by S E Wendel
“There’s work I need help with—a project—and—”
“I don’t do human shoes,” he said, spitting into his small forge.
Ennis forced herself to smile. “Yes, I’m aware. I was hoping to discuss the wall with you.”
He frowned at that, little grimy beads of sweat running down his balding forehead. “I’ve got real work to do.”
“Please, I’d only require some of your time. If Manek were here, he’d tell you that a wall benefits everybody. It’s his way of protecting us while he’s away in the north.” She’d found, throughout the afternoon, that she got people to listen for at least a few moments longer whenever she threw around Manek’s name. “He regretted not getting to finish it over winter, but I assured him we could see to it ourselves.”
“He said all that, did he?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t he ask us himself before he left?”
“There was much to see to before leaving. The summons was sudden.”
“And you know his mind better than the rest of us?”
“I don’t know about that. But I do know he wished this wall finished. What would it hurt, to ease his mind and protect your hearth?”
Leaning forward on his good leg, Haemon gave her an ugly glare. “I’ll not deal with the likes of you.”
“You’ll deal with me or you’ll deal with Manek when he returns,” she said heatedly, “it makes no difference which.”
With a sour look he said, “You’re easier on the eyes than Manek, but certainly not on the ears.” And with that he began clanging on his nails again.
In a circle of swishing skirts, Ennis turned on her heels and stomped away. Men!
The spark of outrage carried her all the way up the hill to the great house. Damn it all, if it was a warlord’s word they wanted, Tamea take her, she’d get it.
It was only after she banged on the door that Ennis realized she wouldn’t, perhaps, earn a blessing by demanding it. Kasia’s appearance at the door all but threw a bucket of water on her inner fire, and suddenly Ennis considered becoming a divine daughter after all.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Kasia, not quite condescending, but not pleased either.
“Yes.” She tried hard to swallow the panic rising in her throat.
Kasia looked at her expectantly, but the traitorous words fled Ennis’s mind. She had designs of running straight to the Morroley to beg Adain to bear her away when she heard Kierum ask from within the house, “Who’s there, Kasia?”
“The Courtnay girl. You know, the one who was helping Manek with his projects.”
“What’s she want?”
Again, Kasia turned to her expectantly.
“I was hoping I might speak with Lord Kierum,” glided smooth as silk off her tongue.
Kasia’s eyebrows arched. “Is that so?”
“Oh, let her in.”
With suspicious eyes, Kasia opened the door wider, but Ennis was still forced to slink past her. No matter how hard she fought it, Kasia’s narrowed gaze captured Ennis’s, and for a moment the two women stood staring at each other, assessing.
“What is it?”
Kierum’s question snapped the silent conversation they were having, and Ennis gratefully entered the hall. The house felt different, knowing Manek wasn’t there to fill it. It was smaller, colder, devoid of life. When she laid eyes on Kierum, Ennis realized the feeling was that of parents missing their child. It seeped in every niche, the house standing now only as a reminder of the son they might never see again.
Kierum sat at the head of the long table, a plate of crumbs and rinds before him. He had the look of a world-weary man, dark crescents rimming his gray eyes. In him Ennis saw an old Manek, one beaten down by the ravages of time and disappointment.
He gave her a nod, sitting a little straighter in his high-backed chair, and she in turn gave him a small curtsey.
Thanking him for seeing her, she said, “I was hoping, with your blessing, to return to work on the wall.”
This seemed to surprise him, his bushy, graying brows rising and crinkling his forehead. “Truly?”
“Yes. I know Manek wanted to finish it before he left, but he hadn’t the time, in the end. I don’t see why we can’t finish what he started.” As she spoke, she watched Kierum warily, unsure if the mention of his son would have the same effect on him as it did the townspeople.
“You understand it’s folly.”
Folding her hands behind her, she said, “No, my lord, I don’t believe that.”
“Did Manek tell you to finish it?” asked Kasia, coming to stand beside her husband.
“Not specifically. But I know he wouldn’t object. He was doing it for Rising.”
“He’s got you believing his nonsense,” Kierum said.
