by S E Wendel
She recalled Adena’s coming-of-age ball. It had been a bright star in an otherwise cloudy sky; still coming to terms with Adena’s diagnosis, the family had rallied around Adena’s coming-of-age as something to celebrate. That night, Adena received her marriage bands, as all other Highland women did on their twentieth year. It was tradition that the young woman wore the bracelets until the time of her marriage, when she would clasp the left band around her new husband’s right wrist.
“Did you ever give up your left bracelet?” asked Kenna while Ennis stole a much-needed breath.
Ennis’s heart sank, the spell evaporating, and everything slipped back into memory.
“No,” she said finally, “no, they were both taken from me.”
Kenna and Taryn shared a glance between them. They needn’t ask.
Taryn stood. “Well, thank you for your story, Ennis. And thank you, wife,” he said, leaning down to kiss Kenna’s cheek, “for the pie. C’mon now, Marc, back to work for us.”
The boy, almost a young man, was begrudging, all huffs and dragging feet, as he stole sidelong glances at Ennis. She tried not to notice. Taryn leaned over his younger boy by the fire, ruffling his hair fondly before heading out the door, Marc close behind him.
“Grace our home as often as you please, Ennis,” he said with a quick smile.
With their departure, Kenna began folding the dough into another bread pan, smirking at but not saying anything about Ennis’s rather miserable portion.
“Kenna, if you don’t mind me asking…why are you being so kind to me?” Ennis asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. Themin knew nobody wanted to be around her these days, and she couldn’t blame them.
Smiling softly, she said, “I suppose if what’s happened to you happened to me, I’d want a little kindness. I don’t think it’s very hard to be kind. And besides, war prize or no, you’re a woman, and we must stick together.”
Ennis grinned and nodded.
She left Kenna’s home almost an hour later with an over-full stomach, having eaten entirely too much pie. Dusk had settled over Rising, making her jolt in surprise when she stepped out of Kenna’s. She ran back to the Haven, knowing she’d earned herself a tongue-lashing from Sister Renata.
She entered the Haven as they were lighting the evening candles. Immediately she wanted to shrink back into the coming night. Though a blazing fire roared in the hearth, the Haven lacked the warmth of Kenna’s house. It smelled sharply of medicines and herbs, not spices and fruit. Ennis’s full stomach twisted.
Lora hurried up the corridor to her, her mouth opening. Ennis brushed past her, fleeing up the staircase and into their bedroom. Throwing herself in bed, Ennis closed her eyes, drowsy from the feast of pie, uncaring that she would be reprimanded for missing evening prayers.
She feigned sleep when Lora came to fetch her, burrowing deeper into her blankets. For one night, she just wanted to let herself remember. The sennights of marching and the hours of daily prayer numbed her to the memories, but tonight, just for a while, if only in her mind, she wanted to be Ennis Courtnay again.
Fourteen
It was in the hundred and tenth year of the Dunstan Line that Dea turned her face once again to the Highlands. Betraying the Treaty of Clearway, Brohm Farlan led his bannermen against our King Dunstan. The two armies met at the northern riverplain, where the water is deep and the current unforgiving. The river ran red, and the Highlands has never since seen such death as the First Farlan Revolt. Let us pray we never do.
—from A Highland History
Standing on the wide granite porch of the Highland House, Adren Dunstan looked down upon Ells with a heavy heart. The midday sun was cold and distant, as if Themin was loath to turn his face toward the Highland king. He pulled his bearskin cloak closer to his exposed neck.
Below him, the ancient city was at work. It made his heart ache to see how efficiently his people readied for yet another battle. He’d hoped never to ask this of them again, but Ellsians and Highlanders alike merely took the news with resigned faces. They didn’t ask why. Just where.
His castle, the steep-roofed Highland House, was the center of activity. All hands were busy doing something—preparing food, hammering metal, stitching saddles. Everyone, it seemed, but him. Adren didn’t mean to stand idly, but he was melancholy and knew the only cure was to finally spy Colm over the crest of the castle wall.
