Seymour leaned forward, interested. “You mentioned his father before.”
“Yes. Tormod MacInnes is a…a rather unpleasant man. He is a doctor—”
“He is a quack,” Mialina corrected him.
Alasdair MacQuarrie smiled wryly. “That is a more adequate descriptor. He seems to belief that bloodletting is the solution to every ailment. My sister was made to marry him against her will.”
“I see. How many children do they have together?”
“Three. The eldest is a girl, Seoc is the middle child, and the other is a boy as well.”
“And he beats them all?”
“Yes. Ruthlessly, and for the most trivial of matters.”
Seymour nodded, keeping his face absent of expression, and looked from the young lord to the Alt-Mage. “Remind me of their ages again? Simon’s and Seoc’s, I mean.”
“Simon is nineteen, as am I,” replied Henry.
“Seoc is eighteen,” added MacInnes.
Seymour tilted his head. “I thought you had said he was fifteen.”
The mage blinked. “Did I? I must have been speaking in the past. Yes, he was fifteen when he was taken.”
“I see,” said Seymour, wetting his lips with the tip of his purplish tongue and turning his eyes toward the blue sky, which was quite free of the clouds he had seen looming on the horizon the previous evening. “And what became of the boy he was caught with?”
“Dead. He didn’t last a day in that awful place.”
“So I thought. Do you know whether Seoc is aware of this?”
MacQuarrie grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. “Doubtful, unless they used the news to torment him. But I wouldn’t bring it up in his presence, either way. He is, as I mentioned, easily upset, and broaching the subject will only bring trouble.”
“I know. I just need to be prepared if he happens to ask.”