Ennis didn’t know if she should argue with a man trying to hide his hurt. “Please, I only ask that you let your people defend themselves.”
“Why’re you so keen to build us a wall?” Kasia asked.
It was too shrewd a question for her, but Ennis knew she had to reply, no matter that her answer shifted with each passing thought and feeling. “I promised your son that I would help him.”
“With the planning.”
“I admit, my role was really only to plan and survey, but that was when he was here. I’m not afraid of the work.”
“You’d build it yourself?”
Ennis raised her chin. “Splinters and mud won’t stop me, even if, yes, I must raise it myself, pole by pole.” Her gaze shifted back to Kierum, who’d been staring across the table at empty space rather than at her. “I only ask that, if you can’t see what Manek saw, to at least trust him.”
Kasia looked incensed, but Kierum drew a deep breath and let it out again in a heavy sigh.
“I don’t see what he does, nor do I understand why you’d want to waste your time on it. But I suppose if you’re willing to brave the summer rains, then no man can stop such determination.”
Ennis smiled ear to ear and clapped her hands together. “I swear to you, I’ll build the greatest wall the Lowlands has ever seen!”
His eyes flicked to meet hers, and though he didn’t seem to share in her enthusiasm, the edge of mouth twitched nonetheless. “Seeing as how there’s never been one, that shouldn’t be hard to do.”
Thirty-Three
Dunstan Gilcriss, first of the Dunstan Line, brought an end to our suffering and bore the heavy burden of the Highlands upon his own shoulders. And we were grateful. Here, finally, was the king we wanted and wished for. How could we have known then, the price we would pay for such a wish?
—from Chronicles of the Highland Wars
Everything was in place—swords and shields and spears lay about both decoratively and threateningly, each chief, adorned in gleaming armor, fur cloaks, and weapons, lined up by rank in two columns extending in a V-shape from Larn on his makeshift wooden throne. All was ready for the Highland dignitaries to surrender to Larn.
Since arriving at Dannawey and making camp within half a league of the city, with its impossibly high wall, Larn had fancied taking the city without any blood spilled. So, this time, rather than pressing their advantage of numbers in the night as they had at Highcrest, they displayed themselves openly in front of Dannawey. The tents were raised in tidy rows, the men and horses were watered and rested, and all war machines, including three catapults dearer to Larn than his own children, were now pointed at the city. They were putting on a show of force for Arion Morn. Larn thought it, and the knowledge of what they’d done to Highcrest, would all but ensure their victory. And so, Arion Morn had been summoned to talk. Manek knew better. He’d been summoned to surrender.
For his part, Larn looked every bit the haughty conqueror, swimming in gold and bear hide. As intended, it was him the emissaries from Dannawey first spied as they cautiously entered the billowing tent.
Manek, three down the line on Larn’s left, took careful stock of the four Highland lords.
They were equally dressed to impress, though Larn surely wouldn’t find them threatening. Beneath intricately engraved cuirasses the four men wore well worked leathers with silken shirts peeking out at their throats. Gauntlets of steel and rings of gold shimmered in the torchlight of the tent. But perhaps what struck Manek most was the symmetry of each man. The men wore clothes and armor made for them. Larn’s retinue looked piecemeal at best.
Of the men, the most striking was the youngest. While his companions had to be over forty, the young man stood like a sun god amongst mortals. His jaunty jaw was clamped shut, the tendons of his neck taut beneath the skin. Laugh lines ran beneath cool eyes that slowly took in the Midlanders, bestowing each with a measure of disdain.
Leaning forward in his seat, Larn welcomed the men. “I’m pleased you’ve accepted my invitation.”
The man in front acknowledged Larn’s words with a terse nod.
Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, Larn went on. “I wish it were on better terms we met for the first time, my lords. History remembers men such as us, you see, and it’s a shame that our stories must be so told.”
“Dannawey has a long history, Lord Midland. She cannot remember all of us,” said the first lord, a tall man with brown hair beginning to gray around his temples. His voice was smooth and deep, like a cloudless autumn day.
