by S E Wendel
“You will give that back. It’s not yours,” she hissed.
He leaned down; his face was narrow, beady, too close. His breath reeking, he replied, “’S not yours either, slave.”
Lora snatched at the hem of her cloak, but Ennis slipped through her fingers and was upon the man with the rage and sorrow of Highcrest behind her. Knocking him to the ground, she clawed at his face, trying to wrench an eyeball out.
He threw the breastplate away, freeing his hand to grab a thick clump of her hair. Ennis yelped in pain, and the man rolled them over, knee digging into her thighs.
Ennis dug her fingernails into his face, finding the lower lid of his left eye. The man screamed and she shoved, but she couldn’t unseat him. As he gained the upper hand, finally able to grab a few of her fingers and draw them back painfully, he put more of his weight on her until she felt her ribs would cave into her heart.
Her lungs filled with air in a loud gasp when two fingers on her right hand snapped backwards. The man was violently thrown off, landing a few feet away with an unceremonious thud. Her eyes wide, hot pain washed down Ennis’s arm from her fingers as the stars shone down coldly down on her.
Suddenly faces were above her, arms reaching down and drawing her up. She moaned when a hand gripped her fingers.
Her drunken opponent—perhaps not so drunk anymore—staggered to his own feet with the help of his friends. As they were both hauled up, their eyes met, and Ennis’s mouth curled into a sneer.
“Ean curse you and Dea take you, whoreson,” she spat.
She got a light shake by the person holding her. She jerked her head around, and her eyes levelled with Manek’s chin. His mouth was a thin line, and Ennis felt herself cooling, like steeping tea left out too long.
“I can’t leave you alone today,” he murmured. Ennis remembered to breathe after he spoke, realizing he was concerned, not angry.
As Manek began handing her over to Lora and Essa, the man wrenched free of his friends’ grip. “That slavemeat should be tied up!”
Manek flew at the man, shoving him and his companions into the darkness.
“Get out of here,” Manek snapped.
The men scurried off into the night, unwilling to fight with their warlord. Manek watched them until he surely couldn’t see them, and then for a few moments more.
Lora looked over Ennis a second time once she was seated back at the fire. Lora’s pinched expression told her she’d gotten up to quite enough today. As she gingerly touched the cut on Ennis’s lower lip, Essa sat down, the breastplate retrieved.
They stilled when Manek joined them. Squatting down, balanced on the balls of his feet, he gently reached over and took Ennis’s ailing hand. He turned it over, looking at the two fingers that weren’t going in quite the right direction.
“I’m no healer, but these need to be reset,” he said.
Grimacing, Ennis nodded. “Do it.”
In two blindingly quick moves, he set Ennis’s hand on fire. It took all her will not to jerk her hand away, though a little squeak did manage to escape.
Manek kept her hand between his own, looking it over. “You fight dirty,” he said quietly, eyeing the blood she’d drawn beneath her nails.
“Of course,” she replied, equally quiet. “It wasn’t a fair fight.”
His gaze flicked to hers, and he grinned crookedly. “And yet you started it.”
“They were looking for a fight.”
“Perhaps…but they didn’t get the one they expected.”
“Men never expect a woman to be able to fight.”
At this Manek leaned back slightly so he could look at her. She watched him warily but didn’t back down from her words. His easy grin relieved some of the tension in her taut shoulders.
Extracting a knife from his boot, Manek presented her with the hilt. She looked up at him curiously.
“Stick anyone who tries that again.”
Surprised, Ennis nodded and took the knife.
Their eyes meeting, Ennis and Manek considered each other. Ennis entertained the thought, if for only a moment, that she was something akin to…glad that it was this warlord she was consigned to. What Manek was thinking she couldn’t say.
Eight
The Heavenly King, though content in his realm, was not blind to the boredom of his godly children. They did moan and daydream until Father Themin sent them out into the world to find the joys of their hearts and to watch over his own special love, the mortals. He sent his eldest child, Balan, to the seas, and Balan took his twin Adain with him, for they would never be apart. His daughter Anona he sent to the ice winds of the north. For Ma’an it was the mountains, for Tamea it was the forests. And to Ean, the son he never meant to have, he gave the vast stretches of the southern deserts, for it was only there that his temper could not scorch and burn Mithria.
