A Time of War and Demons

by S E Wendel

  —The Two-Faced God

  The saltiness of the breeze teased Essa Courtnay’s nostrils as she gazed down at the sheltered harbor sitting in the cradle of a wide bay. Through the salty mist, she spotted two islands, one tall, one broad, sitting at the mouth of the bay.

  Yesterday the land had risen into wide steppes while the Slender River sunk in a long staircase of waterfalls. Today she sat with Waurin in the saddle on the edge of a high plateau. The drop was sheer, but a winding path had been cut into the rock, and the men were already starting down the slope. To her right, a gaping crevice sliced through the plateau, the Slender River racing to meet the sea far below. On the other side, the plateau stretched on, high grasses blowing gently in the breeze.

  Carmetheon sat directly below them, nestled along the base of the cliff.

  “What do you think?” Waurin asked, snapping her back to attention. Essa could hear the pride in his voice, making her thankful he sat behind her and so couldn’t see her face.

  What indeed. Looking down at the city—was it even that? Perhaps a large town. Whatever it was, it was small, perhaps three hundred buildings spread out along the narrow strip of beach between the shoreline and the cliff. She could see that all the buildings sat on raised platforms, wood bridges and walkways connecting them.

  Essa couldn’t help but think it was all rather dreary. The buildings and ships were all a dark wood. The cliff was dark gray, probably basalt. Even the beach was made up of dark little pebbles spilling into the dark water of the bay.

  When she didn’t say anything, Waurin said softly, “I know it isn’t Highcrest.”

  She bit her tongue lest she remind him that Highcrest was but a ruin now thanks to him. But, realizing her silence hurt him, she shook her head and said, as cheerily as she could manage, “You have a fine home. Your fleet could rival anything in the Highlands.”

  She wondered if Ceralia would forgive her for telling so many lies. Essa could see it in Waurin’s eyes sometimes, that he felt guilty. Not guilty enough to free her or let her go with her sisters, but enough to frequently ask how she was doing, what she thought, how she felt. Whenever she told him the truth, in rare moments of indiscretion, her sadness drove him away into his own melancholy. So, she lied.

  Essa had perfected the art in Highcrest. She recognized from a young age that politics was a game of half-truths. If one wanted to get ahead, one sometimes had to lie. She even lied to her father and sisters. Having grown up without a mother, her sisters, Irina especially, coddled her and protected her from whatever might be sharp, ugly, or, Themin forbid, dangerous. By the time she was grown, her family was so accustomed to seeing her cheery and innocent that she felt it would shame them to know she had dark, even wicked thoughts now and again. She was sure it would especially mortify the prudish Irina to know that Essa had long since lost her virginity, even before Ennis had hers to the Dunstan prince.

  “I hope you will come to love it,” Waurin said, giving his horse a soft kick.

  They began down the winding path, and Essa held her breath. Leaning back into Waurin, Essa gripped the horn of the saddle until her knuckles went white.

  “I’ve got you.”

  The climb down was slow. The turns put Essa on edge, especially when the horse would jump down the several feet to the next leg rather than doing a full turn. It seemed she was the only one worried about falling off the cliff. If the horse wasn’t afraid, she knew she shouldn’t be, but, Dea take her, it was a long, long way down.

  For several legs she shut her eyes, finding she could pretend they were on flat ground. Until they turned or jumped, that was.

  The whole while, Waurin tried to soothe her, saying there was nothing to fear, Unhil, the horse, had done this many times; that no one had fallen off the cliff, no one sober at least, in ten years; that they were almost to the bottom.

  At his last words, Essa opened her eyes and took a relieved breath. There were only two turns to go. The tensed muscles of her legs shivered from effort.

  To distract herself from the shorter yet still perfectly deadly fall, Essa looked over Carmetheon now that she was closer. All the buildings were indeed either on stilts or raised stone platforms, and she figured it must be because the lower beach disappeared at high tide. The town spanned both sides of the mouth of the Slender River, a narrow, arched wooden bridge connecting them. Perhaps the most impressive thing about it, if anything was to be found, were the long, wide docks that reached like long fingers out into the bay. A hive of boats were already docked with more streaming in to meet the returned horde.

