Aronha. “Do you stand by that?”
A bit uncertain, Aronha looked his father in the eye and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Then I believe it is the opinion of this council that the angels are indeed the most beautiful and glorious people.” And Father raised his glass to Husu.
Husu stood, bowed, and lifted his glass in response. Both drank. Then Father looked at Monush, who laughed, stood, and lifted his glass to drink as well.
“The words of my second son have brought peace to this table,” said Father. “That is always wisdom, to these ears, at least. Come, have done. The council is over and there is nothing more for us here except to eat—and ponder how the dreams of young girls,brought by young boys, have set in motion the feet and wings of warriors.”
Edhadeya waited for her father to come to her small room to talk with her as he did every night. Usually she was happy that he was coming, eager to tell him how she did in school, to show off a new word or phrase in the ancient language, to tell him of some adventure or gossip or achievement of the day. Tonight, though, she was afraid, and she wasn’t sure which she feared more—that Mon had told Father of her dream, or that he hadn’t. If he hadn’t, then she would have to tell him now herself, and then he might pat her shoulder and tell her that the dream was strange and wonderful and then he would just ignore it, not realizing that it was a true dream.
When he came to her doorway, though, Edhadeya knew that Mon had told him. His eyes were sharp and searching. He stood in silence, his arms bracing the doorframe. Finally he nodded. “So the spirit of Luet is awake in my daughter.”
She looked down at the floor, unsure whether he was angry or proud.
“And the spirit of Nafai in my second son.”
Ah. So he wasn’t angry.
“Don’t bother explaining why you couldn’t tell me this yourself,” said Father. “I know why, and I’m ashamed. Luet never had to use subterfuge to get her husband’s ear, nor did Chveya have to get her brother or her husband to speak for her when she had wisdom that others needed to know.”
In one motion he knelt before her and took her hands in his. “I looked around the king’s council tonight, as we finished our meal, thoughts of danger and war in our minds, of the Zenifi in bondage and needing to be saved, and all I could think of was—why have we forgotten what our first ancestors knew? That the Keeper of Earth cares not whether he speaks to a woman or a man?”
“What if it’s not so?” she whispered.
“What, you doubt it now?” asked Father.
“I dreamed the dream, and it was true—but it was Mon who said it was the Zenifi. I didn’t understand it at all till he said that.”
“Keep talking to Mon when you have true dreams,” said Father. “I know this: When Mon spoke, I felt a fire kindle in my heart and I thought—the words came into my mind as clearly as if someone had spoken them in my ear—I thought, A mighty man stands here in boyshape. And then I learned the dream was yours, and again the voice came into my mind: The man who listens to Edhadeya will be the true steward of the Keeper of Earth.”
“Was it—the Keeper who spoke to you?” asked Edhadeya.
“Who knows?” said Father. “Maybe it was fatherly pride. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was the voice of the Keeper. Maybe it was the second glass of wine.” He laughed. “I miss your mother,” he said. “She would know better than I what to make of you.”
“I’m doing my best with her,” said Dudagu from the door.
Edhadeya gasped in surprise. Dudagu had a way of moving around silently so that no one knew where she might be eavesdropping.
Father rose to his feet. “But I have never charged you with my daughter’s education,” said Father gently. “So what in the world would you be doing your best
at
?” He grinned at Dudagu and then strode out of Edhadeya’s room.
Dudagu glared at Edhadeya. “Don’t think this
A bit uncertain, Aronha looked his father in the eye and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Then I believe it is the opinion of this council that the angels are indeed the most beautiful and glorious people.” And Father raised his glass to Husu.
Husu stood, bowed, and lifted his glass in response. Both drank. Then Father looked at Monush, who laughed, stood, and lifted his glass to drink as well.
“The words of my second son have brought peace to this table,” said Father. “That is always wisdom, to these ears, at least. Come, have done. The council is over and there is nothing more for us here except to eat—and ponder how the dreams of young girls,brought by young boys, have set in motion the feet and wings of warriors.”
Edhadeya waited for her father to come to her small room to talk with her as he did every night. Usually she was happy that he was coming, eager to tell him how she did in school, to show off a new word or phrase in the ancient language, to tell him of some adventure or gossip or achievement of the day. Tonight, though, she was afraid, and she wasn’t sure which she feared more—that Mon had told Father of her dream, or that he hadn’t. If he hadn’t, then she would have to tell him now herself, and then he might pat her shoulder and tell her that the dream was strange and wonderful and then he would just ignore it, not realizing that it was a true dream.
When he came to her doorway, though, Edhadeya knew that Mon had told him. His eyes were sharp and searching. He stood in silence, his arms bracing the doorframe. Finally he nodded. “So the spirit of Luet is awake in my daughter.”
She looked down at the floor, unsure whether he was angry or proud.
“And the spirit of Nafai in my second son.”
Ah. So he wasn’t angry.
“Don’t bother explaining why you couldn’t tell me this yourself,” said Father. “I know why, and I’m ashamed. Luet never had to use subterfuge to get her husband’s ear, nor did Chveya have to get her brother or her husband to speak for her when she had wisdom that others needed to know.”
In one motion he knelt before her and took her hands in his. “I looked around the king’s council tonight, as we finished our meal, thoughts of danger and war in our minds, of the Zenifi in bondage and needing to be saved, and all I could think of was—why have we forgotten what our first ancestors knew? That the Keeper of Earth cares not whether he speaks to a woman or a man?”
“What if it’s not so?” she whispered.
“What, you doubt it now?” asked Father.
“I dreamed the dream, and it was true—but it was Mon who said it was the Zenifi. I didn’t understand it at all till he said that.”
“Keep talking to Mon when you have true dreams,” said Father. “I know this: When Mon spoke, I felt a fire kindle in my heart and I thought—the words came into my mind as clearly as if someone had spoken them in my ear—I thought, A mighty man stands here in boyshape. And then I learned the dream was yours, and again the voice came into my mind: The man who listens to Edhadeya will be the true steward of the Keeper of Earth.”
“Was it—the Keeper who spoke to you?” asked Edhadeya.
“Who knows?” said Father. “Maybe it was fatherly pride. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was the voice of the Keeper. Maybe it was the second glass of wine.” He laughed. “I miss your mother,” he said. “She would know better than I what to make of you.”
“I’m doing my best with her,” said Dudagu from the door.
Edhadeya gasped in surprise. Dudagu had a way of moving around silently so that no one knew where she might be eavesdropping.
Father rose to his feet. “But I have never charged you with my daughter’s education,” said Father gently. “So what in the world would you be doing your best
at
?” He grinned at Dudagu and then strode out of Edhadeya’s room.
Dudagu glared at Edhadeya. “Don’t think this
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