The Exiles

33c. Silvertongue

It was barely a decision Amer made when he pushed Nessa behind him, away from the horror. He rushed between his father and mother. Rita had reared her weapon once more to finish him, but Amer screamed, "Mother! Please. You're killing him! You're killing father!"

Rita's wide, unearthly gaze fixed on Amer, her hands and breath trembling in anger. "Move," she said, again as if not recognising him as her son.

Behind Amer, he felt faint brushes of fingers as he no doubt knew Papa was trying to pull him away, to protect him, to always protect him, and for what? For them to be exiled, for him to live as a commoner, begging for scraps in a foreign land? For him to return home only to die at the hand of his wife, who knew not what she was doing.

Amer was sure their mother did not know what she was doing. And if she did — his heart trembled at the thought — he understood why father has asked for him. After all, Amer was good at making prisons out of mere words. It was his silvertongue gift.

"You're killing our father," Amer spoke again, his voice calmer than he felt inside, and barely above a whisper. "You, mother, you are killing your husband, who loves you and this family. Who lies before you only so he could stop you from fulfilling your cursed, that if you killed the object of your hatred with anger, your anger shall burn into ash once and for all. You desire to punish Uncle Rava, I know, but is this the way?"

Rita tilted her head slightly.

Was his mother comprehending what he was saying? He couldn't tell, but Amer shifted to block Papa again and stood tall between the one dying parent, and the other, nearly lost. "Mother?" He reached out for her, despite her anger scorching his outstretched hand.

For a moment, he thought he saw the old Rita Silvertongue, his doting mother.

"He deserves pain." His mother turned to Rava, still crawling away towards the foot of Council Rock. How long it would take him to reach that sanctuary, Amer couldn't tell, but how lucky was the man who bore no punishment for his crimes, who could not be punished with weapons forge-made or woven if he succeeded in his venture. Yet, his father, the merciful man who only cared for others, lay shredded and dying at Amer's feet.

The man who had protected him all his life.

He felt the faintest brush against his ankle and stole a peek, desperately begging his heart to be still. His father's eyes flickered like the last light on a candle wick before closing. Tears stung Amer's eyes. How could he have hated the man at these past few years? How could he have thought he'd wronged his mother? Nessa had come as a blessing from a hex, and all this time, his father had carried that guilt. He knew it. Every time Ovek talked to his wife, his mother, or him, his gaze lowered in shame.

Amer's throat threatened to clamp down on him.

"Are you going to move?" Rita's voice pierced his thoughts. "I cannot rest until I have punished the wicked."

Amer turned to his mother, a drop of a tear sliding down his cheek, frozen in place. He pulled a deep breath in and stood tall. "My lady, I cannot do that. The man you seek to punish is a citizen of Chymer, and I as the kin—" he couldn't get himself to say the word 'king,' for a little seed of hope still fluttered in his soul. "As the crown prince of Chymer, I reserve the right to punish the wicked, as you so call it. Will you deny me my birth-given right, Lady Chymer?"

Rita's flame flickered.

"Keep talking, Amer! She hears you." Nessa urged from meters away, where he'd pushed her behind his mare, who seemed to return to life and watched them with keen interest.

"Rava the Wicked has wronged many people, my lady, not just you and your family. He has killed and tortured many Chymers and others alike. He has robbed this land of its future, its children." Amer turned to watch Rava crawling faster towards the line beyond which weaves would not work... but that wasn't true, was it? He knew better. He knew weaves worked, at least Ursa's and father's had some weeks ago.