  Essa and Waurin descended into the large crowd. Families were calling out names, waving their hands, putting small children on shoulders to see if they could spot their fathers and brothers. A great cheer rose when the crowd saw Waurin, and he waved at them, his big hand splayed.

  “You all know I’m not one for speeches,” he said in a booming voice. The crowd agreed and groaned good-naturedly. Waurin laughed. “So I’ll just say that it’s good to be home.”

  The crowd clapped and cheered, wishing Waurin well. Essa was content to be overlooked, overwhelmed by all the faces. Some did glance her way with wondering eyes, but she quickly looked away. She didn’t know how Carmetheon would react to her. Waurin hadn’t said anything about his other gifts.

  They moved on soon after that, making their way into town. Many of the warriors followed them, seeking out homes and families. Everywhere there were tearful reunions. But once in a while Essa saw someone step from their door and look at Waurin. Their face would fall, tears springing to their eyes. Essa realized only after several doors that Waurin gave each a small shake of his head. She supposed it was admiration that he could remember all his men, dead and alive, and their families, too.

  By the time they reached the bridge to the other bank of the Slender River, most of the men had reached their homes. Those left were Waurin’s captains, his seneschal Par, and several of his best warriors. The houses were larger on this side and more spread out.

  The men called out to Waurin before breaking off, telling him to send for them with news, orders, or if he was feeling particularly generous with his wine stores. Waurin laughed and bid them farewell.

  He led them towards one of the few two-storied houses. It was much longer than it was wide, a perfect rectangle except for what looked like a stable in the back. Its platform appeared natural, a wide slab of raised stone that was part of the plateau. There was a faint white line running around the slab, about six feet lower than the top, marking where the water reached.

  The roof of the house was steep and ridged. A huge timber beam ran across the top, painted a dark blue. At the front, above the two great front doors, stood three wooden statues. There was a tall female with long, flowing hair atop the gable, and two males on either side of her, resting on extended beams above the eaves.

  “Are they your ancestors?” she asked, nodding at the roof.

  After dismounting the horse, Waurin looked up at the statues. He smiled at her and shook his head. “It’s the Mother and her sons.” He reached up for her and she put her hands on his shoulders, letting him help her down.

  “We aren’t uncivilized folk—we have the gods here too,” Par said, giving Essa a hard look.

  Waurin cleared his throat. “We’re sea folk here. Ceralia, Balan, and Adain watch over us.”

  Essa nodded. Home in Highcrest, there had been temples devoted to all the gods, but Ma’an was as revered as his Divine Father, for the mountains were his. When the mountains bore iron, gold, and gems, they offered up bounty and thanks to Ma’an, and when the metals and gemstones were worked into beautiful weapons and crafts, they offered bounty and thanks to him again.

  Waurin gestured at the house. “What do you think?”

  A slight movement from Par caught Essa’s eye, and she looked at the wiry young man as she said, “It’s a fine home.”

  Par watched her carefully, suspiciously, his servile nature gone now that Waurin wasn
’t looking. She was dismayed that Par had followed them to the house. She’d hoped he lived somewhere else, anywhere else in Carmetheon.

  Waurin’s seneschal didn’t think Essa should be trusted. Whenever she spoke in his presence, the corner of his eye twitched. Essa knew his kind; if Par had been born in one of the Highland strongholds, he no doubt would already be a powerful courtier. She could only assume he saw her as a threat to his influence. Good. She was.

  “Come,” Waurin said, taking her hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  She nodded and tried to take heart from his smile. She wouldn’t let it show that her knees shook and her insides squirmed. As Par ran ahead to open one of the great doors, Essa tried to ignore a sense of foreboding. Her fate stood behind those doors. What it was she couldn’t guess.

  “Welcome home,” Par said with a grin to Waurin. It faded when Essa passed by him.

  She made a face at him behind Waurin’s back.

  The door opened to a long hall with a fine, glossy wood table sitting in the middle. A warm sandstone hearth roared on the south wall. Banners, most of them depicting different kinds of fish, hung from the great timber rafters.

  When they entered, a tall, broad woman came hurrying towards them. Waurin let go of Essa’s hand to grab up the woman, almost as tall as he, and swing her about. They laughed heartily before Waurin finally set her down. They had the same smile and ruddy blond hair.

