Vassal by Sterling D'Este (reading books for 7 year olds .txt) 📗

other cup of tea Alphonse had prepared. “I wish I could, though. I flew here from my village south of the peak on which Thlonandras stands in seven days. I will be impressed if we make it there in two moon’s time.”

She took a sip of the tea, taken aback at first by the herbs' unfamiliar taste, though she eventually decided it was pleasant enough. Just another small reminder of just how different the two Ingolans were from anyone she had known before.

“We have a long walk ahead of us. You should follow Etienne’s example and find your tent.”

With a sigh, Alphonse stood, nodding wearily. “Goodnight, Delyth.”

⥣          ⥣           ⥣

Clumsy hands brushed over Delyth’s hair, adjusting a few of the braids before moving down her throat and chest, fumbling with the straps that kept her beautiful Calamity tied to the priestess. Enyo snarled internally at the human’s inept graceless body, fingers like frozen blocks. Useless and cumbersome.

The faintest rays of sunrise painted the sky overhead pink and purple, with swipes of yellow and deep blue. The camp was quiet, and so was Enyo as she finally released the straps that held Calamity to the priestess.

No!

Enyo shook her head, casting aside the stray thought that belonged to the annoying human.

Her eyes were intently focused on the task at hand, and her expression tight.

Goosebumps stood on her arms and neck, the human body unused to the far brisker mornings in  Rhosan. She crouched in nothing but her underdress, despite the chill of the morning,  uncaring of the needs of her physical body.

༄

Delyth lay on her side where she had fallen asleep beside the fire, her wings folded gently behind her. It had been a comfortable night, so warm this close to the Ingolan border that she had not bothered to cover herself.

Somewhere, beneath the lighter sleep of near-morning, the halfbreed dreamed of a time long past, of waking to gentle hands smoothing the braids at her temples. Slowly, she became aware of other touches, of insistent tugging at the clothes she wore. Her heart rate increasing, Delyth blinked awake, her face soft from sleep.

“Tanwen?” she asked, confused. Why had they slept outdoors?

But no. It wasn’t Tanwen. It was Alphonse. And it wasn’t clothes she was pulling at, but the straps buckling Calamity’s scabbard to her back.

Delyth sat up abruptly, knocking her head against Alphonse’s, where she leaned close. The halfbreed pressed her hand to the sore spot. “Ah, sorry, Alphonse.”

The girl’s face was blank and focused. Not Alphonse either.

“Or Enyo…” Delyth added belatedly, but the Goddess didn’t react, her fingers still moving on the buckles.

Delyth knew what Enyo wanted, but still, she hesitated. There was no Alphonse here, just blank focus clothed in a too-thin shift. Her hands moved against the buckles blindly.

The halfbreed knew that the other priests at Glynfford would have already handed Enyo the sword, that if the Goddess made any request, big or small, they would work to achieve it. But Delyth was not one of the other priests. She had been shown all her life that she was different.

Did she want to do this like one of them?

She shook her head. She served a Goddess, not mortals. And that Goddess wanted a sword.

Slowly, as if not to startle her, Delyth pulled Calamity from its scabbard, gritting her teeth at the sudden rush of malice. For once, it would be easy to let go of. The only thing Calamity wanted more than bloodshed was Enyo.

Delyth reversed her grip and presented the sword to Enyo, hilt first where she stood utterly still, her pupils devouring the rest of her eyes until only a sliver of gold was left. As soon as the pommel was presented to her, Enyo lunged for the sword, snake-fast—a predator outmaneuvering prey.

The girl’s tawny hair, unbound and cascading down her shoulders and back in perfect ripples, rustled as Enyo’s hand slithered over Calamity’s pommel, gripping the hilt and lifting the massive blade as if it weighed no more than a feather.

Rising to her feet, Enyo groaned with pleasure at the contact with Calamity. It seemed to radiate with joy, as well. A spring breeze came barreling through their campsite, tossing Delyth and Alphonse’s hair, shaking the tree branches and tents, stirring up the dust and the fallen leaves.

It swirled around Enyo, twisting the underdress up and about her body. As if she wore those ancient robes old paintings showed her in, when she was clothed at all.

The dark steel of Calamity glittered like some precious metal in the sunrise as Enyo lifted the blade, bringing her empty hand up to trace along the contours of that dangerous edge.

Slowly, so slowly, she started to draw that edge across her palm.

✶

Etienne woke to the sound of Delyth’s voice. It was morning, sunlight creeping through the seams of his tent like an unwelcome visitor. He lay still for a long moment, just breathing.

He wasn’t angry, not anymore, though last night he had fallen asleep long after the other two had stopped speaking, his mind roiling. Now he only felt heavy, as though the situation he and Alphonse had found themselves in was a physical thing pressing him into the rough fabric beneath him.

Slowly, he pushed himself up. If Delyth was speaking, then likely Alphonse was awake as well. They would be moving soon.

He pushed open the flap of his tent, blinking in the wan light of morning. It was clear out, birds singing greetings to each other in the distance.

And in the center of camp, just yards away, Alphonse held the dark blade, sliding it across her palm. Etienne seemed to find his voice at the same time the warrior did, and their shouts mingled in cool air.

Delyth was already on her feet when he started forward, but even as she reached out to stop Alphonse, the girl shoved her away and sent the proud warrior sprawling.

Then there was just Etienne, leaping towards his friend. “Alphonse, no!” he shouted.