—When They Were Sent to the Four Winds
Two days they camped on the banks of the Slender River, waiting for the life-warmth to seep back into their bones. The days were growing bitterly cold, and Lora often daydreamed about her father’s study, with its roaring fire and furred carpets. Thinking of her father could warm her heart momentarily, but it brought with it such an unbearable ache that Lora sometimes didn’t know if the memories were worth it.
Lora woke with a crick in her neck. While using the ground for a pillow often came at such a price, somehow, she knew it didn’t bode well. Her feet still ached despite no marching yesterday, and they certainly didn’t like getting shoved into her cold boots. Getting herself upright and dressed felt like coaxing a cart wheel out of a frozen rut.
When the four women emerged from their tent that morning, they found the men gathered into some semblance of two columns. Waurin came to fetch Essa.
Somehow no one had thought to tell them this was where the Lowland force would begin to break up. Given little warning or time for goodbyes, the sisters clung to one another while Lora put her hands on her hips and glared at any man who dared catch her eye, endeavoring to feel outrage enough for all four of them.
Ennis and Essa’s hot tears steamed against their frozen cheeks, and Essa hid her face in the hollow of her sister’s neck. Irina stood beside them, her hand on Essa’s shoulder, and silent tears slipped down to her lips, pooling just below the nose.
Lora stood close by, all at once part of and separate from the sisters, as she always was. The men’s grumbling grew loud, but Lora glared at them, ready to defend the sisters’ last moments together. She guarded this farewell, knowing how precious it was, no matter how fiercely jealous she was. At least Ennis got to say goodbye—at least Essa was going with her warlord, not with Mithria. Lora hadn’t been so lucky with her mother and brothers seven years past. Not so with her father either.
Kissing Essa’s forehead, Ennis said, “Keep yourself safe.”
Essa wiped away Ennis’s tears. “Ennis.” She whispered, though Lora could just hear her say, “I know you won’t like it, but listen to me.” Ennis’s eyes were large with questions, and Lora too leaned in closer, her interest piqued. “Make him love you.”
“What?”
“It’ll be better that way—you’ll see. You’re clever; you’ll find a way.” She glanced over at Waurin and Manek, who sat a few paces off atop their warhorses. “Besides, they aren’t so bad.”
Leaning back to see her sister’s bemused face, Essa kissed her cheek before giving her hands a final squeeze.
Lora and Ennis exchanged a quick glance before Ennis’s eyes fell to the ground, and Lora decided to forget she’d heard Essa’s words for now. Ennis seemed troubled by them, and Lora hoped she’d forget them, too. What would it accomplish?
When Essa came to her, Lora held her tight and whispered, “Take care of yourself, wildling.”
Essa kissed her cheek and smiled. “Watch over them for me.”
They nodded at one another before Essa moved to wrap Irina up in her arms. Irina held her youngest sister close, and soon she was sobbing uncontrol
lably. Whispering soft words into her ear, Essa kissed Irina’s forehead.
Ennis took Irina in her arms, and together the three of them watched Essa walk over to her warlord. She greeted him with a shaky smile and held out her hand. Waurin lifted her gently up into the saddle behind him.
Essa craned her neck so she could watch them from over her shoulder as Waurin rode to his own troops. Cries of joy erupted from the Carmetheon men as they finally turned towards home. It was as if they could taste the salt of the sea already.
When Essa’s golden head finally turned away, Lora looked over at Ennis. Though she tried to swallow her sobs, Ennis couldn’t stop large tears from soaking her cheeks. Irina’s taller frame shook beside her like a leaf in autumn clinging to its tree.
Hugging Ennis’s shoulders, Lora leaned her forehead against her friend’s temple. “Don’t cry,” she said. “It’s as we always said—she rides to conquer all those men unfortunate enough to cross her path. The warlord’s fond of her. She’ll do well.”