Larn’s mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. “Spoken like a true Highlander. Your pride does you credit, though I fear it will not serve you in the end.”
“Dannawey has seen many winters, many lords, and many battles. She’s weathered them all. I fear she will weather you, too.”
“Now, Lord Dannawey, we haven’t even begun to talk terms.”
The man shook his head. “I am not Lord Morn.”
“Then who are you?”
“I am Elric Gowan. Lord Morn regrets that he couldn’t come to speak with you, but you may be assured that I have his full confidence.”
Larn’s mouth fell into a displeased line. Everyone in the tent marked it, and those who knew him tensed, able to taste Lord Midland’s darkening mood. Behind his throne-like chair, his cupbearer, a young man Larn only called whelp but Manek knew was named Gaetien, shifted from foot to foot.
Larn had to know that Morn’s absence meant Dannawey’s circumstances were far less desperate than they’d hoped. Morn felt confident enough to send someone in his stead and risk insulting his enemy.
“How very noble of you, Lord Gowan, to come in a coward’s stead.”
“He’s making safe his city, Lord Midland. Something I hope you never need worry about.”
Stroking his chin, Larn said, “And who are you to Morn? How do I know you aren’t just a dressed-up hostler?” He got a low rumble of chuckles from his chiefs for that.
Lord Gowan seemed older than he must have truly been. Lines fanned out from beneath his stone-colored eyes, and his close-cut beard looked patchy. This man had known recent loss, and Manek had already guessed without Lord Gowan stooping to explain, “Perhaps our place-names mean little to you, but I am Lord Gowan of Green Valley. My family has served the Morns for seventeen generations, and I offered to come in his stead. I wanted to see the blackguard who burned my home and killed my sons.”
There had been nothing particularly special about the small city forty leagues to the southwest they’d ransacked not a fortnight before. It had put up a staunch defense against the Midland hordes, but before sunset on the third day, Green Valley’s gate fell, and she gave up her riches to greedy hands. It had been the same scenario the past five years of campaign. But Manek knew, could see it in Lord Gowan’s eyes, that something had been stolen from him that not even Themin himself could replace.
Manek hoped Lord Gowan found some consolation in getting to stare down Larn after such a righteous speech, but if the Highland border lord expected some small sign of remorse or shame from the Lord of the Midlands, he would be disappointed. Larn had no remorse and felt no shame. Indeed, the last of Lord Gowan’s words hadn’t left his mouth before Larn was grinning again.
“Ah. I see then.” He spread his arms wide. “And what do you think of this blackguard?”
Lord Gowan knew better than to answer the question and remained stoically, tactfully silent.
Larn was only more amused. “I’m still unconvinced Morn’s sent me one of his vassals. Surely, if you’re a lord of true note, you wouldn’t be here speaking with me. You see, a true lord dies fighting for his land. And yet here you are. No, you aren’t a lord to me. Now Lord Courtnay, he was a true Highland lord.”
Fire rose in the eyes of the Highlanders, and Manek knew with a sudden pang that Larn no longer wanted talks. They were meaningless without Morn here, for Larn would never get what he wanted from a vassal. Only the lord could surrender his land. Instead, Larn meant to start a fight, to bring this campaign to a sanguine start.
Still the dignitaries said nothing, though Manek did catch one of the older men put a firm hand on the younger golden lord’s arm. Again, Manek looked him up and down. Something about this lordling didn’t fit. His armor was a little too fine, his eyes a little too proud.
“Is there a reason you summoned us?” one of the other Highland lords asked.
“I summoned Arion Morn, not you,” Larn said coolly, leaning back in his seat.
“You’ll have to make do with us,” said Lord Gowan.
Larn sighed. “Yes, I suppose I will. Very well. Hear me and go back to Morn with a faithful report. Tell him of the men I have. Tell him of the number you’ve seen.”
“Forgive me, Lord Midland, but he’s seen your men from the ramparts. I assure you, it isn’t so great a number. He can still see the hills yonder.”
