Dessert
SEVRIN
The dinner arrives at the usual hour. He sits alone, the plate untouched before him. A servant follows with a narrow tray and sets it beside him without a word.
Asharin’s utensils.
Forks. Knives. Gathered over time. Most still bear the remnants of her meals, dried into the metal.
Others have begun to turn, the edges darkened, a thin bloom creeping along where time has been allowed to sit too long.
Sevrin does not look at the servant as he leaves.
He selects one and turns it once between his fingers.
He begins to eat with it.
Halfway into his meal, he pauses. Then he reaches down and presses his thumb against his ankle, against the mark that has been there since a spring on a mountain and a girl in a white veil who said saying goodbye would hurt.
He knows who she is now. He closes his eyes. The familiar thrum moves through him, the one that runs through him whenever his Morraks or anyone else that belongs in Morrath are near. But this one is different. Richer. And it could only belong to one person.
Colsar's horse left through the eastern gate two hours ago.
The palace is quieter for it. He rises. Straightens his cuffs.
Picks up his goblet. Morrath was calling for her, it would let her enter, of that he was certain.
Whether or not it would let her leave was another matter entirely, and one Sevrin was unconcerned about.
He thinks, briefly, that she may ask for dessert.
He walks out into the corridor.