emerged from beneath the cowl of her cloak.
Behind them a group of riders sat, mounted on caparisoned horses. All of them wore the same tabard and had the same emblem on the pennons of their lances; a white ship on a green background. A line of spare mounts and pack mules straggled out behind them. It looked like quite an impressive expedition.
Before Tyrion could say anything the White Lion had planted the lance in the earth of the gateway, vaulted down from the saddle, strode across the courtyard and swept his father off his feet in a massive hug. Much to Tyrion’s surprise his father did not object, he was laughing merrily. It was the first time Tyrion had ever seen such a thing.
He glanced at the woman to see if she was as wonderstruck as he, and noticed that her expression was sour and disapproving. She looked around the courtyard as if she were inspecting a pigsty. Her horse was smaller than the warriors’ but even more beautifully accoutred. She caught him watching her and frowned. He met her gaze though and held it till she looked away.
‘Korhien, you old warhound, it is good to see you,’ said Father.
‘And you, Arathion,’ said the warrior, slapping his father’s back with a force that Tyrion feared would do him injury. His father winced under the impact but made no protest. It suddenly occurred to Tyrion that Korhien and his father were friends. It was a novel concept. In all the years of his childhood, Tyrion could not recall his father showing affection to anyone or anything, even his sons. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Not since you retired here, after Alysia...’ Korhien said, and the way his expression changed showed he knew he had made a mistake even as he spoke. He closed his mouth. A wave of sadness flashed across his father’s face and he looked away into the distance.
‘Lady Malene,’ said his father at last. ‘Welcome to my home.’
‘So this is where my sister died,’ said the woman. ‘It is not a very... prepossessing place.’
Another faint shock rippled through Tyrion’s chest. This woman was his aunt. He studied her even more carefully now, wondering just how much she resembled his mother. Now that he looked closely he saw that some of her features bore a resemblance to Teclis’s and even to those he saw in the mirror. She was staring at him just as hard. There was hostility in that gaze and something else he could not make out, curiosity perhaps.
She held out her hand and looked at him again. It occurred to him that she was a lady who was not used to mounting or dismounting a steed without aid. He felt tempted to go and help her, but something in him rebelled against it and after a moment, he realised why.
It would be servants who would aid this woman, and he was most definitely not her servant. She saw the knowledge strike him, and she smiled coldly, dismounted gracefully and strode over to where he stood. She walked all around him inspecting him the way a mountain housewife might inspect a calf she was thinking of buying. Tyrion did not like the way she did it.
‘Do you like what you see?’ he asked.
‘Tyrion,’ his father said, his tone disapproving. The warrior laughed. The elf woman’s response surprised him.
‘Yes, very much,’ she said. ‘Although its manners could be improved.’
Korhien laughed at that too. Tyrion felt his face redden. He clenched his fists defiantly, not used to being mocked by any but his father or Teclis. Then he saw the funny side and laughed himself.
‘You look like her when you laugh,’ Malene said, and there was a sadness in her voice that reminded him of his father sometimes. ‘Alysia was always a merry soul.’
Alysia had been his mother’s name, and it was obvious from Malene’s tone that she missed her. It occurred to him that perhaps this proud, cold woman might be something like he would become if Teclis died, and he found he had a certain sympathy for her then.
‘Are we going to stand out here in the dust all day?’ asked Korhien, ‘Or are you going to ask us in and ply us with some of the fine old wines in that cellar of yours you always boasted about.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said his father. ‘Come in, come in.’
It was the first time Tyrion had ever heard about fine old wines in their cellar. It was certainly turning