by S E Wendel
As Rising welcomed their men home, Ennis took the moment to look about her new city. Well, perhaps city was too generous a word. Rising was spread haphazardly across a cluster of seven grassy hills; what streets there were seemed more like a maze, and fruit trees abounded between houses. Some houses were large, others small; many were crammed around the town square, nestled between two hills. Standing against the blue sky on its own hill and grander than the rest was what Ennis could only assume was Manek’s house.
She watched curiously through squinted eyes as a couple emerged from the home. While all others hummed with excitement, those two stood still as statuary. Looking back, she caught Manek’s eye. He’d been staring in the same direction.
Dismounting, Manek called to her, “Follow me.”
Ennis remained stonily still, wondering, now that they were here, what was expected of them. He surprised her when, after falling into step behind him, he led them in the opposite direction of the great house. They were taken to the northern edge of Rising, to a large, square house that seemed to be one of the few two-storied structures.
Thick gutters lined the roof, all leading to a cylindrical drain that emptied onto a small structure adjoining the house. This was made of wooden columns bearing an eight-sided roof that sheltered an open-air platform. Water trickled from the drain onto a simple stone statue of a kneeling woman. The house’s walls were slathered in a coat of whitewash, and the large wooden door had been painted the blue of the sea. It made the house look like a billowing cloud, rolling over the Lowland hills.
“You’ll stay here,” said Manek.
Seven women, all dressed similarly in heavy blue dresses, emerged. Leading them was a woman with a white sash crossing over her right shoulder then twisted around her waist twice before ending in a knot. All the women had such a sash, their hair drawn back into thick plaits.
Ennis’s eyes widened when she realized what this place was. She’d never imagined—
“The Sisters will take care of you. Sister Renata oversees the Haven.”
“Yes, Lord Manek,” said the woman, giving him a quick bow. The Sister was tall and slim, her wiry brown curls kept in check by a tight, thick braid starting at the crown of her head and falling between her shoulder blades. Her eyes were sharp, haunting, piercingly blue, and set beneath a fine brow. She folded her slim hands neatly in front of her, the tapered fingers exactingly clean. Her plain dress belied the trappings of Highland elegance that kept her pointed nose up and her expression diffident. And Ennis couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen her before.
“We’re happy to have new Sisters.”
With a stiff nod, Manek’s gaze flicked to Ennis’s for a brief moment before he took his leave. Ennis was too dumbfounded to call out to him. Her, to be a divine daughter of a religious house? Her mouth hung open.
“You are most welcome in the Haven of Ceralia,” said Sister Renata, taking Irina by the hand. “You’re in a safe place now. Here you’ll heal and find peace.”
Irina finally lifted her gaze to look at Sister Renata. Hot tears formed in Irina’s eyes, and Ennis, had the long journey not worn down her spirits, almost cried herself to see her sister’s tears. Irina laid her head on Sister Renata’s shoulder and was led into the Haven.
Lora and Ennis, with a quick look between them, followed. Though the Haven seemed like it would be cavernous on the inside, it was anything but. Large lanterns lined the narrow corridor behind the front door. Sister Renata immediately went to her left, leading them through a threshold with no door into what Ennis supposed had once been a sitting room. Thin linen curtains were pulled back from the windows, and though there were no glass panes, it wasn’t cold thanks to a roaring fire in a clean stone hearth that took up most of the far wall.
Tall, thin candles bedecked any flat surface and a great furred rug, though ancient looking, blanketed most of the floor. Several animals had lost their pelts to make such a piece. They were ushered into this bright hall to warm themselves as Sister Renata asked their names.
Lora introduced herself, and Ennis did so for both herself and Irina. As she spoke, she watched Sister Renata’s face. There was a Highland lady under all that Sisterly attire, and sure enough, at the Courtnay name, a small twitch fluttered against the fragile skin below the Sister’s left eye. But nothing else. No nod to their family name, no obsequiousness to their title. All Ennis saw was the smallest of smiles playing at her lips as Sister Renata bade them to warm themselves and went to see to their rooms.
Unease flooded Ennis’s mouth with saliva, as if she was about to spit up rancid meat.
Once they were alone, Lora turned to Ennis and smiled. Taking her friend’s hands in her own, she said with a relieved sigh, “Oh, Ennis, thank the gods we’re here instead of, well…”
“We haven’t even seen it,” replied Ennis, face stony. “Keep your hopes in check.”
“This is better than anything I could’ve imagined for us, considering.”
“Looks are deceiving,” Ennis muttered, looking about the wooden timbers as if they had secrets to tell.
Lora frowned. “Why must you say such things?” she hissed. “It’s more than we could have asked for.”
“Why so quick to forget who you are?”
They fell silent when Renata reentered the room. A small, cold breeze came with her. Folding her hands in front of her, Renata said, “We’ve a room ready for you.”
Leading them back into the narrow hallway, they made for a staircase at the end of the hall. They passed several open doors, each of which Ennis tried to spy into. Most contained beds, some of which were filled. One room was devoted to supplies of some sort, with shelves full of vials, flasks, and cups brimming with green, brown, even red substances.