He’d received his son’s letter some sennights ago and had been expecting him back any day now. The longer he waited, the worse it was. Colm had taken three battalions with him to Highcrest, and Adren was anxious to have both his son and his soldiers back. He wished he could have devoted more to Colm’s cause. He wished, just as much as Colm did, to take the city and restore one of the Courtnay girls, if one could be found. Adren dreaded having to ask Colm to face the truth—if any of the Courtnays had survived, they were deep within the Midlands, or worse, the Lowlands. They would never see the Highlands again. Colm would never find Ennis.
Were Adren not facing invasion in the spring, he would have thrown himself into reclaiming Highcrest. A knife of guilt and outrage had wedged deep in his chest, and only retaking Ehman’s city would heal the wound. Highcrest, with its stone terraces and crystalline harbor, was so much more than the seat of the High Mountains; it was the west, the mountains, the backbone of his kingdom.
Something over the castle wall caught his eye, and Adren breathed a sigh of relief to see a long column of horses and men filing down the Hillside Road.
“He won’t like being leashed.”
Adren turned at the sound of his daughter’s voice. Isla stood beside him; when she came he couldn’t say. Always light of foot, Adren sometimes wondered if she was more ethereal than human. He hadn’t heard her raise her voice since she was three, though he was sure Colm had given her plenty of reasons to scream until the rafters shook. Isla wasn’t, however, a meek soul. Quite the opposite, she had a will of iron and a sharp mind to match. A quiet word from her could silence a whole hall.
“We don’t have a choice. I need him and his men for the spring.”
“How long will you let them keep Highcrest?”
Adren sighed. “We must make safe Dannawey before we think of Highcrest. We cannot lose two cities.”
“And what if you cannot save Dannawey?”
He shifted his weight. “Then we’ll destroy the bridges and make them contend with the De’lan.”
“It has saved us in the past,” Isla agreed. She looked out at the city below. “When will you depart?”
“Soon,” he said. “And I’m leaving Ells to you.”
She didn’t look surprised, only nodded. They both knew Colm needed to be close at hand; much as Adren hated to admit it, he couldn’t be trusted not to march on Highcrest again. His son had become despondent ever since the news reached them. He loved Ennis Courtnay dearly, had waited patiently for years for her and her father to agree to betrothal negotiations. Adren could only hope throwing Colm headlong into safeguarding the realm would keep him from falling into total despair.
“I’ll be taking the bulk of the army, but five battalions will stay behind with you here. They will be at your command.”
Isla pulled her long auburn braid over one shoulder and twisted the ends around one finger. She was thinking, and Adren stood quietly, waiting for her question. There was little he loved more than his daughter’s questions. Her former governess, a hedgehog of a woman, always liked to say Isla had cut her teeth on questions.
Sometimes, late in the night, when Adren was deep in his cups and he sat alone in the great hall, the fire dying in front of him, he wished he’d the wherewithal to leave Isla his throne. She was made to be much more than a lady. Isla was the queen the Highlands needed; but in its indignation over being left a queen rather than a king, the country would no doubt abandon her.
With a unification that was barely five years old and an invasion along the southern border impending, he knew now was not the time to upe
nd the order—much as Colm’s disinterest in politics gave Adren pause. His rash attempt to reclaim Highcrest only redoubled Adren’s fears. He’d told himself all would be well with a woman like Ennis Courtnay on the throne beside Colm, but now…
He looked at Isla. Now, perhaps his selfishness would actually do good. He stood in the way of her happiness once, denying her the man of her heart. Perhaps now he could at least give her a city.
“Shouldn’t we be worried he’ll attack our flank—take Ells from the east?”
Trust his canny daughter to see that. Yes, their flank was weakened, it was true. The eastern provinces had been ravaged in the Third Farlan Revolt, the old families all but destroyed. Only thirteen-year-old Eldric Lachlan, Lord of King’s Cross, stood between Ells and an attack from the east.
“Worry? Yes. Expect? No.”
Isla quirked a questioning eyebrow. “No? This Larn of the Midlands has towns under his command east of the Gray Hills. It would be simple enough to launch an invasion from there.”
