sanctuary

  Aryon waved off the apology with an alarmingly casual gesture. “Please, if I were concerned about dirtying my robes in a working village such as Vos, then I’d never descend from my tower. Besides, it certainly made for a memorable introduction.” He paused and took a sip of his tea. “In any case, I find I prefer to meet people when they aren’t expecting me. Such introductions tend to be more honest. Though, if I may say, Bravoyn, you do not strike me as one predisposed to dishonesty.”

  “I think that’s been proven.” Bravoyn said under his breath and finally brought his cup to his lips. He blew on the tea gently, and then took a sip. And paused. The taste [describe] was startlingly familiar. “Is this a Cyrodiilic blend?” He asked, taking another sip. It was disconcertingly close to the taste of the leaves his parents had come to favour back in Cheydinhal.

  “I had wondered if you might recognise it.” Aryon took another sip. “I acquired the leaves from an Imperial Trader who passed through Vos not too long ago, and I thought this an opportune time to finally sample them. You’ll have to tell me if I’ve brewed it properly.”

  “Mm.” Bravoyn took another sip. He suspected Aryon might have just been asking his opinion to be polite – it was, of course, brewed to perfection. “Yes, it tastes as I remember. But I kind of preferred it sweetened.”

“Oh,” Aryon stood again and reached for Bravoyn’s cup. “My apologies.”

  “You don’t have to…” Bravoyn began to protest, but Aryon had already taken his cup and was currently opening what appeared to be a jar of marshmerrow syrup. “You seem surprised.”

  “Surprised…yes,” Aryon repeated thoughtfully as he stirred a spoonful of syrup through the tea. “Or rather, I find myself recalibrating several assumptions. I had thought that you might engage that typical healer’s mindset of allowing yourself to suffer through discomfort for the sake of practicality. Or to avoid imposing yourself on others.” He glanced up as he handed the cup back and Bravoyn managed to hold that gaze for a moment before looking away. He could be like that, after all, and had certainly spent much of the past six months or so making himself as small as possible. That he’d managed to express a preference in front of the local mage-lord himself was somewhat miraculous. But there was something about Aryon that made him feel at ease. Aryon looked satisfied when Bravoyn took a longer drink. Marshmerrow syrup gave it a different taste to honey, but the warmth was grounding and sweetness comforting after the day he’d had.

  “That’s um, actually not inaccurate. But my mother always said that a happy healer was a functional healer.”

  “Hmm,” Aryon sat back down and took another sip from his own cup. “A sound philosophy, and one that I think many healers could benefit from adopting. You’ve met Yakin, of course.”

  “Yes,” Bravoyn let out a quiet laugh. “Though I think he’d resent the implication that his limited bedside manner is a detriment to his ability as a healer.”