by S E Wendel
“You would fight? For Rising?”
“Yes. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I want what’s beyond Larn and the battle he brings. I want a life again, Manek. I want one for you, too. But you have to want it for yourself. You have to think of a future beyond dying on a battlefield when and where someone else commands. You told me you wanted to lead the Lowlands to something better. But you must see that better future yourself first.”
“I’ve rarely thought beyond dying for Larn,” he said. “But you make me want to dream of such a life, to hope for more. It’s why you scare me.”
She smiled sadly. “But you have to dream, Manek. If you think you’re doomed, the people will think so too. You must be strong for them. But let me carry it with you. I’ll stand with you if you let me. I’ll help you and fight for you and build a home and city with you.” She traced his lips, a slight frown creasing her fair brows. “That is, if you can forgive me.”
His breath caught in his throat, and that ache began to return in his chest.
“I’m the one who should be asking forgiveness,” he said, ashamed that he needed to, ashamed that she felt the need to ask it of him. Everything had begun to spin out of control, but it wasn’t her fault. She had tried to help him, but she couldn’t predict how others would act.
“Manek…”
“I can never undo Highcrest, can never give you your father and sisters back. Because of me, you’ve been torn away from everything you knew and loved.”
“No,” she said. “You helped me find purpose again. I love you because you’re kind and good. Because you made me feel that even though my life changed when Highcrest was taken, it wasn’t ruined. You gave me a chance. You gave me a home. With you.”
He shook his head, eyes bright with misery. “But I took away your home.”
“I know what you did. And I know why.” She held his chin when she said, “I forgive you. I think it’s time you forgive yourself. For everything. Highcrest wasn’t your fault. Larn isn’t your fault.”
Her words struck the center of him. How could she know him so? How could she put words to thoughts he scarcely understood himself? She saw him for what he was—he couldn’t hide from her. She saw everything.
And he loved her for it. So much. More than he should—more than he could measure. That single truth made his ears ring. He loved her. Gods, he loved her.
He took her hand in his and guided it to his side, where even now his newly healed skin prickled under layers of bandage.
“And this isn’t your fault.”
Her lips parted, and she looked from him to their joined hands at his side.
“If you can forgive me all that, I can forgive too.”
She blinked tears from her eyes before wrapping her arms around his neck.
He pulled her down to him, eager to rediscover her feel, her taste. She made a little gasp against his lips and he swallowed it, her breath, her. She eased her body against his, and just like that, Manek remembered how well they fit together, how well matched they were. The lines of their bodies aligned, fell into place, and it felt as though everything else did too.
A growl escaped him, all his pain and love and need conveyed in one little sound. She was everything he remembered, everything he wanted. Her mouth was warm and soft against his, and she tasted of mist and apples and sunshine.
Tamea take him, he wanted her—more than anything he’d ever wanted. He wanted her for his own. Without knowing it, he’d given her a vital part of himself. And he wanted her to have it. He wanted her to have everything.
It took him long moments, always drawn back to the warmth and sweetness of her, but finally Manek pulled himself away. Her hair had fallen around them like a golden curtain, her lips swollen pink from his kiss. He smiled and drew her hair behind her ear then kissed the place just below it.
“I need forgiveness for one more thing,” he said.
“I thought we’d gotten past forgiving,” she laughed.
“Almost.”
With one arm around her, he leaned towards his nightstand and plucked a small cheese knife from the plate his mother had left.
“Hold still,” he said, but needn’t have worried, for he’d stunned her into silence.
The ribbon around her neck was threadbare and put up little resistance as he ran it between the knife and pad of his thumb. It gave with a soft thwick, and then he presented it to her, leaving behind a line of white skin where it had hidden her neck from the sun.
She was so still, and he took her hand and put the ribbon in it.
“Ennis—”
But she sprang up and was across the room in a heartbeat, casting the ribbon into the fire. The little scrap hissed and smoked before catching and quickly burning to nothing.
