"You do stable boys a grave injustice," he murmurs, taking the kerchief and doing as he's bid, "hard-working young men not to be confused with knights who don't know the right end of a shovel."
The echo of humour in the remark isn't his; Kurik is dead and Martel lives, and he remembers him better than he imagines Sparhawk or any of the others would credit. Scolding them, managing them, Sparhawk first of all but any of the rest within grasping distance. He misses him all the more fiercely for knowing that he does not go on, that it's his fault; he doesn't wish Aslade would hear his apologies. He doesn't wish her any more pain at his hands. Of all the things he might undo - it is the bitterest for having been nothing he knew.
Adus is dead, too, at least. Krager, too, at last.
It is more of a balm than she probably intends, the harsh edge of how she doesn't precisely relent. He is grateful beyond words that he doesn't think it would help to say aloud to be even sharply fussed over, to be allowed to stay.
no subject
The echo of humour in the remark isn't his; Kurik is dead and Martel lives, and he remembers him better than he imagines Sparhawk or any of the others would credit. Scolding them, managing them, Sparhawk first of all but any of the rest within grasping distance. He misses him all the more fiercely for knowing that he does not go on, that it's his fault; he doesn't wish Aslade would hear his apologies. He doesn't wish her any more pain at his hands. Of all the things he might undo - it is the bitterest for having been nothing he knew.
Adus is dead, too, at least. Krager, too, at last.
It is more of a balm than she probably intends, the harsh edge of how she doesn't precisely relent. He is grateful beyond words that he doesn't think it would help to say aloud to be even sharply fussed over, to be allowed to stay.