Mari passed him on the gravel walkway to join them, and she briefly stopped to greet him before continuing.

“Done practicing already?” she said, clearly disappointed. “But I just came out to watch.”

“There’s not much practice to watch,” Rayan said, and he gestured to Cyrus’s splinted arm. Thorda might be reluctant to acknowledge it, but he wouldn’t. “One can only do so much when injured.”

“You’re injured?” she asked.

“It’s nothing,” Cyrus said, embarrassed by the attention. “Stasia says it’s only a sprain.”

“Then it will be that much easier for me to heal.”

Mari took his bandaged wrist into her hands and closed her eyes. Rayan winced as if struck. Such healing magic should be available to him as well… but then again, his struggles with Alliya lingered on his mind. If Mari could do so with Endarius’s gifted magic, then let her. There was no reason to risk ruining his mood with his own potential failure.

Whispered prayers floated from her lips, too quiet for Rayan to hear. The two men stood respectfully silent and still. A soft breeze blew against them, carrying the scent of tall grass. Faint rainbow light shimmered across her fingers, so quick and brief it might have been his imagination.

“I’ll need to pray on it more,” she said, opening her eyes and letting go. “But for now, does it feel better?”

Cyrus lifted his arm and gently twisted it one direction, then the other.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think it does.”

“Wonderful!” she said, tugging his good arm toward the mansion. “Now come inside, and find yourself a comfy chair. Give me a few hours of prayer, and by tomorrow, you’ll be a brand-new you.”

“Impossible,” Cyrus insisted.

“It’s true,” Rayan said. The group gathered in a large den, with a ridiculously huge fireplace roaring on one side. Mari sat next to Cyrus in a padded chair, cradling his splinted arm. She’d not left his side since dinner, and every few moments she stopped to offer it another prayer. Thorda lingered by the fire, occasionally prodding it with a poker, while Stasia and Clarissa cuddled on a sofa. Empty ale cups and wineglasses lay about, loosening their tongues as they chatted the evening hours away.

“But I saw the Lioness fighting at Lycaena’s execution,” Cyrus said. “The way she ripped and tore apart those soldiers? You can’t possibly be her. You’re so… nice.”

“I cannot decide if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Probably a bit of both,” Stasia said. “Want me to flick his ears for you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of defending myself, thank you.”

Before Cyrus could ask what she meant, Mari squeezed his injured arm hard enough that his eyes bulged.

“See?” she said, the pressure of her fingers relenting. “Even us nice people can be cruel. We just don’t enjoy it.”

“Seemed to enjoy that just fine,” Cyrus muttered.