Page 158 of A Dagger of Ice and Intrigue
My presence there simply was.
“Dadda, I want a candle, too,” a little girl from the back of the line whined in a whisper, tugging on her father’s hand. I recognized the man–I’d seen enough of his shaved head around the fortress to recognize the back of it.
He was one of the Commander’s warriors, usually guarding the third floor.
“Later, my daffodil,” he whispered, breaking his chant. “The wax can scorch your little hands.”
“But you have one.”
“Daddy’s hands can take it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m older and my skin is tougher. Yours will be too, if you’re lucky. And daddy will make sure you will be.”
My father had wanted me to be just as lucky. He’d protected me as best he could, even after sorrow had taken hold of him after my mother’s passing.
He’d guided me through life, perhaps with a gentler hand than I deserved, but he’d poured his support into me. I’d never asked him if he’d liked having me for a daughter, and now I never would.
But the gentle beat in my heart told me he did. All the memories of his warm hugs, smiles, and gentle pats on my shoulders told the same story and nobody could ever rewrite it.
“But why?” she asked.
“Because daddy loves you very much–”
“No,” the little girl said emphatically. “Why do you have a candle?”
“I–” The warrior turned to the little girl and licked his lips a few times, hesitating. “It’s tradition.”
“But why?”
He took a long inhale, closing his eyes, the universal sign of parental patience. But he didn’t chide, he didn’t shush, and fromthe way he was working his jaw he was trying to come up with an answer she would understand.
I distantly wondered if my own father had done the same, from times I couldn’t remember. I definitely would have been asking too many questions, I came out of the womb curious, but he’d been the perfect embodiment of patience and knowledge.
Fresh tears lodged in my throat.
My father would never answer another question of mine.
I’d never get to hold his hand again.
“Because our ancestors did this before us every final day of the week, so we do it today to keep their memory alive. That is tradition,” he said gently.
The girl looked up at him, a furrow in her small brows and a pout on her lips. Finally, she nodded. “Where are we going?”
“Remember when grandpa died last year?”
The girl’s lower lip trembled. “Yes.”
“Well, grandpa’s body is no longer with us, he’s with the gods now–”
“Selfish gods,” she said with a child’s unbridled anger.
Sometimes, I thought the same thing, though I didn’t dare speak it out loud.
The gods were indeed selfish. And greedy. They’d taken so many from me.
My mother.
