A Time of War and Demons

by S E Wendel

  Thirteen

  I make for Berredey tomorrow at your request. It pains me to leave without retaking Highcrest—the bastards sitting in the great hall are an insult to the Courtnays. Understand me, Father, I’ll be knocking upon the Mountain Gate in the spring. I have harried them all I can for now—I only hope Anona the Frostbitten will treat them with her usual courtesy.

  —letter from Colm Dunstan to his father, Adren

  “Ennis, hold it still!” Suppressing her glare at Renata, Ennis replied, “Yes. I’m sorry,” even though she wanted to remind the Sister that steady fingers weren’t ones that’d been broken only days before.

  The wad of bandage wound round, round, round the wound, newly stitched. Beads of sweat ran down the man’s flushed forehead as Renata wrapped his knee and Ennis kept pressure on the newly stitched puncture wound.

  “Thank you, Sisters,” the man gasped.

  “Peace come to you,” crooned Renata, placing a steady hand on the man’s shoulder.

  After adding a drop of poppy milk to the cup she handed the man, Renata, with Ennis on her heels, left him to rest.

  “You have to pay attention, Ennis.”

  “Sorry, Sister.”

  “The patients are counting on us.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “I expect better from you.”

  Ennis bit her cheek, wincing when she remembered she needed to switch sides; she’d already gnawed the right cheek raw. She hadn’t been scolded so much since her days in the tutor’s classroom, and even then, she’d been an excellent pupil. Irina had liked to admonish her, but that was different. Despite what Renata said, the woman wasn’t Ennis’s sister.

  They entered the supply room, where a stone basin stood with a large pitcher. Renata poured the water and washed her hands with lye before leaving Ennis to do the same. The woman ruled with an iron fist, and the first rule was to always have clean hands.

  Ennis’s cuticles were beginning to peel away from the nailbeds from all the soap and lye.

  She didn’t realize until looking down at them that her hands were shaking. First she washed, then rubbed, then tore at her hands, trying to get rid of the man’s blood staining her skin and seeping beneath her nails. Soon her whole body shook and tears fell from her eyes into the basin, drawn up from a well she thought long since dried up.

  Highcrest had had several divine Havens, the largest those devoted to the Mother Ceralia, another to Mithria the Life-Giver, and one to Ma’an the Stone-Bearer. The Sisters of the Ceralian Haven had been most mysterious, running a healing house yet staying isolated from all except their patients. This Haven was no different. Ennis had been horrified to witness the consecration of three Sisters, gifts from last year’s campaign. With three new novices to act as emissaries to the outside world, the Sisters had taken their vows and forsaken life outside the Haven. Ennis, Lora, and Irina would now act as the only link between the Haven and the rest of Rising.

  Ennis’s breath hitched to think that should Manek come back from another campaign with more women, she would be walled up in that Haven, shuttered away forever. Always confined to the Haven, never to venture past the garden. Always watched with those keen eyes of Renata’s that seemed to see everything and make Ennis’s hackles rise. To never be away from the cunning eyes of the Sisters, who enjoyed telling her Sisters rarely talked unless spoken too yet still managed to gossip over their everlasting needle projects. To watch as Irina and Lora lose themselves to long, droning prayers, content to find solace in the mundane. To give up herself.

  Drying her hands, she slipped into the corridor unnoticed, Renata discussing a patient with Sister Jessamin. Before taking another breath, she was outside, walking quickly from the back of the Haven, just past the vegetable garden, where the long stalks obscured her from all but a few second-story rooms.

  Dropping her head into her hands, she longed with every fiber of her being to be in her father’s study, sitting on the shallow windowsill, a shawl covering her shoulders and tucked beneath her arms. She would have a book resting on her lap, perhaps a novel from before the Highland Wars, when literature flourished, while her father looked over ledgers. He would ask her opinion. She would tell him to focus his energy on the quality of nets rather than the number of boats. Then she would laugh, telling him there was more to life than fish. She would get up, set the book gently on the cushion, and wrap her arms around his shoulders. She would kiss his cheek, tease him he was far too gray. He would laugh and tell her—

  Tears seeped through her fingers, wrenching her across Mithria and back into the Lowlands. She wrapped her arms around herself but yelped in pain when her underarm pressed against her ailing hand.

