by S E Wendel
She stopped walking and took a sharp breath, waiting until he turned to look at her. “I’m a Courtnay. My ancestors laid the first stones of my city. It was my home. And I watched it swallowed by flame. So yes, I miss Highcrest.” She clamped her mouth shut before more got out.
Essa watched Waurin from between her lashes. His gaze fell to the ground, and his shoulders were pinched. He rubbed his scraggily chin, still not looking at her when he turned and took a few steps in the other direction.
She watched his back with hot tears pooling in her eyes. The experiment had gone the same as before. She didn’t know why she hoped for something different. What did she want from him?
As he came to a stop again, his back still to her, Essa used the moment to compose herself. She couldn’t burst into tears, for she wouldn’t just cry. She’d rage. When she gave one feeling words, no matter how small or tamed, they all wanted to come tumbling out.
Her eyes flicked to him again when she heard him speak. “What?” she said.
He turned to face her. “I said I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my part. I didn’t want…”
Her heart beat so loudly in her chest she was sure he’d hear. Her breath came in erratic bursts, and she felt as if her chest would crack open on the rocks. His apology lay at her feet and she wanted to shrink away from it, for what could she do with it?
She had to say something, had to assure him she appreciated his apology. Words clamored in her throat so that nothing got out at all.
“Thank you,” she said finally.
In an instant, all else died in her throat. Her feelings receded back into the cavity of her chest where they simmered. She let those two words wash over her and told herself to be calm. He couldn’t fix what’d been done to her and her sisters with a few simple words. But she couldn’t better her situation by telling him that.
Waurin took a deep breath. “I’d best get you back.”
She nodded.
“Will you be all right?” He nodded at the water.
“I’ll manage,” she said with a weak smile.
She followed him back to the dock in silence. His apology nagged at her; it let something bubble to the surface she’d been trying with all her might to keep down. As he helped her down into the boat, she worried that she might be starting to care about him in some small way.
She could think of little else on the journey back to Carmetheon, and it wasn’t until they neared the docks that she realized Waurin hadn’t said a word either. She glanced at him and found a pensive face. It was a rare expression for him; his cheeks were usually ruddy with laughter. To see him quiet, thoughtful, made her worry more.
It wouldn’t do. While in her heart of hearts, the one that burned hotter than a red coal, she wished him all the guilt his heart could bear, and perhaps even more, she knew it wouldn’t do to alienate him from her. She needed him near.
As they came parallel to the dock, Essa decided no more experiments. No more peeks. No more truth. It would be better for them both.
Twenty
Ceralia bore Themin two sons, Adain and Balan. Twins, Adain came quietly but Balan impetuously. The Mother walked with them into the sea and their hair turned as azure as the deepest of waters. The brothers fought often in their youth, the first small and cunning, the other broad and forceful, but always they were together. When he was grown, Balan claimed the sea for his own and challenged his father for more with Adain at his side. When they were defeated, Themin sent one son to the sea and the other to the rivers, trying to keep them apart. But Adain did not wish to be separated from his brother and cut across Mithria so that his rivers might meet the sea. Themin, moved by their love for each other, allowed them to touch, and where they clasped hands, the water became brackish.
—Why the River Runs to Meet the Sea
Ennis kept herself awake all night, pondering how she would curl her f’s and form her o’s. She was unpracticed and worried her hand would be sloppy because of the fingers that’d been broken.
The first shafts of light crept into the room, and she was surprised at how awake she felt. She kept her rustling as quiet as possible, readjusting her dress and carefully pulling her arms through the slits of her cloak. After slipping into her boots, she made for the door. She faltered, thinking she saw Lora’s eyes flutter. Holding her breath, she stole from the room.
The Haven was especially eerie in those small hours. The floorboards creaking underfoot made her cringe. She held her breath again as she crept past Renata’s door.
She felt safe only when reaching the front door. The old lock grated out of the place, making her grimace. When the door swung open, it ushered in crisp morning air. She stepped out into a misty world, the grass kissed by dew.
Shutting the door behind her, Ennis sunk her chin into the cloak’s fur. Her wet hem stuck to her shins as she hiked to the great house. A drowsy owl startled her as she met the main path. Rising was quiet save for a few chirping birds, and the hills were still in their foggy beds, slumbering even as the sun just edged over their ridges.
Through the mist, Ennis saw a black mass in the far meadow, a small, flickering fire at its center. She quickened her pace as the mass shifted, stirring. She slipped once on her way up the hill to the great house, the mud thick from rain.
Finally, she came upon the great house doors. Her hand formed a fist and she made to knock—but stopped. Was it too early? Probably not—Manek was an early riser. Was she expected to go around back?
She squared her shoulders and knocked.
As she waited, she told herself not to look at her muddied boots and dirtied hem. She began fidgeting when nothing happened, first pulling her braid over her left shoulder and playing with the ends, then switching it to the other side.
