‘Lorash met his end in the course of his service, and the lands he was promised passed to his brother, as did the planned union to Hurania. We have no name for the brother, whom I take to be your father, but his presence is clearly implied. The two of them would have moved with their household to take up their stewardship of the manor of Barva, which must have been quite the journey. Especially given the novelty of their acquaintance.’

‘What are you saying? My parents were never supposed to marry?’

‘As it would seem. The lack of records on your father suggests he absconded, or was cast out; nobody seems to remember him. Wherever he was, he was called back and sent off to fulfil his brother’s obligations.’

Her words set things clicking in his head, his family dynamic recast, his father’s words and actions reversed in motivation. ‘He … he was in Roniaman. Training to be a minister.’

‘Ah, ever the lot of the second son. What a stroke of fortune for him that he was diverted, if you’ll pardon the expression. He and his new bride took a local name, and followed suit for their children.’ She finished with a smile that was not entirely manufactured. ‘Isn’t it better to know where you came from?’

He stood unsteady on his feet, legs trembling. On some level, he’d always assumed that his parents had a bond, a great attraction, a friendship at least, from which their disputes had flared. His father’s attempts to win the affections of the local populace, what Chel had taken for noble obligation, pronouncements of duty were, instead, the desperate attempts of a man destined for a life of priestly solitude to achieve some measure of substance, away from the fury of a wife who hated him as a stranger. His ministrations, his sermons, his deliveries of alms, quite unheard of for a local liege, even to plague houses …

‘Fuck,’ he whispered, swaying on his feet, something hot and burning like acid in his chest.

Laralim hadn’t heard. She dipped her pen and hovered it above the foot of her notes. ‘Now, I’m sure you mentioned other siblings. Perhaps you could supply their names and details for the archives?’

He wiped one hand across his forehead, feeling its slick clamminess despite the cool in the chamber.

‘I think,’ he began, then steadied himself and tried again. ‘I think I would like to speak to my friend.’

She glanced up at him then, silvery eyes peering from beneath silvery brows. She said nothing for a moment.

‘Very well.’

***