  She clenched her teeth, seething and crying all at once, unable to find something to do with her hands. She paced forward another few steps until the hem of her gray dress, a somber garment for a somber life, caught in the brambles. She realized she’d come to the edge of the forest.

  She mindlessly reached up to touch the black cloth that hung wretchedly around her neck. How silly it seemed, that such an insignificant piece of cloth should tie her there. Without it she was a Courtnay, a highborn, a leader; with it she was a warprize, lowlier than a cow.

  Why should she keep it? Why should she stay in this place?

  She took a breath, grasping the scrap of cloth in her good fist. She pulled.

  “Ennis!”

  Nearly jumping out of her skin, she had just enough time to right the black circle before turning to meet Lora.

  “Renata needs this taken into town,” said Lora, holding out a small paper package tied with a few scraps of linen.

  “Why me?”

  Lora made a face. “She asked me, but I thought you could use some fresh air. You seemed…shaken.”

  “Needlework was never one of my talents.”

  “Yes, I know. But here,” she pushed the package into Ennis’s good hand, “I think you can manage this.”

  Though she knew Lora only teased, Ennis let out an incensed huff. She was now not only a warprize, but one only good for mindless deliveries. Lora’s smile slipped as she watched Ennis’s face harden.

  She tried to block the tide of jealousy rising in her over Lora’s ease. Lora had been training for years now to become a healer, and in some ways, though the rest of her life had been destroyed, Lora found herself once again practicing and learning the occupation she loved. The Sisters were knowledgeable and heartily welcomed such a driven student.

  Ennis, on the other hand, with her dark moods and open loathing of the place, they avoided. She couldn’t quite blame them or even Lora for avoiding her; she was poor company. It didn’t help that Renata seemed to find devious delight in giving Ennis the worst chores, since, as she put it, “You aren’t taking to much else.”

  Clearing her throat, Lora said, “It’s to a house in the main square; she said the one with the green door.”

  Ennis nodded. “Green door.”

  “Well, then…off you go.”

  Shifting the package into the crook of her arm, Ennis made for the path back into the town proper.

  “And Ennis,” Lora called after her, “don’t tarry.”

  Biting her cheek, she managed a nod before pressing on. She immediately felt guilty for being gruff with Lora, for her pride, for thinking of leaving them behind. Lora and Irina were all she had now, and she knew she shouldn’t entertain ideas of abandoning them.

  Instead, Ennis trudged into the town that baffled her. Rising was fairly large but spread out, the several thousand or so inhabitants sprawled across several grassy hills rolling down to a riverplain. Rather than laid out with a plan, like Highcrest with its concentric circles, Rising was however it wanted to be; paths wound this way and that, curving around houses and trees; the fronts of houses all faced different ways; animals roamed about freely, what pens there were standing in disarray. Most of the paths led to the town square. There was some semblance of order there, however small: all the front doors
faced into the square. Each house varied in size and there was little space between them, families cramming their four walls into whatever void they could find.

  As she walked the narrow northeast path into the square, she groaned. No door was left unpainted, varying between light blues, deep reds, and rich greens. There were no less than six green doors.

  She started with the first, tapping her knuckles against the painted wood. She waited. Nothing. Her shoulders slumped with relief. Next house.

  Her worst fears came true as a hefty, middle-aged woman with a scowl answered the door. The sight of Ennis prickled the woman, and she straightened, taking a sharp breath that raised her impressive bosom high.

  “What do you want?”

  Squaring her shoulders, Ennis replied, “I have medicine from Sister Renata. She said it was to the green door.”

  “Do I look like I need medicine?”

  Ennis bit her tongue so she wouldn’t tell the woman what she thought she needed.

  “My apologies,” Ennis said through gritted teeth. “Wrong green door.”

