered. But I’m unable to offer a letter of introduction from my former employer.”

“You don’t need a letter. I will arrange the interview.”

“Thank you,” she said, her expression stunned.

“People are talking.” Robdan tilted his head to indicate the crowd threatening to push past Ferg’s burly interference. “You should probably get away before someone asks what boon you got from me.” One downside to being owed a debt of gratitude by a god was that this god, quite famously, made good on his debts. All manner of people thought Robdan would make the perfect petitioner for their pleas for charity, consideration, or opportunity.

“Come with me.” Eyes sharp with mischief, Mellona lowered her voice. “I know a hidden back way from the kitchen door to Quillhop Lane. I helped you make good one escape, let me help you make another.” Her hand reached for his. He took it, warm and sure, into his.

She stood first, her strong arm propelling him onto his feet. Together, they dashed for the kitchen.

***

The Widow Loftmoss’s enterprise consisted of a small boarding house and laundry, the latter of which was concealed from the street by a high wall. Stone vats held river water, edges rimmed with buckets of ash or soap and mounds of fabric to be laundered. The widow looked up from her pounding when they arrived by way of the gate, but she promptly went back to her work. Her crew of laundresses continued their tasks.

Mellona led Robdan to a shaded corner on the opposite side of the yard, where they staked out two crates on which to sit and speak quietly.

“I’m writing a book, a history of the Rill War.” Robdan thought that a safe topic to talk about. “If you read”— he glanced at her and was happy that she nodded—“I will provide a copy to you. In Khelda or Stauba as you choose. I’m doing the translation myself. I hope to publish it soon.”

“Which is the original?”

“Stauba.”

“Then I will read that. It’s good we will have a Kheld’s view of the great events of our time. You must have witnessed a great deal.”

“Oh yes. I was present at a quite a few momentous events.”

Her gaze lowered, then she looked away. Across the yard, Widow Loftmoss continued to pound at a pinkish mass on her stone table. To all appearances the old woman was trying to drive the dirt out by killing it. Robdan smiled.

“I think she recognized me.” Sure enough, Widow Loftmoss looked their way again. He gave her a short wave. “I rented a room in this house years ago. More than once. As a scribe I was often at hand for one of the Kheld leaders’ business with the King. I liked it here. I was close to all the taverns.”

“You don’t strike me as intemperate.”

“Oh, not that, though I do enjoy a pint on occasion. No, it’s that I like to be among people, to watch them… and taverns are wonderful for watching people. Or used to be.”

A slight figure walked, arms full of linens, into the yard. A blue cloth on the girl’s head held back strands of honey-brown hair. Mellona saw her and jumped to her feet, hands brushing at her skirt.

“That’s Thenna, my daughter. She helps the widow for... I really should help her fold and sort. Get packets ready for Rory to deliver.” She looked harried again as she sought Robdan’s understanding. “This has been a fortunate encounter, but—”

He rose to stand beside her. “Your work supports your family. Of course.” He would send payment for the meal to Ferg right away, with instructions to give Mellona a portion. About the other matter, though, he had more to say. “I hope you will present yourself tomorrow morning at Gustan Manor. For the position.”

“Wait… did you say the Manor? The King’s house?” Mellona’s smile retreated toward alarm.

“Yes. The selection is currently being done there. If you would be interested, you must present yourself in person. As I told you before, you don’t need a letter—just say I sent you. I can arrange to be present during your interview.”

“I’m not qualified—”

“You’re perfect for the position. It’s a Kheldish household, you see, but—”

“Then I’m even less qualified. I was born in Essera. I have no clan ties. Everyone knows Khelds staff their households with their own kin.”

Robdan could hardly deny it. He had placed his own extensive new household under the supervision of his daughter, Wytha. She had chosen staff from people she knew of and had not even considered taking applicants. “Well, this household is… an unusual situation. The staff will include people of all kinds. Your experience would be most useful. After all, you already read and speak, and I suppose you also write, excellent Stauba and are well-versed in Staubaun ways.”

“I have and do, and am, but—” Mellona sighed before continuing “—you’ve seen even more of Staubaun kind, the good and the bad, than I have. They are not an easy people—least of all those who can afford households or serve as staff to holders of privilege!”