The door finally creaked open and she caught her breath. A divinely warm gust of air swept over her. Manek appeared in the threshold and smiled. Opening it further, he bade her come in.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” she said as she walked past him into the house. “Renata…kept me.”
“It’s no trouble.”
He closed the door behind them. It was quite warm despite the house’s size, and Ennis followed Manek’s example of rolled up sleeves, taking off her cloak and pushing her braid over her shoulder.
Ennis meandered into the house. The hall was a grand one, with a high timber ceiling that echoed a ship’s hull. Small iron hooks were mounted on some of the rafters for hanging banners, but there was no such adornment. A fire crackled in the great stone-rimmed hearth, casting the whole room in amber and golden hues. A long table made of fine wood, perhaps redwood, stood at the center, twenty finely crafted chairs, all with interwoven knots, ranged around. She couldn’t help but touch the back of the nearest chair to admire the work.
“Where did you get these?” she asked.
“My father had them made.”
Ennis blushed at her insinuation. “It’s fine work.”
They stood there silently for several agonizingly long moments, looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, Manek clapped his hands together.
“We’ll need some…” he looked around, “damn—I forgot paper. Wait a moment and I’ll fetch it.”
He disappeared up a wooden staircase at the back of the room. The timbers creaked as he went.
Ennis returned to fidgeting, though she resisted pacing in front of the fire. She did her best to quell the thoughts running rampant through her mind, like What do you think you’re doing here? and What do you think you’re doing here with him?
His footsteps were a blessing, and she tried not to look too relieved at his return. He nodded at the table, telling her to take any place she liked. As she did, Manek placed supplies in front of her.
Clearing his throat, he began to pace, hands behind his back. Ennis peered at him from the corner of her eye, watching the light gleam on his leather jerkin and glint in his dark hair.
“We’d best do Larn’s first,” he said.
&
nbsp; She nodded, opening an inkwell and dipping in the quill.
“Tell him that I’ll be in Scallya in early spring. But say that I can’t bring the numbers he asks—I’ve so few already and what he asks cannot be done. I have to leave someone to protect Rising. Tell him I bring my bravest and strongest and we can make do with that.”
He turned towards her, beginning to play with one of the leather strips that laced up the top of the jerkin, and waited for her to finish scratching down the words.
“Was that too fast?”
She shook her head as she ended the last letter with a flourish.
“Can you read it to me?”
Straightening, Ennis read, “‘My men and I will be at your gates come springtime. I cannot bring double the number. You ask too much of the Lowland people for a campaign that is doomed to fail. Should you still need more men, I suggest looking to your own ranks, for I cannot take all the men from their homes to fight your ill-advised war. I await your reply.’”
He crossed his arms while she read and smirked.
“That’s not what I said.”
Ennis shrugged, nonplussed. “I inferred.”
Manek said with a chuckle, “Perhaps we’d better send something that won’t make him want to invade.”
She sighed gustily, grabbing a fresh piece of parchment. “Have it your way.”
He opened his mouth to repeat himself, but she was already scrawling away. He paced behind her as she edited out her opinions. When finished, she leaned back and read, “‘We will arrive in Scallya in early spring, as you command. I cannot, however, bring double the men. Rising cannot afford to be left undefended, as it would be if I brought the numbers you ask. But my horde is brave and will fight like Ean himself. I await your reply.’”
“That should placate him for now.”
“What if he still demands double?”
His face dropped and he looked into the fire. “I’ll think about it when I have to.” Scrubbing a hand across his face, he said, “Now for my orders. I’ll need a dozen copies of this.”
She nodded and placed another fresh sheet in front of her.
“Tell them Larn’s message. Say that they should make ready as they always do but to prepare as many men as they can spare. We’ll meet at the Aladain’s Forks in the first days of spring. Say to bring winter clothing. Oh—and tell them also to outfit at least fifty of their warhorses with full barding.”
As she wrote, she said, “Full sets? That’s a great deal of armor for a horse.”
“They need to be better protected,” he said as he paced. “We lost too many at…” He cleared his throat.
“And how do you intend to get so many armored men and horses across the De’lan?”
“They won’t be crossing the river.”
“No?”
“I very much doubt we’ll make it to the river.”
“The Morns won’t let you.”
“No,” he said on an exhale, “they won’t.” He tipped his head back and gazed up at the rafters. “I don’t suppose you’ve any advice.”
She scowled at him. “No.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded at the parchment. “Can you read it to me?”
When she finished the eighth copy of his order, she glanced up to watch him pacing around the other side of the table. Several times he stopped to look at her, only to resume his short march. She waited, watching him as he set to wearing a groove in the floor.
Finally, he came to a stop. He looked over at her and, finding her already gazing expectantly at him, looked sheepish.
“I’ve something to ask you,” he said.
“By all means,” she replied.
He opened his mouth then closed it again. She laced her fingers together.
“There’s…more work to be done than just these letters.”
“Such as?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve plans to improve Rising. It’s vulnerable now, but there are many things we can do. We’ve enough time before leaving for Scallya, so I was hoping—wondering if you’d help me?”