Renata noted Ennis’s staring. “As I said, this is a house of healing. Lord Manek allows us to live in peace and worship the Mother Ceralia; in exchange, we treat the suffering of Rising.” As she began to climb the stairs, she continued. “It’s fortunate he’s brought you to us now—we’ll need extra hands with all the wounded men back from campaign.” The word fortunate stuck in Ennis’s ear, feeling odd.
The stairs took them up to a second floor that looked almost identical to the one below it: a narrow hallway lined with doors. These, however, were shut. Renata stopped at the last door on the left.
They stepped into the room. The ceiling sloped, higher on the wall with the door. A mattress—a sheet stuffed with hay—lined the other walls, separated from its neighbor by only a finger’s length. Closing the door revealed a scratched, beaten trunk.
“It’s not much, but it’s yours. Rest your weary heads, Sisters. Your journey is over and now your lives may begin anew,” said Renata with a serene smile. Ennis didn’t like the words or the tone they were said in, and it irked her that she couldn’t place Renata’s face.
After taking a look at the room and audibly sighing, no doubt in pleasure at having a bed other than the ground, Lora turned to the woman and said, “Thank you for your kindness, Sister.” She prodded Ennis with her elbow for good measure, and Ennis begrudgingly forced a smile.
“This is your home now. You have seven new Sisters who will care for you and a benevolent Mother who will guide you in all things. Be dutiful and thoughtful and soon you’ll take your vows and join us in blood and faith.”
Ennis’s smile slipped. A cold washed over her the likes of which she hadn’t felt since slipping into the Slender River.
Renata saw the change in her expression and chose to smile. Reaching out, she took Ennis’s hands and spoke through her wince. “You’ve nothing to fear. Mother Ceralia will welcome you with open arms.”
“I didn’t realize we’d be required to take vows.”
“Well, you don’t want to remain a warprize the rest of your life, do you?” That place under the woman’s eye twitched again, but just the once, as she squeezed Ennis’s hands.
Ennis snatched them back, fingers throbbing.
Renat
a frowned and grabbed Ennis’s right hand, though more gently this time. Pulling her hand out of the glove, Renata found Ennis’s middle fingers bound in cloth to prevent movement. She made quick work of releasing the bind, and at the sight of her fingers, Ennis sucked in a breath, her stomach twisting.
Gnarled and swollen, they looked like a fishwife’s knuckles, each joint a huge knob.
“This must be tended to,” said Renata. She called out the open door, “Kanna! Jenna!”
Padding feet sounded down the hall as Renata reclaimed the hand, examining the fingers more closely. Ennis bit her cheek, watching Renata, as two more women came into the room and filled it almost to the brim.
“I must reset the fingers,” said Renata to the new women.
Each nodded and was away as speedily as they’d come.
“They were set already,” Ennis tried arguing.
“Not well enough. Lay down.”
Lora, with brows knitted, helped Ennis lay down as if she was incapable of it herself. Renata unfastened the cloak from Ennis’s neck. As her hand was turned this way and that, panic began rising in her throat.
The women returned bearing linens, vials, and a small metal contraption, and at the sight, Ennis reared up. Renata shoved her back down with firm hands. She was stronger than she looked.
Sitting on Ennis’s legs, Renata rolled up her sleeves. Wriggling, Ennis still couldn’t free herself as a wad of linen was shoved in her mouth and the woman called Jenna loomed over her, holding Ennis’s shoulders down.
“A-are you sure—?” Lora tried.
“They must be rebroken before they fully mend, or else they won’t heal correctly.”
Renata gripped Ennis’s wrist and then took hold of the first finger. Sister Kanna stood by with one of the metal tools. Ennis shook her head furiously, heart pounding in her ears.
“This will hurt.”
Snap.
Twelve
There’s war in the north
The De’lan runs red
There’s fire in the north
Dea’s greed’s ne'er fed.
There’s war in the Gray Hills
There’s war in the Spears
Come south with me now
What have we to fear?
—Lowlander hymn
As he sat looking out into the night, Manek remembered why, though he always missed Rising, he didn’t miss this house. Sitting in what would be a study if any of them knew how to read, a crackling fire made the most conversation.
From the window, he could see the full moon reflected on the Morroley River, winding down lazily from the eastern mountains. It crisscrossed the Lowlands’ small hills and valleys, cutting through meadows and lush forests draped in mist. He eagerly awaited the fog that enveloped the southern Lowlands each morning like a blanket, only thrown off as the sun began to rise.
Such beauty was the reason men had come. Such beauty was the reason men were willing to protect it. Orange flame would consume the Lowlands whole if Larn had his way. But he wouldn’t. Manek saw to that. He and his men would keep the Lowlands safe, at the high price of their lives.
Men had come to the Lowlands to escape the constant warring in the north. The Highlands, once a center of learning and culture, had decayed, crumbling beneath its own weight. Now there were only five noble houses and a handful of clans left after two hundred years of clashing in the Highland Wars. Having watched them kill each other, the Midlands, Larn, and his armies were perched, ready for conquering.
