Page 161 of The Dryad Storm

Tierney’s eyes widen. She was used to the unvarnished bluntness of their conversations at the Wyvernguard. But never about a topic likethis.

Or’myr barks out a laugh and mock-toasts her with his mug. “If I wasn’t so busy being jealous, I’d be impressed.”

Tierney winces and glances away. When she looks back at him, she finds his eyes narrowed with an all too knowing mischief.

“You know there’s a name for women like you,” he says before launching into a string of Noi words her translation rune can’t make out.

Hurt spears through Tierney, evisceratingly sharp. Because she can just about guess what his words mean, and it’s beyond painful to hear coming from him.

Angry tears burn her eyes as she slams down her teacup in a clatter of stone against stone. “I thought you weredifferent,” she hurls out. “Go ahead, Or’myr. Tell me what that means. What is it?Slut? Whore?”

Or’myr gapes at her, seeming wildly taken aback. “Sweet Holy Vo on High,no,” he exclaims. “That’sbarbaric. Why would you think that about yourself... orme, for that matter?”

She glares at him.

“Itmeans,” he emphatically states, “one who embraces the garden.”

Tierney scrunches her face in confusion.“What?”

“Thegarden,” Or’myr sputters before repeating the Noi phrase.

“What on Erthia are you talking about?” Tierney cries, throwing up her hands. “I don’t speak Bizarre Eastern Realm Euphemism!”

Or’myr blinks at her. “More specifically, it meansone who wants to gather many flowers.”

Tierney blinks at him in turn.

“One of the many ways of approaching romance,” he prods.

“There aremanyways?”

This seems to bring Or’myr up short. He splays out his palms. “Ofcoursethere are. There are those who ‘stand outside of the garden.’ Those who ‘choose to be their own garden.’ Those who ‘share the garden and become the flowers’...”

This goes on for several minutes as Tierney just stares at him, mired in a confusion that’s dancing on the edge of a hilarity over their screamingly huge cultural divide.

“That’s a bizarre number of love categories!” Tierney exclaims, frustration making her aura explode in all directions.

“Hold on,” Or’myr counters, “are you saying that your limited Western categories...wait, I mean youronlyallowablesinglecategory to describe something as complex as love and lust, makesany sense at all?”

Tierney is stunned into silence, backhanded by the possibility there could be some truth in his words even though these Eastern Realm ideas about love and lust are bizarre to the point of laughable and smash clear through her rigid cultural framework.

She wrestles with it all, struggling to regain her bearings.

“So,” she finally starts, trying to piece together the veiled meanings of each of the multitude of garden metaphors, “do you want to ‘gather many flowers’... or would you if...”

“If not for my terrifying lightning?” Or’myr supplies.

Again, an uncomfortable silence ensues, the two of them staring at each other.

Or’myr lets out a long sigh. “I’m a bit different. There are names for people like me too.”

He sets down his mug, gets up, walks over to the tree line, and picks a single, violet-glowing Twining Lily from a vine encircling an Eastern Maple’s slender trunk. Then he strides back to Tierney, a pained edge entering his gaze as he holds out the flower to her.

“I’m ‘the one who desires the single Xishlon rose,’?” he admits, ardent longing crackling through his power.

Forking straight into her.

Warmth spreads over Tierney’s skin as she accepts the flower, their eyes meeting. And then, with palpable effort, Or’myr clamps down on his power and whisks it into his core. Sitting back down, he picks up his mug and warms his palms with it, his eyes lit up now with simmering purple heat.

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