Chapter 19. Boring Old Lemony

emony did not mean to daydream, but it was something of a past time, especially when she was bored.  Now that life had become relatively easy, she was having more time to relax and think and it was something she had never been very good at.  Presently she watched raindrops bead and stream down the warped glass of the windows that lined the eastern wall of the green drawing room.  Autumn brought squalls to the city and the rain had started before sunrise and showed no sign of ceasing as noon approached.

There was a large hearth and a fire crackled in the grate, breathing warmth upon them.  Lemony curled beneath a small down comforter that someone had left lying carelessly on the emerald cushions.  By dint of this, she had established her nest and was leaning against the padded arm of the couch.  Her shaved head perched on her folded arm as she scanned the room.

Uriel was currently perusing a large tome that Zhou had brought down with him from his study.  Leather bound with metal edgings, its pages were foxed and yellowed, suggesting considerable age.  It took up nearly half of the long low table that perched before the couches.  The guild leader was currently standing before the windows, the gray light gleaming on the brass buttons of his long black caftan as he scanned the sodden grounds, his hands clasped behind his back.  He was unremarkable from this angle with his short black hair and golden skin.  When he turned to pace back across the room, however, his visage was stunning.  Lemony remarked once more his midnight eyes that were both gentle and bold.  She found him incredibly attractive.  The set of his jaw and lips were classical Canthan, fine and angular with an almost feline grace.

He graced her with his gaze and a smile tickled the corner of his lips.  Lemony knew he found her amusing, although why this was so escaped her.  She was just boring old Lemony, a plain and humble monk, and he was the amazing Zhou, a powerful and mysterious mesmer.  Of course, Zhou and Pendaran seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in reminding her she had spoken to the gods.  She wondered how Pendaran was doing, imagining him playing the harp upstairs.  It would be good to hear his music again.

Zhou paused for a moment before the hearth, raising a hand to touch the blade of an old sword that rested there.  His jaw tensed as his fingers traced the runes.  Now that he was not looking at her, he seemed sad.   Come to think of it, everyone seemed sad, even the gloomy gray sky.

“Why are you so miserable?”

Zhou chuckled softly and dropped resignedly to the wingback chair beside the fire.

“Do you fancy yourself a mesmer today, Madame Monk?”

“No,” she giggled.  He was always calling her silly things and she wondered where he had learned to speak such perfect Tyrian.  He even had the Ascalonian dialect down to an art.  She loved his Canthan, however, for it reminded her of her mother with its sing song cadence and poetic images.  She would never speak it with such beauty or mastery, but she could still enjoy its sound.

“Good, because I am not accepting students at this time,” Zhou said with a bitter edge to his laugh.

Uriel looked up from the book and glanced at Zhou.

“Why did you take Pendaran?  He did not seem particularly talented when I knew him.”

Lemony saw Zhou’s hands tighten over the arms of the chair and resentment or perhaps anger sharpened his features, causing his thin brows to become pinched above his narrow nose.

“Not even Pendaran knows my reason and he has never had the temerity to ask.”

“In my experience, a Master does not arbitrarily choose students.  Students need to ask first.”

“That is so.”

“I can’t imagine him asking.  He was a trumped up cockerel from the start, and, by all accounts, he has not outgrown that trend.”

“Morisedd’s opinion of Pendaran is biased.”

“With good reason.”

“Sister Lemony, why did you help Pendaran?” Zhou asked quietly.

“Lyssa told me to,” she replied, shrugging as if it were obvious, “She likes him.”