There was much a child could learn in ten years. Delial’s grasp on aether was tenuous at best and while she was sharp, she was not studious, and the matrons made sure that was well known. If there was one thing Delial learned well, it was how to read people.
Garren was not someone who could be said to be soft-spoken but there was a difference to the usual gruff edge in his voice and the one that she had heard early one grey morning. He was a coarse man who often seemed to speak well before the words came out of his mouth. He meant well enough most of the time, even if his temper did not always agree with him. Delial learned how to read him and his moods, how to tip-toe around the awaiting avalanche that was her father.
Lyra was the epitome of grace as far as Delial was concerned. She held her head high and seemed to glide through even the most humble of actions effortlessly, flawlessly, and always with a hint of a smile never far from her lips. Yet even she had the odd day out: those days when she seemed distant, distracted, when she seemed more bone than flesh. She was never angry, yet she was: the anger of embers forever waiting to devour fresh kindling, crackling just beneath the surface.
“My dear...?â€
It was Lyra that called out, the question in it lingering beyond the span her voice occupied. Had Delial not been there at her side, she might have felt alarmed: it was unlike her to sound uncertain, and the sight of her crooked brow was unsettling to be sure. Never did the world fail to orbit around what Lyra knew; never save for that morning.
From elsewhere in the house, Garren’s voice game as a similarly questioning grumble, a sound more than a word.
“My dear,†called Lyra once more, “I should think you will want to see this..â€
A line of figures marched down the cobbled street. Their faces were hidden but Delial knew the colors and the sigils that they wore: honored warriors and servants of the King. They marched in silence with their banners held high and waving in the grey wind. There were those among them who were not of the King’s men, and they walked stiffly between the ranks, staring with hard eyes at anyone who would meet their gaze.
Her father swore beneath his breath when he, too, came to the window. “Brigade?â€
“Nay, my love. Look closely.â€
Garren’s eyes narrowed and he cupped his hand against the window. Other faces peered on from other windows across the way, all fixed and perplexed at what exactly it was they were watching. Further up the street, another procession turned the corner, another column of marching boots and cold eyes.
Her father rumbled and it sounded like a growl. It was then, as the King’s men marched on by their house, that Delial noticed the men with the hardest stares were not men at all but heads and nothing more, their bodies replaced with pikes. Wrapped around their heads were tails of yellow cloth splattered with thickly in crimson.
Delial’s eyes grew wide and the pit of her stomach grew cold. Somewhere beside her, she heard her father hiss an angry prayer, and just beyond him the muddled murmurs of her brothers joining to watch the display.
The books and lectures spoke well enough of wars and conquests both inflicted and suffered by Ala Mhigo. She learned of kings and generals and heroes and of the honored dead their histories were built upon. Those things had remained at a safe distance, grim and caricatured and easily tucked back away between the covers of her texts. Even the Witch spoke little of it: It is grace and It is inevitable and It is not worth fear. Kings spilled blood for the betterment of the people. Between pages of blood and bone, there had to be reason.
Delial stared, desperately trying to scry something, anything, from the soldiers and their grisly carriage. Only the dead dared speak through wide, hateful eyes and frozen snarls: there was no grace nor kindness in their deaths. A hand tugged at her shoulder to dislodge her from the window and as she was ushered away at her mother’s side, she could make out her father muttering low to his sons.
In her later years she thought often upon those moments: her reflection in the glass, the glassy stare beneath a cold, grey morning. It was the first time she had ever heard fear in her father’s voice. She was ten years old and the world was only beginning to crumble.
Garren was not someone who could be said to be soft-spoken but there was a difference to the usual gruff edge in his voice and the one that she had heard early one grey morning. He was a coarse man who often seemed to speak well before the words came out of his mouth. He meant well enough most of the time, even if his temper did not always agree with him. Delial learned how to read him and his moods, how to tip-toe around the awaiting avalanche that was her father.
Lyra was the epitome of grace as far as Delial was concerned. She held her head high and seemed to glide through even the most humble of actions effortlessly, flawlessly, and always with a hint of a smile never far from her lips. Yet even she had the odd day out: those days when she seemed distant, distracted, when she seemed more bone than flesh. She was never angry, yet she was: the anger of embers forever waiting to devour fresh kindling, crackling just beneath the surface.
“My dear...?â€
It was Lyra that called out, the question in it lingering beyond the span her voice occupied. Had Delial not been there at her side, she might have felt alarmed: it was unlike her to sound uncertain, and the sight of her crooked brow was unsettling to be sure. Never did the world fail to orbit around what Lyra knew; never save for that morning.
From elsewhere in the house, Garren’s voice game as a similarly questioning grumble, a sound more than a word.
“My dear,†called Lyra once more, “I should think you will want to see this..â€
A line of figures marched down the cobbled street. Their faces were hidden but Delial knew the colors and the sigils that they wore: honored warriors and servants of the King. They marched in silence with their banners held high and waving in the grey wind. There were those among them who were not of the King’s men, and they walked stiffly between the ranks, staring with hard eyes at anyone who would meet their gaze.
Her father swore beneath his breath when he, too, came to the window. “Brigade?â€
“Nay, my love. Look closely.â€
Garren’s eyes narrowed and he cupped his hand against the window. Other faces peered on from other windows across the way, all fixed and perplexed at what exactly it was they were watching. Further up the street, another procession turned the corner, another column of marching boots and cold eyes.
Her father rumbled and it sounded like a growl. It was then, as the King’s men marched on by their house, that Delial noticed the men with the hardest stares were not men at all but heads and nothing more, their bodies replaced with pikes. Wrapped around their heads were tails of yellow cloth splattered with thickly in crimson.
Delial’s eyes grew wide and the pit of her stomach grew cold. Somewhere beside her, she heard her father hiss an angry prayer, and just beyond him the muddled murmurs of her brothers joining to watch the display.
The books and lectures spoke well enough of wars and conquests both inflicted and suffered by Ala Mhigo. She learned of kings and generals and heroes and of the honored dead their histories were built upon. Those things had remained at a safe distance, grim and caricatured and easily tucked back away between the covers of her texts. Even the Witch spoke little of it: It is grace and It is inevitable and It is not worth fear. Kings spilled blood for the betterment of the people. Between pages of blood and bone, there had to be reason.
Delial stared, desperately trying to scry something, anything, from the soldiers and their grisly carriage. Only the dead dared speak through wide, hateful eyes and frozen snarls: there was no grace nor kindness in their deaths. A hand tugged at her shoulder to dislodge her from the window and as she was ushered away at her mother’s side, she could make out her father muttering low to his sons.
In her later years she thought often upon those moments: her reflection in the glass, the glassy stare beneath a cold, grey morning. It was the first time she had ever heard fear in her father’s voice. She was ten years old and the world was only beginning to crumble.
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