  “Wrong indeed. And next time you presume to knock on my door, be sure you do it at the back. That’s the only place fitting for your kind.”

  And with that, the green door slammed shut in her face. Lips pursed and fists clenched, Ennis hurried away from the house before pounding on the door again to tell the woman that she was fat, rude, and particularly ugly.

  Her first encounter didn’t bode well; with each new house, Ennis learned a bit more about Lowland hospitality. Her Courtnay pride suffered with each slammed door and thrown insult, chewed up and spit back out. By the fifth green door she was ready to throw the medicine down a well and be damned with it.

  A woman answered the last door, wiping her hands on a stained apron dusted with flour. Her brows rose at the sight of Ennis, and Ennis tried to hold back a wince.

  The woman smiled. “Can I help you?”

  Ennis remembered to breathe and couldn’t decide if she wanted to smile back or cry. “Yes, I have some medicine from the Haven. Is this the right house?”

  The woman’s face expanded into a warm smile as she took the parcel from Ennis. “Yes, this is for me! My little boy’s been running a fever. Thank you very much, Sister.”

  “It was no trouble. But I’m not a Sister.”

  “Oh,” said the woman, “when will you take the vows?”

  “Never if I have my way.”

  At this the woman laughed and opened her door wider. “Now that’s something. Will you come inside? I’ve been baking all day with little company.”

  Now it was Ennis’s turn to raise her brows. “Are you sure?” was all she could think to say.

  The woman looked at her like she was being silly. “You’re going to turn down fresh pie?”

  Her stomach grumbled loudly at the word and the woman laughed again. Blushing, Ennis asked, “Wouldn’t you rather I go around back?”

  The woman snorted. “I think you’re good enough for my door. And besides, we haven’t a backdoor to go through.”

  If the long march to Rising had taught her nothing else, Ennis now had a healthy appreciation for warm food, so, lifting her chin, she walked stiffly into the comfortable home. The threshold led directly into a large main room adorned with a hearth, several chairs, a threadbare rug, and a long oak table with two benches. Several kinds of armaments hung on the walls; particularly ostentatious were the two crossed swords above the hearth.

  Before the crackling fire, wrapped in a bundle, was a little boy who couldn’t have been more than five. After closing the door behind Ennis, the woman went to him. She poured water into a small wooden bowl and mixed the powder from Renata’s package in. To wake him she gently stroked his hair, crooning pleasant words. He wrinkled his nose at the chalky water, but after a moment, he resigned to small gulps of the mixture.

  “That’s my good boy,” she murmured, standing when his head lolled back onto the pillow.

  She motioned for Ennis to sit on one of the benches. Ennis did so slowly, overly aware of herself, elbows tucked in, hands folded together before her. Her awkwardness seemed to amuse the woman as she turned to a brick oven on the far side of the room. Using her apron, she gingerly withdrew a searing pan and placed it on a counter, then flapped the apron’s hem at the fluffy bread loaf.

  She moved to a second pan and cut two precise pieces of some sort of berry pie. Ennis accepted it gratefully and had to stop herself from devouring it whole.

  “So, unwilling Sister,” said the woman as she sat down, “what do they call you?”

  Swallowing, she replied, “Ennis.”

  “Well, Ennis, it’s a pleasure to know you.” After bowing her head, she added, “I’m Kenna.”

  Gracelessly bowing her head too, Ennis looked to Kenna for guidance. Head bowing had been out of fashion in the Highlands for several decades, in favor of curtseys, bowing from the waist, and several kinds of arm flourishes. What was more, there were few who Ennis, the daughter of a lord, would have to bow to.

  “And who were your mother and father, Ennis?”

  She straightened, her shoulders squaring, her chin rising. This she knew how to do well. “My mother was Asa Dunley of Bramden, Lady of Highcrest, and my father was Ehman Courtnay, Lord of Highcrest, the Westerlands, and the High Mountains.”

  Kenna grinned again at Ennis’s speech.

  Ennis blushed at how ridiculous the words were here, now.

  “It cannot be easy for you,” Kenna said, “to come from such a city as yours, to a place like this.”