She blinked. “How?”
“I’ll need things written down, plans drawn up, and—”
“So more scribe work.”
“Yes, but…but more than that.” He frowned at the table before pulling the chair opposite her out and sitting. “I want Rising to be like Highcrest.”
“Highcrest didn’t become such a city in one lifetime.”
“No,” he agreed, “but we must start somewhere.”
Ennis’s brows rose in surprise. He was ambitious in a way that Ennis could respect.
“You can think about it if—”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” she repeated. “But—”
“Ah.”
“—you must speak to Renata for me.”
He frowned. “About what?”
“You must tell her that I’ll be away from the Haven at your command.”
“Why?”
“She won’t believe me otherwise,” she grumbled.
“I take it you don’t like Renata,” he said, resting his chin on his palm.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I should say not. She tried to kill my father.”
She watched the ball of his throat rise and fall as he swallowed that information. “I’m sorry, I…” When she didn’t offer further explanation, he didn’t press her. Splaying his hands on the table, he pushed himself up and stepped around the chair. “I’ll be right back.”
As he bound up the stairs, Ennis leaned back over her work with a grin she couldn’t quite explain. She was still waiting once she’d finished and began drumming her fingers on the smooth tabletop. She could hear faint rummaging from above.
There were a few scraps of parchment left and plenty of ink. She bit her thumbnail. Still not hearing any sign of return, Ennis took up her quill and began writing.
My dear Essa, she wrote, I have missed you so this long winter and cannot bear to think that I don’t know when I will see you next. Your eighteenth birthday will be upon us soon. Make a wish to be happy, Essa. Wish it with all your heart and then make it so. For you, my sister, I wish all the happiness in the world. It soothes my heart to know that no matter what you face, you will make the best of it. Keep your wits and never forget who you are. I hope with all my heart to read your reply. Your devoted sister, Ennis Courtnay.
She finished her name with her customary flourishing of the y. She reread her words and told herself not to cry at the thought of Essa one day soon holding the very same piece of parchment.
“Is everything all right?”
She hadn’t heard Manek finally return and looked up at him with wide, misty eyes.
“Oh, no,” she insisted, wiping her face. “Nothing.”
He set the mass of parchments and maps he’d collected on the table as she composed herself.
“I was hoping to send something,” she said, touching her letter, “with your orders to Waurin.”
He glanced at the letter, then back to her.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“It’s a letter to my sister.”
He still hesitated, looking down at the symbols that couldn’t have meant much to him.
“It’ll be her birthday soon.”
He nodded. “Very well, then.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile, putting the letter with a set of the copies.
He laid out a topographic map of what she assumed was Rising. The ink was rather faded, but here and there she saw thick black marks. In a simple manner, it depicted the rolling hills and meadows to the east, forests to the north and west, and the river, labeled the Morroley, to the south. What stuck out to her was a thick line running along the eastern rim of Rising, all the way down to the river.
“A wall?” she said, tracing the line with her forefinger.
“Yes.”
When she thought about it, it was perhaps more surprising Rising didn
’t have a wall already.
“Wood or stone?”
“Wood. We haven’t much stone.”
“Have you the men to build it?”
“I’ve got the numbers to make it quick work, but the men have so little time in Rising. They’re still bringing in the late harvest and must prepare to sow seeds again before we leave. And smiths like Taryn have been slaving over their fires so that we’ll be supplied for campaign.”
“No one can be spared? You can’t order them to help, even in shifts?”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze when he replied, “The harvest can’t be put off.”
“Hm.” Ennis glanced back down at the map. “It’ll be much harder with only a few hands.”
“And slower.”
“Yes.” She peered at him. “If it’ll be such a task, with little help, why do it?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “There are attacks from the south.” He pulled out a larger map of the region, including the coast to the south, then traced a finger along the Morroley River. “They come up the river in long-ships and raid in the sunny seasons.”
“They?”
He nodded, intense eyes trained on a cluster of villages on the coast, along the northern mouth of the Morroley. Tapping on a village labelled Tiernay, Manek said, “The Oltaraan. Their tribes along the coast send raiding parties at least once a summer.”
“I thought you were warlord.”
“Of the Lowlands, yes.”
“They aren’t Lowlanders?”
“Not exactly,” he sighed. “When our people first came to the Lowlands, we encountered others already here. We lived alongside one another well enough for a while, but soon disputes arose and the Oltaraan were pushed to the coast. There’s bad blood now.”
Ennis leaned back in her chair, intrigued. Those of the Highland ethnicity were commonly referred to as Mithrians, but it sounded as if these Oltaraani weren’t that at all. They had heard rumors, in the north, of other races of people throughout Mithria. There were supposedly numerous tribes to the southeast, past the Southern Sands. Far-travelling traders brought back sea-salted tales of their red stone cities and broad ships. She didn’t, however, think these Oltaraani were the same. She crossed her arms, wondering how many peoples Themin had placed onto Mithria.