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There were precisely four-thousand-three-hundred-twenty-four possibilities of what I had expected once I had finally come face to face with Yareth. None of those possibilities could have prepared me for seeing him calmly sitting on a chair with a cup of tea and book before him. Even the room itself was unquestionably ordinary: made of some brown stone and plainly furnished. Other than the table and two chairs, there was nothing there.
Taking a seat, I grit out, “Yareth.”
Turning the page of his book, he commented, “You’re really quite slow. I was expecting you here ages ago. What took you so long?”
There were exactly three-hundred-seventy-eight questions I should have asked him. Things like “What happened in Dukht Mines?” or “Why did you betray me?” Instead, the inner workings of my mind settled on, “You don’t look like a criminal.”
He closed his book, the thud echoing off the deceptively ordinary stone walls. “My situation is a little complicated.”
“I have time.” I really didn’t, but Yareth didn’t need to know, and that psychopath Mishmaer could wait.
“You’ve changed.”
“Have I?”
“You’re not quite so dead.” He leaned in a way that was a little too uncomfortable. “Do you finally have a Beloved?”
“Yeah, I do.”
He smiled warmly. “Then congratulations are in order.”
“You are trying to change the subject.”
The smile fell. “I see your lack of tact hasn’t changed.”
“You of all people should be aware of the type of Strigaix I am.” Before he could respond, I added, “Now cut the small talk and answer my question.”
“Which was?”
“Excuse me?”
“You stated a sentence. A question requires a question particle.”
“Fine.” I massaged my temples. “Why is it that in a place full of criminals and prisoners, you seem to be perfectly fine?”
“Didn’t you hear me the first time? My situation is complicated.”
I took a deep breath. Yareth was only poorly imitating his mother and he only ever did that when he was backed into a corner. “Then can you explain to me what exactly the complication is?”
“There’s someone I want to save.”
When he provided no more information, I asked, “Who?”
“My child.” An expression which I could now identify as pain crossed his features.
“Isn’t your son still an infant?”
“You remembered?”
“I remember things, but you’re deflecting again. Just answer the question.”
“Yes, he’s still an infant.”
“Then has he contracted some disease?”
“No.”
“Were there any complications with his bloodwork?”
