The Cirayla
Days later Irenya joined Aeryl to pick lavender. Near the outer walls of Ilkyrie, Irenya tilted her face to the sun. A breeze cooled her damp skin and fanned the pungency of lavender past her nose. She lifted the hem of her smock and wiped her face.
‘You’re very spry, Aeryl.’
‘For my age and weight you mean?’ The herbalist chuckled. Her movements deft, she cut long stems and lay the mauve flowers in a flat basket.
‘I had trouble keeping up with you,’ replied Irenya. ‘I haven’t climbed banks that steep for years.’
‘Try the mountain slopes of Cypria. There is no lavender oil in Dar Orien to match the wild grey blooms from those mountains.’ Aeryl rolled a flower head between her fingers and sniffed the lavender, her eyes closed. ‘Remind me later and I will let you smell the h