  Though quick to agree, she immediately thought of Adena. “I’ve been luckier than many.”

  “I can’t imagine having to march across Mithria, so far from home. The things you must have seen…”

  Ennis said hollowly, “So long as a Courtnay lives, Highcrest will thrive again.”

  Putting her hand on Ennis’s, Kenna said quickly, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s all right,” she replied with a shake of her head. “You’re too kind to upset me.”

  At this Kenna smiled. “I’m happy to hear it.” Kenna took their plates back to her sturdy counter before bringing out another bowl. Kenna sprinkled it with more flour and brought this and a smaller bowl over to the table with a cloth. Placing the small bowl before Ennis, she then scooped two handfuls of rough dough into it and saved the rest for herself.

  “My pie is the best in Rising and I expect compensation,” Kenna said with good humor.

  Ennis’s eyes widened, horrified with the prospect of kneading dough.

  “I’ve heard many things about your Highlands. Tell me all about it—I want to hear of your fine swordsmen and glittering gowns. Spare me no detail.”

  When Ennis remained silent, Kenna looked up from her work. She couldn’t contain her laugh at Ennis’s pale and cringing face.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never handled dough!”

  “We had a cook...” Ennis croaked.

  The front door boomed open suddenly, and as Kenna tried to stifle her giggling, a broad man and a lad with floppy blond hair walked in. The man regarded Kenna in bemusement as he wiped his hands on his pant legs. Ennis recognized him from the march. He was close to Manek, a seneschal of some sort.

  “What’s this now?” he said.

  As Kenna composed herself, the man strode over and kissed her. He was big in all senses of the word—broad shoulders, muscular arms, meaty fingers, wide chest, firm legs. He dwarfed his wife yet seemed even gentler than she. Ennis attempted not to stare as she tried to recall his name. He was besmirched with grime, but his face shone as he too began to laugh.

  “Taryn,” said Kenna between chuckles, “this is Ennis Courtnay. Can you believe it?—a highborn in our humble home!”

  “Well now,” he said, looking to their guest. “How’ve you been, Lady Courtnay? Does the Haven treat you well?”

  “I’m well, thank you. You have a very nice home,” Ennis hedged.

&nb
sp; “You know her already?” Kenna asked.

  “Your husband was good enough to make our tents most nights. His kindness meant a great deal to us.”

  Even with the soot covering his cheeks, Ennis could see Taryn blush.

  “It was nothing,” he said. “I’m sure you would’ve caught on with another sennight.”

  “Themin forbid another sennight of marching.”

  Kenna barked with laughter, her eyes twinkling at Ennis. When she turned back to her husband, she looked him up and down. “I swear, sometimes I think you try to get that filthy! Wash up, the both of you—I’ll not have this fine lady thinking I keep a house of vagabonds!”

  Heading to the small kitchen, Taryn and his son, who stared at Ennis so long it made her squirm, washed their hands best they could in a small basin.

  “And what brings Lady Courtnay to us?” asked Taryn as he dried off his hands. Ennis grinned at Kenna’s obvious cringe when seeing her dirtied dishcloth.

  “Ennis brought medicine for Kellen. I invited her to stay for pie and she was—”

  “Woman, why didn’t you say there was pie?”

  “—And she was just about to tell me all about the Highlands, so eat your pie and shush!”

  Ennis smiled at their banter. When the family was settled, she began with what she knew best: Highcrest.

  She told them of her beautiful city, of its wide cobblestone streets, the houses with their whitewashed walls that gleamed at midday. She spoke of the castle, the great towers and spires that demanded admiration; the Keep that sat at the top like a stone crown; and the great hall strewn with tapestries and always bustling with swordsmen and officials helping her father manage the booming iron mines to the north. Of the large lake that surrounded Highcrest, the city’s walls seemingly rising from the cold waters where fish and caverns abounded beneath the placid blue surface. Of how her father had charged her two years ago with management of the harbor and how it flourished with her reorganization. Of the sumptuous balls held in the great hall and the best gossip from the serving maids.