  “My boy,” she said fondly. When she touched his bearded cheek, she made a face. “At least, I think it’s you. I can hardly tell with this shaggy thing.”

  Waurin smiled. “Mother, this is Essa Courtnay.”

  Waurin’s mother finally turned from her son to look Essa up and down twice. Stepping around Waurin, she put her hands on Essa’s shoulders. Though Essa had figured out this was a Lowland custom already, she fumbled for a moment before returning the gesture and putting her hands on the woman’s shoulders. It was a bit of a reach.

  “Welcome to Carmetheon, Essa,” she said. “My name is Elodie, and you are welcome in my house.”

  Essa wasn’t ready for the tears that almost overwhelmed her. It was a sincere burst of emotion, for she hadn’t seen a woman, let alone been touched by one, since leaving her sisters. She tried her best to swallow her tears. “Thank you,” she said. Sweeping the skirt of her dress to the side, she did her best Highland curtsey, bending at the knees and waist and holding her left hand out delicately.

  Elodie’s eyebrows arched in surprise. For a moment Essa worried—had it been too much? But then Elodie smiled and said, “Well now. Where have you come from, my dear, to have manners such as that?”

  It was a jab at Waurin, and he took it, as he took most things, with a smile. But Essa was left to worry again, looking between Waurin and his mother. Did she not know? Did that mean she was Waurin’s first gift?

  “I’m Essa Courtnay of Highcrest,” she said.

  “Highcrest. You mean you’re…?” She looked at her son, her brows slamming down into a thunderous frown. “She’s a warprize? You mean to tell me you’ve taken a warprize?”

  Waurin’s face fell. “Yes, Mother.”

  Elodie looked from Essa to Waurin with a sort of horrified bafflement. “I thought it was Larn’s business to take slaves.”

  “He gives some in gifts.”

  “And you thought you’d just take this poor girl from her home?” Elodie put her hands on her hips, and Essa swore she grew taller. “How dare you? I didn’t raise you to deal in slaves.”

  Waurin’s eyes barely left the ground as he said, “She would’ve been taken no matter what. Better here than the Midlands.”

  Elodie turned her sharp gaze onto Essa, and the younger woman wanted to shrink back.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Essa could see Par wore the smallest of grins. It irked her to no end that he found this amusing.

  “Has he hurt you?” Elodie asked.

  “No, my lady.”

  “Has anyone under his command hurt you?”

  “No, he told everyone to treat me as if I were Ceralia herself.”

  Elodie looked back at her son, lips pursed and nostrils flaring, but she seemed slightly less outraged than a few moments before. “And has he promised to free you?”

  Essa swallowed hard. “No.”

  “Do you intend to free her?” Elodie asked Waurin, her arms crossed.

  Waurin did look up at that. A frown darkened his face. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” she demanded. “Or won’t?”

  “Can’t. If you free a warprize, your life is forfeit to the one who gifted them to you.”

  Essa watched as the fire dampened in Elodie. “He’s four hundred leagues away,” she said. “Who would tell him?”

  Waurin shook his head. “If anyone ever did, Ceralia help us. He’d drive us into the sea.”

  Elodie put a hand on Essa’s shoulder. “No offense, dear, but you’re only a girl. How could he destroy one of his hordes over one warprize?”

  “You don’t know him. I don’t even understand all these rules of gift-giving, but they’re Midlander. He’d see it as defiance. He doesn’t take kindly to it, and Manek tested his temper just getting us home this winter.”

  “Does Manek have warprizes?”

  Waurin nodded. “Three just from this campaign.”

  “Has he freed them?”

  “No.”

  “Will he?” Essa blurted.

  Waurin and Elodie looked at her in surprise, and he shook his head again. “No. He can’t afford to. Manek is valuable to Larn, everyone knows it. But he hasn’t done himself any favors this campaign.”

  Elodie let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, my dear. I can’t imagine how terrible this has been for you.”

  Essa tried to grin, told herself she had to, but she barely managed it. That night flooded back into her mind. She’d almost buried it away under the days of marching, letting it sink like a stone to the riverbed. “You are both very kind,” she said.

  “Well, then, we’ll have to make the best of it until our prayers come true and some lucky arrow finds Larn on the battlefield.”

