The Exiles

33b. Silvertongue

Amer rode as hard as he could through the night. The frosty wind sliced through him like a thousand paper cuts. Cerulean 'winter' had begun, in some ways similar to Earth's winter, yet harsher, more painful — yet dry. The cold that nipped at your fingers and toes and at your cheeks was not the same. Here, the cold dug in, deeper, harder, longer. It festered in your bones and hung to every sinew until even an infinitesimal movement brought tears to your eyes. Your soul shrivelled as if hibernating like the brown bears he'd often see in the woods behind their cottage, in the hills, emerging from their slumber at the end of the torture.

Winter, or rather frost, was not a pleasant season. It was the most warned about in their folklores and daily lives. Frost was a demon that roamed the land, devouring any warm bodies that dared step out into its fore, alone, defenseless. It was once said to be how the monster got some warmth, if any. Most folks who roamed away from home at night during frost never returned. No trace of them ever found. Yet, here he was, the returned crown prince, the triumphant crown prince, riding out into the night — with his brother's blood on his white tunic fluttering like some flag — against the bite of the frost cutting him with thousand little slices. He rode away from warm hearths and warm beds, or warm maidens who would have taken him as their hero for the night. Instead, he was here, riding out to save the one woman he loved most dearly. His mother.

The one who meant everything. More than the crown. More than life.

So Amer rode, gripping the rein as hard as he could to keep from falling, afraid his numb fingers would loosen around them. He rode through the land he seemingly knew like the back of his hand, for the countless times he'd ridden it as a child, sitting in front of Papa's saddle. But now, he was on his own, his own man. His own guide and his own saviour.

"Hyah!" He kicked the honey-coloured stead beneath him, urging it to go faster, though he knew he'd pushed the mare to her limits.

He did not know how long he rode like that, blindly into the night, following his instinct. He passed many sleepy villages and knolls; many bridges and many paths, some worn out by hooves, some fresh. Part of him wondered how long the mare would last. Part of him wondered how long he would last. The frost nibbled at his bones.

That's when he saw a peculiar thing. A thing he had not been expecting.

In fact, Amer Silvertongue did not know what he had been expecting until then. But, now, having seen that peculiar thing, he knew instantly what it was. Or rather, who it was, burning hot and bright like the sun. He was still ways away from the figure, but he could feel the heat thaw his cheeks the closer he got. He could feel the odd tremble as the air itself shook with fear.

Mother.

A moment later, he heard a scream carried by the wind. A raw and heart-wrenching scream ripped the air and Amer felt his chest constrict.

"Faster," he almost whispered to the mare.

She ran at a pace neither faster nor slower.

***

It wasn't until Ovek and Nessa reached a throwing distance from the Council Rock, that they finally caught up with Rita and Rava, made easier as the two were on foot, or rather, Rita was on foot, kicking and rolling Rava on the hard ground.

"Where is Mawsie?" Nessa wondered out loud. Ovek wondered the same and hoped he was safe.

Her screams and grunts reached them clearly as Rita attacked Rava, and it set Ovek's nerves on fire. The sounds were unnatural.

"The curse is taking hold, Papa," Nessa murmured from his cloak, her head poking out to see ahead of them. "She's killing him..."

Just as Nessa had said these words, it was as if they were to come true before their very eyes. Rita, whose spine-tingling weapons held aloft or to the side of her body as she advanced upon him, driving her heel into his side — slowly but surely inching towards the line no weaves intended to harm shall cross — swung, emblazoned with fire leaping from her body towards her abuser.