The Exiles

7. Word of a Man

The children, still hauled inside the house, piled one head on top of the other, shortest to tallest, and peeked out through a small crack in the door, held ajar as if it weren't open and they weren't spying. Not at all.

"Get away from the door!" Granny tried. Though what child would listen to that at a time like this? Surely not the Silvertongues.

Defiant, or rather, distracted, they peered out through the crack in the door—held open a smidge by Attin—at their parents, standing meters apart, knee-deep in the glaring snow, wondering what Mama was going to ask.

Papa shivered in the chill morning air. Mama hadn't given him time to re-don his jacket. She stood with her fire shawl thrown across her shoulders, a shawl she'd weaved the first winter she'd ever faced on Earth. A winter unlike one's back home. Snow was an odd thing to behold. White, soft, blinding, and cold. Colder than any hearts she'd ever known. Mama almost forgot she'd once known a different winter in the lands she longed for—a winter that settled in your soul, not on the plains and hills before you. And some winters—or frost, as it was known—settled deeper than others, ones no heat, nor piles of clothes or fur could cure. Oft times, those hearts never made it to bloom. And sometimes, Mama feared her own would do the same these past few days. For every time Rita Silvertongue, the once-Queen of Chymer, looked at her husband, she felt a frosty barb where her heart was. Sharp and painful.

As her children watched, unbeknownst to her, Rita pulled her shawl—woven to radiate the warmth of a warm summer's day—tighter, and stared at the pile of snow about her feet.

Papa looked at Mama longingly while as she chewed her cheeks as if she chewing her words. She opened her mouth to say something, and upon seeing her husband's face, fell silent again. How was she to utter words when her heart ached just as it did the day Nessa wove a dream in her sleep, frightening her awake? It was a day Mama never thought would come, for a human child could not and would never weave. But there Nessa was, her dreams visible for her Mama to see—a rabbit jumping into a burrow quickly.

Rita eyed her grubbier-than-usual husband. His beard was longer, his eyes sunken as if he hadn't slept in days. His cheeks had the beginnings of hollowing, and his once aqua blue eyes shone as deep as the deepest trench. How had she not noticed the toll her silence was taking on him? How had she not noticed the once proud king who bowed to no one now rarely met others' gaze?

But this is not the time to think about such things. She shook her head and watched her once-mighty King, fallen, as many before him had. "You look like you could use some sleep."

"Aye," he agreed, sighing out the breath he'd been holding. "You are as lovely as the garland day we met—"

Mama held up her hand. Papa fell silent.

"What did Mama say?" Vanylla asked, nudging her head at Nessa above her.

Nessa shook her head, fighting back a tickle that clawed at her throat. "I didn't hear her words."

"Neither did I. She speaks too quietly." Attin too peered, not in jest but in concern. He'd give anything to hear his parents talk to one another again.

"Children!" Granny called, not to be heard again. "Move away from there."

But the children stayed, too eager, and perhaps too nervous not to eavesdrop. After all, it wasn't very often Mama had that fire in her eyes. The fire they rarely saw. A fire that made her eye glow like a firefly, and her hair gleam copper—like a goddess. Mama was simply radiant, captivating. How could they not look at her in awe?

"I think it's time." Mama crossed her arms, gaze flicking back to the cottage. "Nessa is—"

"Getting worse?" Papa's voice was laced with hurt. "I'm so sorry, Rita. For everything."