  “Mother, you mustn’t—”

  “Now,” Elodie clapped her hands, “Let’s prepare a room. You’re welcome in my house, Essa Courtnay, but life here is hard. I will expect work out of you.”

  “Yes, of course,” Essa said.

  “Good. Let’s get to work. There are feasts to prepare. You,” she said, pointing at Waurin, “to the baths. I don’t want to see you again until you’re recognizable. And Par—” she stopped, frowning at the seneschal. “Why are you standing there looking smug? Off with you! See to the horses and the goods.”

  “Yes, my lady, of course, yes,” he said hurriedly, not even having enough time to glare at Essa before bowing and scampering from the hall.

  “And you, my dear, follow me.”

  Essa did so with a grin and shared it with Waurin. He still looked a little dazed from his mother’s onslaught, but he recovered enough to nod at her as she passed him.

  Essa went with Elodie to the back of the hall, where they caught a staircase up to the second floor. The hall stood two stories, with the second-floor rooms off of a railed gallery that lined the north, south, and eastern sides of the house. Once on the second floor, Elodie headed to the north side, where she opened the last door.

  Inside was a small room with a pallet but little else.

  “Ah, I’m sorry, my dear, I forgot how sparse this room was.”

  Trying not to look at all the dust shrouding the floor, stool, and blankets, Essa said, with her sunniest smile, “It will do nicely. Thank you.”

  “Wait right here and I’ll fetch some rags and a bucket.”

  She’d already left the room before she was finished making her list, and Essa watched her go. After a few moments Elodie’s voice faded as she went back down the staircase into the hall, then disappeared into a room on the south side.

  Alone for the first ti
me in a sennight, Essa stretched her stiff muscles. She’d refused to let on how tired she was, how much she ached. Waurin seemed to appreciate that she didn’t complain.

  Walking over to the window, she wrestled with it until it let out a groan and jerked open. Sneezing as dust flew up her nose, Essa leaned her head out the window. She’d always enjoyed the sight of the sea. Every now and again she, her sisters, and father would sail down the De’lan into the Westerlands to visit their mother’s former home, the city of Bramden. These waters looked rougher than those of the Highlands, but the two islands out in the bay, shrouded in mist, were a beautiful sight.

  Taking a deep breath, Essa folded her arms on the windowsill and gazed out at the ocean. Carmetheon was a strange land with strange people. She didn’t know if she would ever learn to like the smell of fish. But she contented herself that if she lied enough, told Waurin and his mother that she liked Carmetheon, that she was happy here, she would start to believe it, too.

  Eleven

  Themin wept bitterly for Mithria, and everywhere his tears landed there did spring sand and arid caverns. He would have seen his love dry up before him had not Ceralia, serene and munificent, calmed his heart with a gentle embrace. Replacing his salt-tears with fresh springs from her own eyes, Ceralia gave life to the land once more. The mortals then made her their life-giving Mother, and Themin made her his beloved Queen.

  —Mithrian creation myth

  If the long march to the Lowlands taught Ennis nothing else, she now knew Manek of Rising wasn’t a simple man. Perhaps it was through glimpses of that whirring mind, set behind pensive brown eyes, that assured people of his capacity for leadership. Though he was quiet in manner, his hair a commonplace brown, his mouth, while boasting full lips, always set at a grim angle, people loved and trusted him. They saw only the sharpness of his nose, the broad strength of his shoulders, the steadiness of his voice. Ennis marveled that they could even look past the freckles that dotted his nose and cheekbones.

  His lips and freckles were far from anyone’s mind, though, as people streamed from Rising to welcome home the men and their enigmatic warlord. Ennis walked with Lora and Irina behind a mounted Manek as they made their way into Rising. After such a lengthy journey made entirely on her own two feet, Rising seemed a blessing rather than the squalor she’d been determined to see it as. Whenever she’d had the strength to do more than put one foot before the other, she looked around the Lowlands with wonder. The forests and meadows were always so green, lush with foliage and teeming with game and other wildlife, and the land seemed gorgeously untouched. Men would break away now and again, headed for farmsteads dotted here and there, but overall it was only the occasional farm or vineyard that broke up the gentle hills and velvet valleys of the Lowlands.