Manek stood and made towards her slowly, but Ennis turned to him just as quick as she’d dashed away. She flung herself back into his arms and he caught her, a grateful whoosh of air filling his lungs.
He wrapped himself around her, could feel their heartbeats everywhere, in his palms, his chest, his ears, his toes. She clung to him, trembling, before turning her face to his and beaming.
“This is how we start,” he said after kissing her ear. “But you must promise, Larn can’t see you. If there’s a chance to avert the battle, I’ll take it. And I don’t want him seeing you, I don’t know what he’d do.”
“I don’t want to see him,” she agreed. “Now, do you want to talk about Larn more or will you kiss me and make up for all the time we’ve wasted?”
Who was he to refuse her?
He kissed her, Ennis Courtnay, his woman, and for the first time in moons, perhaps years, didn’t feel like Mithria herself bore down on his shoulders. There were hands there to help him bear the weight, and Manek knew he couldn’t let this go, could never drive her away again.
Ennis, and the life they could have, was worth fighting for. And she would help him protect the land and people he loved.
“Stay with me,” he said between kisses. “Come here, to the great house.”
“I’m already half living here anyway,” she laughed.
“Not half. Always. With me.”
She smiled as he kissed her knuckles, palms, wrists. “I’ll get my things.”
“Hurry.”
“And Lora too?”
“Yes. I’ll free her too. It’s the least I can do.”
She leaned up on her toes to kiss him. “You’re a good man. I’ll be right back.”
And she dashed from the room in a flurry of skirts and golden hair, but this time there was no slamming door, no ache in Manek’s chest as he watched her leave. He smiled as he listened to her eager footsteps hurrying down the stairs, knowing that the faster she went, the faster she returned to him.
But she didn’t. Ennis didn’t return. Not that day or night. Not the next. Not at all.
Forty-Eight
Angry at what his brother had done to the mortals, Ma’an entrapped Ean in one of his mountains. Ean raged against his rocky tomb, but his Brother Mountain would not free him. Finally, Ean calmed his heart and soothed his rage. Master of the southern wind, Ean whispered into the hearts of the mortals, promising untold riches in the mountain where he sat buried. The humans, not knowing who spoke to them in their dreams, eagerly mined the mountain. They dug until finally, a great cavern opened up around them. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the cave door, and out stepped Ean, his violet eyes gleaming. In one bound he was gone, free of his brother, and Ma’an did rage that Ean had used the very greed he planted in the mortals’ hearts to free himself.
—Ean and the Mountain
Larn sprang to his feet with such force that his heavy wooden throne scraped and screeched against the flagstones.
“What?” he cried, making Adena wince.
Were it not for Larn’s face turning a dangerous beet red, Adena would’ve found dark pleasure in the scene playing out before her. Today’s assembly had been interrupted, nobles pushed unceremonious
ly aside, as Dorran and Verian clambered into the great hall, their clothes dusty and rumpled, their hair windblown, their faces grim. The prince had shifted his weight from foot to foot, wary, petulant, as Dorran explained to Larn that he’d lost the Lowlands.
“You were given two instructions. Send Manek into the Mountain Lands or bring him to me!” Larn boomed. “You say he’s refused, yet here you stand. Without him.”
“Father, they’ve built a wall—” Verian tried.
“A what?”
“A wall.” This from Dorran, who looked almost as petrified as Verian. “They must’ve been working on it this past year. Circles the whole town and has a fortified gate on the north end.”
Larn snorted. “You mean to say you let some twigs stop you from bringing Manek to me?”
“It’s well built, we couldn’t—”
Larn took the two steps down from the dais so fast Verian couldn’t even retreat before the back of Larn’s hand slapped across his face, making the hall ring.
Larn’s nostrils flared, his face still that dangerous color somewhere between red and purple, but Verian kept talking. Adena clenched her own jaw tight, as if she could force his mouth closed.
