"I-" The eye, of course. Vyarin looked down at her with the one remaining, his hand reaching up until it touched the rag. He daren't press in, for fear of what lay beneath. Not even he knew anymore. It could still be there, slashed through the iris until it looked like the slit from a lizard's eye. It could be a rotted and gnarled lump, black and squishy. It could just be gone, faded away by time leaving behind a cavernous lump. The thought made him sick. He didn't want to think about it.

"It . . . should not have been. A sensitive matter, an accident from when I had to act on behalf of my father," he finally said, quietly, glancing down at the shashka sitting at his hip. It was the same one from that fateful day. The lands beyond the League tended to look down upon the duel as a barbaric practice, he had learned. They were sunny people, accustomed to leisure and finery and peace. Fine castles and palaces, rather than grim motte and bailey keeps. Marble rather than granite. Life is far more precious this far south, it seems. Far more to enjoy. Vyarin finally looked up, to meet Annalise's eye, almost afraid that he might see dissatisfaction there. He felt guilty, dancing around the issue. "You have heard of a . . . Country Haircut?" he chanced, a common euphemism known around the Zpina for a dueling-related injury. If her tutor in Prozdy was a native speaker, she must have heard the phrase at some point.