He was too young to remember much of aunt Ilel: a low clear voice spinning tales of an evening, quick graceful movements, fragrance. He had wept when she was taken, for he had loved the tales; but even those glimpses grew dim over time, and Roh would have said he had not known her.
Until he was facing Nhi Vanye, fierce and frightened and unflinching in a ring of swords. If there is no honor at all in Chya, I shall be ashamed for that.
It was Ilel's very tone in that low rebuke; and his hatred died then, stillborn.