War was upon them now, there was no stopping it. Dea the Destroyer would have her way with Mithria.
Manek blinked rapidly, pulling himself out of the quagmire. He hated that he barely remembered a time the Lowlands hadn’t been at war.
His father, Kierum, sat in his great chair, a thin blanket tossed over his lap to hide his withered left leg. Kierum sat silently, slowly running withered fingers over his short, scraggly beard. Large patches of gray and white hairs dotted his head, his sunken eyes distant, reflecting the dancing flames.
His mother bustling in felt like an eruption of noise. A pretty woman who had grown rather stout in her progressing age, Kasia brought a tray laden with a kettle and cups.
“Would anyone like milk?” she asked, as if to no one, for no one answered. Heaving a sigh, and disregarding the silence, she sat breezily in the other chair. “It would certainly be nice to have help in the kitchen.” She turned her gaze on Manek and he barely contained his groan. “Have you already given your gifts to the Haven?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
She huffed. “What am I to do, then? All alone in this great house! Do you really expect me to manage it by myself?”
“You aren’t alone,” Manek reminded her. “You’ve got Cera’s daughters for company—and the two boys from—”
Kasia waved her hand. “They’re fine workers, but what I need is an experienced servant.”
“I somehow doubt those highborn women would know anything about scrubbing your floors.”
She made a loud sound of exasperation. “Honestly, Manek! You do all that ugly fighting so you can bring home gifts—and you simply give them away? Just once I’d like one to help—”
“Hush, Kasia,” said Kierum. “They do help. The Mother looks graciously upon us and will bless us for our gifts. Manek does right, giving them to her.”
Kasia rolled her eyes.
Manek nodded, though his reasoning was very different from Kierum’s. What else was he supposed to do with well-educated highborn ladies? Putting them to hard labor would likely only cause more problems, but they still needed to be tasked with something. A healing house, then, provided the best solution, for not only was Rising in dire need of one, but healing houses were traditionally at the edge of the town should plague hit—meaning the Haven was far away from the great house.
“Well, it’s comforting to know my son pays his respects to this Mother. I wonder what that’s like.”
Manek opened his mouth to say something, anything, to tell her that it wasn’t like she thought—that he couldn’t bear to see the faces, the lives he’d ruined wandering through his home—but nothing came out. The words, as they always did, died in his throat and he contented himself with silence.
Kasia, however, was rarely ever content in silence. She threw her hands up in disgust, but Manek knew she hadn’t given up. For a moment, she fidgeted with the folds of her dress, deciding what she wanted to say next.
“Manek, something must be done about the Oltaraani before they steal away my entire home!”
“Kasia!”
“Oh tush, Kierum—it’s getting dire. Something must—”
“By the Almighty Father Themin, woman, shut up!”
“Such words!—do you see, Manek, what I must put up with all on my own? First those raiders and now this madman!”
“I said to shut up you old—”
“Father,” Manek said over him. “What’s she talking about? Have they come again?”
“Twice just this harvest!” his mother exclaimed.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
Looking anywhere but at his son, Kierum replied gruffly, “I can defend my own home.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” he repeated, lower, firmer.
Kierum’s eyes cut to Manek’s, glinting with indignation. “And what could you have done? So far from here—what could you have possibly done for us?” He stood quickly, tottering until he grabbed hold of his long walking staff. “I defend my home while you burn others’.”
Manek’s heart went cold. As if he needed another reminder of just how much suffering he’d caused.
“I defend my home how I can. We must choose our enemies.”
Kierum waved a hand. “Larn wouldn’t—”
“Larn would come. He would come and burn everything. I don’t know about you, Father, but I’d rather have Rick and his damned Oltaraani raiders knocking at my door than him.”<
br />
“We bow to anyone who threatens us, then?”
“What would you have me do? Send our men off to be killed by Rick’s whoresons?”
Kierum was turning a dangerous red as he snapped back, “I would have you do something for your own people!—do something other than serve that Midland bastard.”
“Your father just worries,” said Kasia, “that there’s nothing between us and Rick.”
“There’s nothing standing between us and Larn, either. That should worry us much more.”
Kierum grumbled, “Larn wouldn’t destroy one of his own hordes just because they needed more time to settle matters at home. He’s a bastard, I know that, but he wouldn’t—”
“You’ve been away from him too long. He shouldn’t be pushed. We’ve no choice.”
“We’ve always got a choice.”
“Yes. Him or death. Anneka understood that best of all.”
The mention of his sister was the surest way to end a conversation, and sure enough, her name made his mother gasp and silenced his father. His shoulders shaking with sorrow and rage, Kierum slumped back into his chair.
Manek sat too, looking at his hands clasped together in front of him. His sister’s name sat like ashes in his mouth. He hated having to use her name like this, as a tactic. Hated that her memory was tainted with such pain. She’d taught him to ride, taught him which stones were best for skipping over the river, and how to sweep through the kitchen without their mother noticing the filched honey rolls. She was gone from them now, and he’d Larn to thank for that.