“They fired on us, there was nothing—”
Adena didn’t know if Larn actually heard Verian, but when his son’s mouth began moving, a black snarl escaped his twisted lips, and his sword came clanging from its sheath. Eyes burning with rage, Larn bared the sword at Verian.
Larn swung, missing his son’s chest only because he faltered when Myrah jumped to her feet and screamed, “Larn, no!”
He sucked in a wild breath, glowered at his son, and swung again. The blow landed on the side of Dorran’s neck, half-severing his head from his shoulders. Dorran gasped, the sound gurgling in his ruined throat, and he slumped to the flagstones, choking on the blood running down his exposed windpipe.
Larn shook, his sword clattering to the ground, and a pace away, Verian quivered, realizing how close he’d come to death.
Adena held her breath along with the nobles, waiting. But where the Midlanders’ eyes filled with fear, anticipation flickered deep in Adena’s chest. It was coming. Soon, soon, soon.
When his face had settled into a muted pink, Larn pointed a bloody finger at Verian and snarled, “We’ll see how well this wall protects the Lowlands. Summon Scallya’s army. I don’t want to see your face again until they’re ready to march.”
Verian scurried from the hall without a word, leaving Larn’s shocked nobility to stare at their new king. He turned his snarl on them, shouting, “The next time I see you, you’d better be ready for war. Now OUT!”
The crowd shuddered as one and scrambled to get out, away from Larn. They nearly trampled each other in their haste, the great doors at the end of the hall creaking as people shoved them open.
Larn pivoted on his heel, and for a moment, his eyes locked with Adena’s. In that small, dark place in her heart where she could still feel, Adena shivered. It was only his eyes on her, but it felt like his hands, heavy, coarse, prodding her up and down.
But then his eyes flicked to Myrah, and Adena let herself sigh in relief. Larn strode to his wife, grabbed her arm, and dragged her away.
And then it was just Adena in the hall.
Adena, and Gaetien.
She could feel his gaze on her. Slowly, she rose from her stool and followed him into a servants’ corridor, careful not to meet his eye. She had to time this right; she had to gauge his reaction correctly. For that, she needed the quiet of her cage.
A guard met them at Adena’s door. He unlocked it and held it open for her. As the door closed behind her, Adena looked over her shoulder at Gaetien. He nodded.
She was sitting on her bed when the trapdoor scraped open and Gaetien’s head appeared from beneath the floor. His face was carefully neutral as he climbed up into the dark room. He placed the obligatory tray of food on the foot of her bed, but she didn’t reach for it, instead searching his face for some promising clue.
Carefully, slowly, Adena stood, stepped to him, placed a hand on his chest.
“Gaetien…do you still love me?”
He flinched but didn’t back away.
“I need your help.”
“Adena…”
“This could be my only chance,” she whispered.
“Why not wait until he’s gone? There won’t be any soldiers about to—”
“I can’t stay in Scallya. He’ll find me. You know he will. Someone will notice. I have to disappear.”
“But where?”
“The Lowlands,” she breathed, and he stilled. “No, please, listen to me. I must march with them to the Lowlands. My sisters are there.”
“Adena, it’s dangerous.”
She quelled the surge of rage, and to stop herself from throttling him, she filled her fists with the front of his shirt. “I have to find them, Gaetien. I’ll need them when…”
He didn’t say anything, just stood there looking down at her for a long time. Though he’d only been gone the better part of a year, Gaetien looked different to Adena. His eyes especially seemed older, rimmed with fine lines that seemed premature. He clenched his jaw now, and she could always see the tendons in his neck when he did, pushing against the skin as if wanting free of it. His hands, so steady before, now had a perpetual shake.
The sun dipped below the horizon before he spoke again.
“I have to think on it.”
Adena took a sharp breath, but he was already moving away.
“Gaetien, please—”
“I’ll be back.”
And the trapdoor clicked shut.
