The Exiles

29a. All is fair

Granny stood over the large balcony, a balcony similar to the one back home at the Chymer Keep. A symbol of their reign over the land, where she'd introduced many royal babes to their subjects. But here, from Rea Anteri's balcony, she did not see a sea of doting subjects come to see a royal babe. No. She was watching the most depressing training camp she'd ever laid eyes upon. Young men and women barely Attin's age of fifteen, all the way to men and women who had never toiled on any fields other than their farms, let alone battlefields. Farmers. Farmers and their wives and child or children; barely of age or ability.

"So, what do you think of our prospects?" Orsana Anteri asked, having walked as quietly as a gazelle onto the balcony behind Granny Chymer. "Do you think we stand a chance?"

"Against the might of Chymer without trained soldiers and weavers?" Granny hadn't felt this nervous in years. That strange rumbling queasiness in her belly hadn't stopped since Ovek had returned, declaring they had an army to gather. "You know they have more weavers! Stronger than any your Rea may have among his ranks. We've always recruited the best from the four corners of this land. And I doubt Sister Naveri's child has forgotten such strategies we've taught all three of you since your birth."

Orsana sighed as if she'd expected that from her mother. "Any suggestions, Mama? How might we possibly match their might at least if we are to crown Amer king of our two lands?"

Granny turned away from fumbling limbs that couldn't hold their swords steady, lunge without tripping, or continually apologise for striking their dueling partner. She almost wanted to roll her eyes and scream down at them, "They are your 'enemy', you're supposed to strike them, you buffoons!" Alas, she did not.

"Do you know how a child develops their weave? How they come to a certain art or talent?" she asked, instead of her radiant daughter standing before her.

Orsana shrugged. "I've thought perhaps it is the talent of their parents in some ways, passed down, but I see no distinct pattern to discern the proper reasons. I'm afraid you have me at a loss here, Mama."

Granny glanced at the desperate, heart-sinking vision below the balcony. "The times and the influences around a babe dictate them. What does the child need? Do they need strength, or do they need vision? Do they need a voice, or do they need a reason?"

"I don't understand, Mama. What are you saying?"

"Alas, I didn't think you would. What you need is a demonstration." Granny turned spritely to the young man standing guard. "Would you be a dear and fetch my granddaughter, Vanylla, for us?"

Moments later, Vanylla pranced onto the balcony, biting into the last of the rosy apple in her hand. "You called, Granny?"

"Come here, child." Granny held her hand out and waited for Vanylla to take it. She walked the young thing over to the edge of the balcony. "Tell me what you see."

She watched as Vanylla carefully scanned the large courtyard below, at men and women being scorched by the midday sun. She watched those that struggled with weapons and those that struggled with sparks of embers shooting from their fingertips. She watched as her father and her uncle, and all the soldiers, even Klune Ord, the soldier who had brought them to their uncle's home, walk among the commoners and try to help them. 'Here, hold it like this', 'No, stand like this', 'You cannot think of the harm, just think and do.'

"Well?"

"I see many people with potential, Granny." Vanylla turned with a bright smile. "All they need is a little help."

Granny cupped Vanylla's chin and smiled. Ah, what it is to be young and innocent. "Tell me, dear, has your weave come in yet? You're of age. All your brothers and sisters started showing around this time."