“I know, trust me. I deal every day with the conniving and ambitious.”

She nodded. “Well, I’m one of the ambitious, I suppose, because I would like better for myself than to be a tavern jen.” Her voice trailed off as her gaze followed Thenna again. “And my children work as hard as I do.”

He glanced at the back gate. The carriage he had asked Bron to send for him would now be waiting outside the tavern. “Consider my offer. I hope to see you in the morning. Truly. I will send a carriage and the Manor will know to expect you. Whether you appear for the meeting or not will be my answer.”         

She said nothing, but he thought he saw tears glisten along the edges of her lashes.

He nodded to Widow Loftmoss as he left, but no lightness brightened his heart as he closed the gate. Did Mellona think his offer insincere? Inappropriate? What if she had too much fear of accepting a powerful man’s help to follow through? He was not experienced at this sort of thing.

Robdan had never been other than ordinary. Common. So painfully common that he found his change of fortune terrifying.

For all his life, people and histories had interested Robdan far more than columns and figures. Far more than power or weapons or war. People of every calling, the great and the unimportant, the endearing and the foul, had flowed through his life like coin—impoverishing him, enriching him, educating him and disappointing him and shaping his fate. In a few cases he had even shaped theirs.

Such was the nature of the World, that nothing of it that was touched by gods stayed ordinary.

***

The sunlit corner that abutted Gustan’s Rill sanctuary held an alcove with a curved bench that afforded an unimpeded view to the west. Hidden somewhere beyond the boggy mists to the west was the source of all magic in the Creation. The Leur City of Îs was yet to be unveiled, though it was possible Dorilian had seen it. Afire with either magic or sunset, the horizon glowed and glazed the alcove floor with ruddy light. Robdan seated himself upon the bench and waited. He did not wait long.

He sensed the arrival. Only a bare moment had passed. He turned his head but a fraction, knowing who he would see. Sun-gilded Dorilian lounged at his side, elbow on knee and chin in hand, wearing a look that asked what had brought Robdan there. Whether this Dorilian was the god’s physical body or one of his Rill-generated manifestations was neither discernable nor important... but Robdan suspected he faced the bodily version.

“I invited a woman,” Robdan began, “to interview at Gustan tomorrow morning. I—I would like her to be considered for Aubrey’s household.”

“If that were the case, you would seek out Aubrey.”

True. Though Dorilian oversaw the selection process, he was not personally involved in making choices among those who applied. Robdan persevered. “Ah, but I would like your opinion.”

“Of this woman?”

“Of me. About whether I’m being a foolish old man.”

Dorilian gave him a quizzical look.

“I want to help her, you see,” Robdan persisted.

“The woman... or Aubrey?”

“Both, I suppose. But mostly this woman.”

“Fool or not—you need neither me nor Aubrey if you wish to do that.”

Robdan ducked his head. It was true he owned more than enough wealth and influence to help any person, short of one requiring miracles. “You just want to hear me say it, don’t you? That I seek you out as a friend. Well, I do, at least in this case. I suppose I want your good opinion of her—and of me, of my reasons.” For some reason Robdan was finding this difficult to explain. “She helped me, you see… and you too. That terrible night at the farm. I stole her horse.”

Though he remembered little of it, Dorilian knew the story. “You saved my life.”

“It wasn’t easy. I admit I was stubborn about it.”

“For which Leur thanks you.” Dorilian paused, then asked, “Are you being stubborn now?”

“I’m not sure. It appears I’m still trying to save someone. But I’m not sure if I’m thinking soundly or acting on emotion.”

“Does it matter? Emotion can be a quicker path to truth than thought. Perhaps you should examine which emotion has led you to this.”

A fair assessment. It took a moment for Robdan to sort it through. “Gratitude, maybe? Or hopefulness?”

“Gratitude has roots. And hope is never flimsy.”

“Perhaps not. But it may be misplaced. And in this case I don’t know where it will lead.”

“Maybe nowhere. But where are you now?”

“Someplace I would not be without it.”

And there was the answer. Hope. Hope, small and persistent, the essence of Leur in each living thing, was so mighty it had saved the Creation and the World.