“Don’t presume your white flag guarantees your safety, my lords,” Larn said, leaning forward again with a glower. “You see, Morn I would safely send back, for he could do as I ask. You, on the other hand, are just faces. If I let you leave this tent, you go back to Morn and tell him this: Dannawey will surrender to me. All soldiers will lay down their arms, and I shall permit all of you to leave the city. I’ll even let you take several days’ worth of food. But you will leave everything else—your goods, your arms, and your gold. Those are my terms.”
“And perhaps you’d like to hear our terms.”
Everyone’s gaze fell on the young lordling whose rage shone from his face like the midday sun.
“Your terms?” Larn said with a twisted, indulgent smile. “Indeed.”
With another lord’s hand like a claw on his arm, the lordling pushed in front of Lord Gowan and spat, “You won’t win. Dannawey has never fallen and King Dunstan has never lost a battle. You will leave here. And you will surrender Highcrest.”
“Will I now?” Larn stood then, a full head taller than the golden lordling. “You have a sharp tongue, boy. I’ll enjoy cutting it out.”
Manek held his breath, waiting for the lordling to draw his sword or shrink away. He did neither. His eyes were blue flame, dancing with hot delight as he smiled up at Larn. “You won’t win here,” he said again. “The Highlands stands against you.”
“If I were afraid of the Highlands, I wouldn’t be here, boy.” He jerked his head at Manek and Dorran. “See them back before I raise them on pikes.”
Lord Gowan put a heavy hand on the lordling’s shoulder, but the young man wouldn’t turn from Larn until Dorran blocked his view with his wide chest. With reluctance, the lordling finally stepped away to follow the others out.
Manek brought up the rear of their little party, several of Larn’s personal guards falling into step alongside the Highlanders as they were escorted back to their awaiting horses.
The grooms and soldiers who’d accompanied the Highland lords looked relieved to see them and watched their approach anxiously. Manek himself watched Dorran, curious if Larn’s second had any secret commands to do away with these would-be diplomats.
In the end, Dorran and the rest of the Midland guards stopped short. Gowan looked over his sho
ulder warily at them, the threat of pikes, or at least an arrow in the back, clearly on his mind. Manek sidestepped Dorran, who was crossing his meaty arms over his chest.
“We promised you safe passage to and from camp,” Manek said, walking forward. “We’ll keep that promise.”
Lord Gowan’s gaze swept over him. “You don’t speak like a Midlander, sir.”
“I’m not a Midlander, my lord.”
The older man’s eyebrows rose at that, but he didn’t question further. Instead, both of their attention was drawn to one of the other lords, mounting beside the younger lordling.
“That was a foolish thing to do, Highness,” he hissed.
The lordling glared, an ugly look that turned on Manek when he noticed the Lowlander watching him carefully. “Death comes swiftly to men such as these,” said the lordling before wheeling his horse about and speeding back towards Dannawey.
Manek could feel Lord Gowan’s gaze upon him. He turned to give him a small bow of the head, keeping his eyes vacant. He wasn’t sure he fooled Lord Gowan, but there was little the older man could do but nod back and mount his horse.
As he watched the Highlanders spur their horses, Dorran came up beside him.
“I give it a sennight, maybe two,” he said after making a great show of spitting through the hole where one of his front teeth used to be.
Manek made a small, noncommittal grunt before saying, “You should tell Larn that we just let a Highland prince slip through our fingers.”
Dorran’s gaze swung back to the retreating Highlanders, and Manek watched as Larn’s seneschal wrestled with whether to go after them. They were out of a javelin or arrow’s range, so Dorran could do little but turn on his heels and hurry back to Larn’s tent, the guards jogging after him.
Manek welcomed the quiet.
Let Larn rage at being denied such a prize as a Highland prince. Manek didn’t have the patience to sit through a temper. He’d other things to think on.
He’d prided himself on not thinking of her for three whole days but remembering Ennis’s words were now a necessity. There was only one Highland prince, only one Colm Dunstan whom Ennis might have married had life gone differently—an out of place prickle of jealousy stung him at the thought, and he had to bury it away like he did with all his thoughts and feelings of her.