Ennis tried nodding. “S-she should have better than a barbarian wretch. She was meant for much better.”
Lora opened her mouth to say that was true for all of them, but the nicker of Manek’s horse killed the words in her throat. She looked up to meet his gaze. Manek seemed as somber as the gray dawn at his back. He said nothing, guessing correctly there was nothing that could be said.
Turning back to spur his own men, Manek left them in that open patch of grass for a few moments longer. But then it was time to leave. Time to put the path underfoot once more. Taking Ennis’s hand in her own, Lora watched warily as storm clouds passed over her friend’s eyes. She knew that look. She only hoped it wouldn’t cost them too dearly, this rage building in Ennis.
Nine
Though he had brought the mortals low, still Ean could not find happiness. He searched all the realms, his Father’s airy palace, his brothers’ watery domains, his sister’s forest kingdom, but still his heart beat restlessly. Going to his Father, Ean demanded to know why. “Because, my son, I have cursed you to the same suffering as you have bestowed on the mortals. Their unhappiness shall be your own. You have damned them, and you have damned yourself.” At this Ean raged and the skies shook until it seemed all of Themin’s kingdom would crumble.
—from The Sufferings of the Lost Son
Adena Courtnay hated snow. It fell thick, white, blanketing, making everything look the same. The barred windowpane clouded each time she breathed, misting with the condensation of her breath. It blurred the landscape outside, whitened now beyond interest. But it was her only comfort, looking out this window.
Did she need to breathe? If she stopped, everything stopped—everything would go away. She cut off her breath, holding, holding. Her eyes began to water, her head pounding, pounding. Her fingertips were cold, numb. The windowpane was clear.
The door slammed open and she gasped, shivering as he walked into the room.
Larn’s hot breath ran down her neck and she truly did stop breathing. He put his big four-fingered hand on her shoulder, slipped it into her nightgown, already in a sorry state.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, his voice like gravel underfoot. He gazed out into the coming night, watching the snow reflect the last sentinels of day. He squeezed her breast painfully. “Hmm?”
She remained silent, her eyes too consumed with the white expanse to respond. How odd a thing white was—not a color, so forlorn, so lonely.
Gripping her slim shoulders, Larn shook her once, twice, amused at her silence. “Don’t think of running away. The snow is thick and deep,” he told her between slopping kisses down her jaw, neck. “I would find you, love. I will always find you.”
She thought of somewhere he couldn’t find her. She looked across Mithria, trying, searching for somewhere he wouldn’t find her. Her eyes widened. Her sisters. Ennis. Ennis could hide her. The sister she called lioness—so wily, so clever, yes, yes, she could hide her. But where was she? Where was her sister? Ennis? Ennis, where are you?
At times like this, Adena tried to separate from her temporal body. Alona, one of the other women who used to live in the room with her, had taught her how. It saved Adena more than once, looking up at the ceiling and imagining herself as little insubstantial particles, small enough for the wind to bear away.
His mouth was hot and smelled of meat and spiced wine. She thought perhaps one of his teeth was beginning to rot from the sickly-sweet undertones of his breath. The smell kept her in her body, and she had to hold in the groan of frustration. She couldn’t bear to be in her body now.
As he grew more insistent, Adena decided it was time. She’d rolled the idea around in her mind, swirling like fine wine over the tongue, for days now. She had to. She couldn’t bear this.
She lurched away from his mouth, doubling over, a hacking cough drowning out everything else. She didn’t need to fake the cough for long—soon her body wracked with the wet sound of her throat contracting. Blood splattered onto the grimy handkerchief she’d made from a ripped sheet.
Larn cursed, jumping away. “Damn you!” His eyes were hot coals in his face, his lips twitching.
Adena let a phlegmy drip of blood pool on her bottom lip before wiping it away.
“Bloody lung,” he said seemingly to himself.
Bloody lung, the withering death, consumption. It was called many things. Right then, Adena called it salvation.