The sun settled to the west and something of the Rill’s otherworldly glow seemed to shine through Dorilian’s silver-hued eyes. Traces of Leur also limned the sun-gold of his skin, the bright strands in his bronze hair, hinting at his power. He wore simple garments, a chiton of crimson and gold belted with purple, hemmed with blue, colors he newly favored. But even as a god, he wore mortal form as splendidly as he ever had.

“What are you doing these days?” Robdan asked. “I’ve been a few weeks away and need to catch up. Is it true you’re opening the Bounded Sea?”

“In time. That land has been protected. Healing. To suddenly open it to humans.... Much as Leur loves chaos, nobody wants that much.”

“But it will open.”

“Yes.”

“Will I see it?”

“Any time you want to.”

Robdan looked toward the crowd. People had noticed them. Passengers and Epoptes hesitated, travelers and pilgrims stopped, then gathered to stare. Over the last several minutes many had gathered, attracted by whispers and the pointing of fingers at the two men seated on the bench, in the alcove, in the sun. The Rill Lord was present. Among them. Dorilian was here in the flesh and holding audience.

A man wearing a feathered cap decided to approach. He stepped forward, only for a yellow-cloaked Epoptean guard who had come to see what was drawing the crowd put a hand on the man’s arm.

“No,” the guard warned sharply and jutted with his chin. “That’s Robdan Aelfricson.”

The man halted. The crowd stilled.

Dorilian lifted his head to note the growing disruption. “We’ve attracted too much company. Let’s talk in more peace tomorrow over breakfast. It’s been a good week since I’ve eaten Gerd’s hot cakes.”

“I'm surprised you haven’t won Gerd over to cook for you in Sordan.”

Dorilian’s jaw clenched. “That he chose Handurin over me is a slight I shall not soon forgive.”

Robdan smiled. “But you already have.”

“Gerd makes a duck in orange crust that cannot be matched. But more to his favor, he’s agreed to come to Sordan for Aubrey’s lying-in and first few months. Something about feeding mother and babies properly.” And their father also.

“That will be a happy time.”

Dorilian nodded. Robdan knew he looked forward to becoming a father. “I’m standing with Handurin for a meeting tomorrow at the Manor. He asked for my help intimidating Galanthius.”

Robdan laughed. King Galanthius of Merced hoped to wed one of his several daughters to Essera’s young King.

Dorilian stood and grinned. “I’ve decided to attend your interview. I want to see for myself this woman about whom you’re so hopeful.”

Warmth filled Robdan’s heart. “I would like that,” he said.

With a nod, Dorilian departed, as abruptly and silently as he’d arrived. He could be anywhere along the Rill corpus at any time, perhaps any when. Robdan didn’t completely understand his friend’s godhood or the abilities Dorilian had gained, only that whenever Robdan did appear at a Rill location, Dorilian never failed to meet him. Never failed to listen to his concerns. Never failed to be his friend. Happy to have settled the matter, Robdan stood and brushed at the creases in his jacket. With a crisp nod to the Epoptean guard, who bowed to him and signaled that he would serve as an escort, Robdan walked away from the wondering crowd, all of whom were too stunned at having seen him conversing with the Rill god to seek to speak to Robdan themselves.

***

The next morning at the Manor, Robdan took a moment to adjust the fine velvet waistcoat and gold chain of office he had donned for the meeting. He didn’t usually attend interviews for the hiring of staff or household affairs. Of course neither did Dorilian. The Rill god dealt with the Entities or heads of state or, even more to his preference, people he already knew and liked—and rarely agreed to be in the company of people he didn’t. That Dorilian was now dressed in a manner certain to overawe—the heraldic emerald and silver of his Sordan Hierarchate, embellished with glowing thread and eagles—was not so much for this lowly interview as it was for the later meeting with the kings, Handurin and Galanthius.

Robdan tugged on his collar. “Extending my own hand is the least I can do for this woman,” he fretted.

“You extended mine too.”

“And I thank you for letting me.”

A woman attired in yellow silk entered from an adjoining room. The King’s Mother, Princess Emyli, was also attending these interviews. Robdan bowed deeply. Emyli looked surprised to see Dorilian but, as was her way, simply accepted that he’d chosen to join them.

