quia tu es deus fortitudo mea quare me repulisti
Only at Ehlana's urging--and then express command--does Sephrenia join them for breakfast the following morning, dark circles under her eyes and a sleeveless black overmantle that none of them had seen her wear before partially covering her traditional white Styric robe. She sits slightly apart from the others, her injury drawn around herself like a wall. She won't look at Vanion, won't eat breakfast no matter how Alean urges and coaxes. Vanion himself seems no better, pale and drawn, nearly so much as he had been under the weight of swords years ago.
Breakfast, therefore, is understandably strained--although broken briefly by an alarmed servant coming into the dining room with a pillow that Martel recognizes with a sinking feeling. He covers his eyes with his hand, leaning forward, and would like to pretend he's not present when Sparhawk looks over, somewhere between cool and mirthful, "Has there been a problem, brother?"
It's nobody's imagination that they bring that address out most often when needling each other. Martel spreads his fingers and glares through them. "A misunderstanding," he answers, his tone clipped.