“How long?” he demanded.
“Since spring,” she said, deliberately spitting up more bloody clots.
He cursed again, but his hands kept clenching and unclenching. He eyed her, no doubt debating if it was still worthwhile to take her. Everyone knew it was dangerous to be near the blood coughed up by a victim, knew they were more likely to contract it themselves then.
He sucked in a sharp breath, and Adena’s muscles locked, ready.
“Damn you,” he spat, before storming from the room. The door shut, the heavy lock grating.
Shaking, Adena gathered herself on the large bed, one of the room’s few adornments, and looked out into the darkened world. Her hope, her triumph, was short-lived. She’d saved herself this night, but what came next? What use would he now find for her?
The creak of the trapdoor, hidden under a heavy rug in the southwest corner, didn’t stir her. She sighed, putting her head in her hands, telling herself not to cry. But then, she hadn’t any tears left.
A hand, gentle, warm, touched her forehead. Slowly she cracked an eye open. A dark figure leaned over her, silhouetted in moonlight.
“Hello, my Moon Boy,” she murmured.
Gaetien, Larn’s cupbearer, a boy on the precipice of manhood, leaned down, resting his weight on the balls of his feet. He always came by night, through a trapdoor that led to the warren of servants’ corridors and staircases. Larn didn’t like to see servants.
Gaetien squatted there at eye level with her, looking concerned. Stroking her hair back, he seemed to have words on his lips.
“What is it, Moon Boy?”
He was troubled, always troubled. The boy was always troubled. He was trouble. Nothing but trouble.
He looked about the room, whatever he’d wanted to say crawling back into his throat just like he always crawled back through the trapdoor. Without her. His eyes fixed on the opposite corner, near where the locked door stood.
“They finally took her?”
“Mm.”
Adena hadn’t liked living with a corpse. Larn had demanded. Alona had finally refused. They fought. Now she was dead. She’d been dead long before someone finally took her from the room. Then Adena was alone. Nora had left them long ago, cutting her wrists with glass she broke from the second window. Now there were bars over both windows and cloth over the small hole her fist had made. It let the cold in.
“Why have you come?”
His brows drew low and he seemed hurt. “To see you.”
“What’s to see?” she looked up at him, sneering. “Do you want
me as well?” She pulled herself towards him, her nightgown riding up.
“No, no!” Eyes wide in terror, he gently pushed her back. “No, Adena, I—no. You—you’re…please, I want to help you.”
“Help me?”
“Yes.”
If he truly wanted to help her, he’d take her down the trapdoor, that dark chasm. She’d asked before, had begged him, but, being more boy than man, he insisted it was too dangerous. They would be caught. They would seal up the trapdoor. He wouldn’t be able to come to her anymore, wouldn’t be able to bring her the poetry he wrote on any scrap of parchment he could find.
She’d tried yanking on the trapdoor when she was alone, had always found it locked. She hated her Moon Boy for it. She was beginning to think she was too tired to escape anyway. Blood in the mouth meant reprieve, but also the beginning of the end.
“You’d do anything to help me?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, of course I would. I’d do anything for you.”
A tear, pulled from the very dregs of her soul, spilled from her right eye. “Then kill me.” She’d little time left, and she was loath to spend it here, behind these dark walls.
“Wh-what?—I-I—”
“Kill me.”
Ten
All mortals ran from Ean, his nostrils spewing flames and his eyes scorching the earth. They did wail and beg at the sight of his face. Ean could not speak over their cries, and soon even Themin clasped his hands over his ears at the howling noise. “Make them be still, Father!” Ean complained. “I cannot, Ean, for you gave them fear and thus I cannot soothe them.” “There must be a way!” the Host begged. “Hide your true face,” Themin said, “and then they might be calm.” And so Ean took a great breath of air, snuffing out his nostrils, and splashed water into his eyes, making them steam. He turned his new face to the mortals and they did not shrink back. Ean could walk among them, and soon mortals imitated him, turning their faces into many.