“Oh, there you are. Can either of you tell me why Aubrey is not here for this meeting?”

Robdan indicated Dorilian. “Him.”

“Aubrey and I have an agreement,” Dorilian said. “She wants to choose her own household. In this particular case, Robdan has asked my opinion about a candidate—and I wish to meet this woman. To avoid my opinion influencing hers, Aubrey will meet her later.”

“Ah,” said Emyli.

She looked past their shoulders and smiled when another woman joined them, this one her own Matron of Household, the always proper Cecily, wearing the crisp winged headdress of her lofty position. Robdan sent a pleasant smile Cecily’s way, though doing so did not earn him a smile in return. Not that long ago Robdan had been a demanding patient at the Manor and Cecily had yet to forgive him.

When they entered the library, Mellona stood from the simple chair she had chosen. Dressed in what was likely her best gown, deep golden velvet with a pretty embroidered collar at her neckline, she looked composed, if somewhat stressed and pale. Though silver strands stood out starkly in her dark hair, she had taken care with her appearance. A touch of color, applied ever so lightly, brightened her cheeks with a hint of sophistication. She appeared to understand that the household to which she applied—while it was to be a Kheld household—was not a rustic one. Following introductions, when Emyli, Dorilian, and Robdan took seats at one of the tables, Mellona took the seat across from them as bidden. She looked nervous and folded her hands.

What was she thinking? The company in this room would daunt any person. Emyli was not only King Handurin’s mother but herself a King’s daughter, a woman so lofty that only Highborn Princesses outranked her. As for Dorilian… his otherworldly gaze stole away even thought. The future and the past, it was said, were as the present to him. If Dorilian wished, the Rill’s lofty crowns would dissolve back into the city-ringed hills from which they had sprung, ruining fortunes, creating chaos. He had done so at Dazunor-Rannuli with but a word, destroying Essera’s most powerful merchant princes and reducing their once-mighty metropolis to a backwater. He had awakened the Rill to Mormantalorus just so he could send massive charyses bearing armies in their bellies, with his Heir at their head, to conquer the stunned city in just an hour. On a single day he had built three new bridges: at Merath and Trulo… and here. Whatever whispers Mellona might have overheard in the tavern surely inspired as much terror as hope.

Robdan was relieved that when Dorilian spoke, he sounded only like a man. “I understand you wish to be considered for the post of Matron in the household of my Lady, Aubrey Amundda.” 

“Yes, Thrice Royal.” Mellona possessed sufficient composure to use a rightful but not fawning form of address. “But I fear I misunderstood. I was told there might be a position in a Kheld woman’s household.”

“My Lady is a Kheld woman.” Though Dorilian answered matter-of-factly, he closely attended her response. “Her position is official. Indeed, I plan to make her my Hierarchessa as soon as I satisfy Kheld custom by building her a house—and she manages somehow to sew me a shirt.”

Mellona’s eyes widened for just a moment, then softened with understanding. A Kheld man taking a wife typically built her a residence or added to one she brought into the marriage; the woman in turn sewed a fine shirt for her intended to wear at the ceremony. While it was certain that Dorilian was capable of building a house, it was far less certain that his intended bride would be good at making shirts.

“Aubrey is assembling her own household and staff,” Dorilian continued. “However, every member of that staff must be acceptable to me. Ultimately. That is why I am here.”    

A nod and more understanding. “You would be in frequent residence.”

“Yes, and Aubrey’s household will be responsible for my comfort and security as well as hers.”

Head lowered, Mellona nodded.

Robdan waited, glad that he had not so far been expected to say anything. That this interview was taking place at all was because he had requested it. He was even more glad when Princess Emyli leaned forward with a pertinent question. “You have experience managing a household?”

“Yes, Royal Highness.” Mellona lifted her chin and focused on answering. “I served in the household of the noble Lord Kardoc Esechellon of Gygesarn. I oversaw two chambermaids, two housemen, a driver, a laundress, a kitchen maid, and a cook.”