She balled her hands into fists and bit the inside of her cheek until it bled, anything to keep from letting out a howl of frustration. How could he have to think about it? Adena had done nothing but think about it for days, sennights, eternity. There was nothing else but this.
She began pacing the width of the room, back and forth, back and forth, until the stars shone coldly down on the world with their unfeeling light. She cursed them too, cursed them for seeing her and doing nothing. How could the stars condemn her so? What had she ever done? What were her crimes, compared to Larn’s, to Gaetien’s?
A curse spun from her lips. The litany was her companion, her bedfellow, and it rolled from her tongue as easily as her own name. “Deceiver see me. Deceiver hear me. Curse Larn; curse his house, his fields, his blood. May he know what I have known. I give myself to you as payment, and I will greet you with a smile. Deceiver see me. Deceiver hear me…”
She repeated herself again and again through the night, pacing, back and forth, back and forth. The silk of her dress whispered malicious murmurs in her ear as she walked. The food Gaetien brought grew cold, hard, congealed, and Adena’s stomach curdled each time she caught a whiff of the bread and stew.
Finally, her weak body failed her, and she retreated to the bed. Curled around herself, her lips formed silent words, repeating her curse. The day came and passed, the noises of Scallya preparing for war flitting through her barred windows. But she didn’t care to see. The army would leave in a few days; her last chance was slipping through her fingers.
Night fell again, the stars ever silent. At first, she thought she was just imagining the click of the lock. She was too weary to tell if it was the trapdoor or main door. Did it matter?
“Adena.”
Slowly she sat up, her voice raw. “Mm?”
Gaetien stood just outside the trapdoor, a bundle in his hands. His face was a riot of anxiety and excitement and fear. And slowly, slowly, Adena’s was too.
He crossed to her hurriedly, unfurling a threadbare dress that smelled of wood smoke.
“He hasn’t come here has he?” Gaetien asked as he laid out the dress and a headscarf.
“No.”
He nodded, almost looking agitated when Adena didn’t move.
“It’s my sister Lyda’s,” he said, nodding at the clothes. “I can get you through the ki
tchens if you’re dressed in these. Lyda’s waiting for us at home.”
Finally, understanding seeped into her, just enough to get her moving. She tore at the silks, felt them ripping, giving way. When Gaetien moved to help, she let him.
She threw on the old dress, slipping it over her thin chemise. Next came the headscarf. She tried to get as much of her golden hair underneath. Lastly, Gaetien put a pair of worn shoes on the floor in front of her. The soles were wooden, and she grimaced as her toe found a splinter.
It didn’t matter. She was ready.
Adena nodded at Gaetien, and silently they slipped through the trapdoor onto the ladder below. Her blood felt feverish, her pulse wild as she climbed down and followed Gaetien through the maze of servants’ corridors.
She smelled the kitchen long before they reached it. It was a great rectangle of a room, cast in long red shadows from the massive cooking hearths set in one wall. A polished table took up the whole middle, various vegetables and meats laid out in some phase of being chopped, cut, or skewered. The air tanged with blood and cinnamon and rosemary.
It was late, but still a few kitchen maids scuttled about, a pair of pages sat sharing a cup of ale, and Cook kept a watchful eye over the simmering pot hung above the fire. Gaetien kept himself between the others and Adena, using his body to obscure their view of her as the pair cautiously crossed the room.
Without looking up from the hearth, Cook said, “Make yourself useful, Gaetien, and take the scraps to the pigs on your way out.”
“Yes, sir,” Gaetien mumbled, filling his hands with vegetable peels and knuckle bones.
Instinctively, Adena did the same, trying to look busy. They were nearly to the door before she received her first curious look, but it was only one of the pages, and then they were outside in the night air.
Adena hadn’t been outside in a year, and the shock of fresh air nearly made her stumble. The air assaulted her wet lungs, and she had to stop and cough, a light breeze cutting through the borrowed dress she wore. A shiver of cold and weariness and delight lanced through her.