I interpreted "waiting" in the restaurant sense.
Sorian leaned back in his chair. He wanted good news. Fighting those damned dark-mages was costing him a fortune in raw materials. As winter approached, the ground had begun to freeze, and ore had become more difficult to obtain. He huddled back into his cloak, bringing the fur collar up around his cheeks. He pressed his hands together as his confidant, Vendelain, approached. He carried a silver platter. Sorian smiled. He knew what this was, and it would make him very, very happy.
"Here is what you requested," Vendelain bowed, placing a cloth napkin on Sorian's lap before setting the tray on the arm of his throne. "A glass of red wine and the heart of Mitharon Ailinar."
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