Dorilian spoke again. “Aubrey’s cook and kitchen help will be chosen and supervised by my security staff. You would coordinate meals with that person, however. She already has a lady’s maid who will answer only to her—but the Matron of Household would be responsible for seeing that her other needs are fully met.” His intense gaze caught and held Mellona’s. “Aubrey isn’t experienced in the ways of royal life. Perhaps you are not, either, but you do know what’s involved in running a noble house. Aubrey is intelligent and quick to learn, but I do not want her energy or time to be consumed by things that, properly ordered, should run themselves.”

With a bob of her throat, Mellona swallowed. “She will have more important things to occupy her.”

“Much more important. Me, for one.” 

Another nod, thoughtful and accepting, though Robdan could see Mellona wrestling with just how to take that remark. If she could not handle Dorilian’s casual arrogance, the simple fact of his godhood and station…. It reassured Robdan somewhat to see the fleeting curve of Emyli’s lips as she met poor Mellona’s gaze, suggesting that Dorilian was not altogether to be feared.

“Aubrey is also pregnant with my sons,” Dorilian made another important point. “Twins. Highborn pregnancies by their very nature are fragile. I want nothing to distress her. Absolutely no concern should enter her life other than for her own health and happiness and that of our children. She distrusts Staubaun servitors and, frankly, at this point and with regards to her, so do I. If Aubrey wants a Kheldish staff, she shall have one. But her household must meet the standards appropriate for a Sordaneon. That means it must be prepared to receive guests and attend their needs as befits a royal house. Unfortunately,” he added dryly, “very few Khelds understand how that is done.”

Nor did Mellona. How could she? No Kheld, ever, had served in a Highborn household, far less overseen one.

“I cannot present myself as having run a royal household,” Mellona admitted to both royal persons, meeting their gazes as she attempted to explain. “I kept a clean and welcoming house for Lord Esechellon. I paid out the staff’s wages, purchased supplies, oversaw his expenses as well as those of his dependents, and managed his revenues for the estate. I took pride in his reputation. I oversaw also his house in Stauberg, until it was sold. But his guests were of lesser nobility, as was he. Few of his visitors were of higher rank and those who were visited seldom. Of the Highborn,” she turned her hands in her lap and dropped her voice, “I have no experience at all.”

“And what about Khelds?” Emyli asked. “What do you know about them?”

Mellona sighed and shook her head. “That I am one,” she admitted, ruefully. “You should know that I have spent much of my life outside Kheld communities. I was born, and reared, in Essera.”

“Tell me about your children,” Emyli prodded. Robdan noted that Dorilian, too, showed interest in the answer. There was no better way to see into any person’s life than to ask about their children.

Mellona directed her answer to the Princess, perhaps because she felt most comfortable speaking to a woman who was herself a mother. “I have two sons and a daughter. Kaden, the oldest, is sixteen years and he served Enlad Varney as a squire in the war. Kaden now serves Lord Berant, a captain in the regiment of Tahlwent. My younger son, Rory, is twelve years of age and is yet with me, as is my daughter, Thenna, who is ten years.” She dropped her gaze before speaking again. “I hope to provide a good place for them, as well as myself.”

Emyli turned to Dorilian. “Might tutors be added to the household?”

He shrugged. “That is for Aubrey to decide. She can add a dozen tutors if she desires, in any discipline she chooses. She has her own fortune and may spend mine as she pleases.”

Robdan tried to look encouraging when Mellona raised her eyes to his. That Dorilian had taken charge of the meeting surprised him not at all. Robdan had expected as much.

“My Lady would rely on you for many decisions and also for advice.” Dorilian settled back in his chair. “However, I warn you, she is willful.”

For the second time, Mellona allowed a smile. Robdan wondered what remembrance or slip of gossip had strayed into her thoughts.

“That amuses you?” Dorilian noted the reaction.

“Yes, Thrice Royal,” she owned. “Only a woman of strong will would dare place herself next to thee.”

How unusual! Mellona had used formal High Stauba. Properly, pointedly, and exquisitely pronounced. Robdan couldn’t help but be delighted at her display of higher learning. Dorilian’s gaze upon her sharpened, became something keen. Perhaps he had detected something of will in Mellona also. 

“And what of those who say that she is not worthy of her new place? Or me?”

“I believe that has already been decided,” Mellona answered crisply. “Surely the Lady has gained her place because she is worthy.”

Dorilian rose. “She can be placed on the list,” he said to Emyli. Following a glance to Robdan that indicated approval, the god left the room. While abrupt, the exit was superbly royal. He had learned whatever he needed to learn.

“Well then,” Emyli said. She put her hands together, then also rose. Unlike Dorilian, however, she tarried a few moments longer, as did Cecily who, smiling and looking only slightly judgmental, remained at her side. “You are on the list, Mistress Mellona. Cecily will conduct the remainder of the interview. I will send in my secretary to record some of the details of your experience and background. Conceal nothing, as the Hierarch’s staff will learn all in any case. Believe me when I say that they can. In five days, you will return here to be presented to Lady Aubrey, who will choose the persons she feels are best suited for her household.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness, and the God Hierarch too. I did not expect this.” Mellona’s expression changed as if trying to outrace her thoughts.

Emyli smiled. “Robdan can be most persuasive, even if he says not a word. If you would but wait here, I will send my secretary in promptly. Cecily? A few words?” Cecily on her heels, the royal lady swept from the room, leaving behind only traces of marvelous perfume.

Mellona spun to face Robdan. “A Sordaneon household? You hope to place me in service to a god?”

Robdan’s smile dismissed the situation. “To my great-niece, who is to be wed to my friend. Aubrey is most insistent on having a Kheldish staff to attend her needs. And Dorilian… well, he wants her to be happy.”

“It amazes me to hear you call him by name.”

“Only because he told me I could… in Stauberg. So much death around and too few friends. I think having someone at hand who uses his name helps him feel less alone.”

“Even if I am not chosen for this position, I thank you!” Mellona looked toward the library door through which the exalted guests had departed. “I can barely believe any of this just happened! I met the Rill god. Spoke with him. I was in the same room! After how little I did to help him before.”

“You did more than you know. You really must tell Aubrey your story sometime; I’ve only told her my side of it, mostly about taking your horse and how bad I felt about that. Did she, your lady, take the mare’s loss out of your wage?”

“No. The mare was mine. And the Prince did pay for her.” Mellona laughed. “Oh! How Thenna bargained with Handurin, refused to hand over her buckle ’til she got him to give her his belt buckle in exchange. She still has it.”

“Truly?” Robdan chuckled.

“She won’t give it up. The Prince’s own buckle, the King’s now, from his own hand. How could I make her sell it for firewood or food? Dreams are harder to come by.” Having regained her composure, Mellona looked around in wonder again. “What shall I tell Rory and Thenna about where I’ve been? And the people I’ve seen? Whenever King Handurin rides to the village, Thenna stands by the road holding flowers, hoping to see him… and I am in his house! I talked with his mother!”

“I suppose you could tell them kings have mothers too. And so do Rill gods. We should all be glad of mothers.”

Seeing the brightness and wonder in Mellona’s eyes as she talked about her children, Robdan knew what he would do. Whatever happened, he would see that Rory was educated and established in a career. Kaden, the older boy, could be granted more opportunities in the military. Robdan could also promise that clever Thenna would surely meet the King and that she would attend a good school. Introductions to the right people might even bring fortunate marriages. Robdan could do much to help behind the scenes.

And he would one way or another arrange to visit Mellona from time to time, maybe even often. Robdan had a voucher for unlimited Rill travel—and the house Dorilian would build for Aubrey, once the Khelds signed a treaty allowing it, occupied a hillside facing Bellan Toregh’s Rill mount.

Robdan had done very little until now by way of using his good connections. He sensed that now was a fine time to start.

“I see Cecily has returned. I will wait just outside. When you’re done, I shall show you the kitchen,” Robdan promised. “My friend Gerd is there, you see, and he’s a very good cook. Just this morning he put up a pot of lentils, after I told him at breakfast how you and I came to meet.”

“You told him about the soup?”

“Him, but mostly for Dorilian to hear. He stopped by for the hot cakes.”

“Is the whole World going to be talking about that bowl of soup?”

“Oh, I’m afraid they already are. Gerd has added it to the Manor menu. If a bowl of that soup can keep a god alive, imagine what it can do for mere mortals.”