“Themin knows it would. But no. Larn of the Midlands wants my full attention.”
“And attacking the Highland House wouldn’t get your attention?”
“He knows he can’t reach Ells without taking another city. We’re well protected here; Aldann to the west, King’s Cross to the east, and Dannawey to the south. So he must take one. And which one will win him the most glory? Which will enrage the Highland king most?”
“Dannawey,” Isla said on an exhale, her eyes bright.
“Dannawey.”
They stood silently as Colm and his captains came trotting into the inner bailey below, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones.
“I wish you would take me with you and leave Colm,” she said so quietly Adren barely heard her.
He looked at his daughter. The bright glint in her eyes had turned sorrowful. While Isla was a skilled swordsman and archer, he knew it wasn’t the coming battle she longed for.
Arion Morn was now Lord of Dannawey, his elder brother Arek killed at Highcrest. Isla had been in love with Arion since they were twelve years old, and a day rarely went by that Adren wished he’d known then how much grief Arion Morn would cause both him and his daughter. Perhaps then he would not have selfishly stalled the marriage negotiation, heartsick at the idea of letting his daughter go. The Morns had not waited, and Arion had been married two years hence to the eldest daughter of one of the Morn’s border lords.
“No,” Adren said quietly. “I need you here, my love.”
Isla only nodded. No fight, no argument. Just picked up her skirts and returned to the Highland House.
If it was possible, Adren’s heart only grew heavier. Were the Dunstans doomed? Even with a crown now sitting atop his head, Adren felt cursed. What was a crown to his children’s unhappiness?
Taking a long breath to fortify his suffering heart, Adren began down the porch steps into the bailey. The sooner he told Colm, the better. It was the best Adren could do for his children now—spare them from further heartache. This meant getting Colm to Dannawey—and keeping Isla far from it.
Fifteen
Poison, Lora. They tried to poison him. The Keep is in an uproar and Father’s beside himself. The kitchen boy was finally taken from the great hall—his eyes were still open. I fear he suffered. But in my heart of hearts, I thank Themin that it wasn’t Father as they intended. They have fled like cowards, probably back to Ferrawood. I swear to you, should I ever get my hands on either one of them, I’ll have them strung up by their thumbs on the ramparts and left for the crows.
—note from Ennis Courtnay to Lora Finnley
“Ennis, it’s time for morning libations.”Groaning, Ennis cracked an eye open, finally having mastered dozing while standing. “We’ve already been to morning prayers.”
“Yes, I know, but Renata says that when first coming to the Mother, you must be especially dutiful and pour libation every day in the hope that she’ll enter your soul.”
Irina’s eyes were glossy, distant, as if she was searching for Ceralia down the hall. Begrudging as Ennis was towards the mind-numbing rituals of the Haven, she couldn’t deny the effect they’d had on her sister. Irina had awoken from her traumatized stupor, she claimed, a new woman. Ennis agreed that she was someone new. Though she’d always been reserved, Irina had a quick wit and eloquent tongue. Her eyes had been so expressive, so animated—Ennis had always known what she was thinking. But now her eyes were deadened, and Ennis could read them as well as she could a stranger’s.
“I want to find my way into the arms of the Mother, Ennis, and I want you to find peace too. It would mean a great deal if you’d pour the libation with me.”
Ennis nodded, if gruffly. Together they walked from the Haven to the makeshift temple. A slow, methodical trickle dripped from the drainpipe above. Whereas Irina found it soothing, Ennis hated it, the repetitiveness driving her mad. Most nights she slept with her pillow over her head to quiet the incessant drip, drip, drip.
They kneeled before the stone statuette of the all-giving Mother, who gazed back serenely. Her head was rendered near smooth from the constant dripping, her straight hair cascading down squared shoulders. A small smile that didn’t reach her eyes adorned the cool face. A thick garment resembling the simple dress Ennis, Irina, and the Sisters wore was carved on her shoulders, the neckline low, pronouncing the statue’s full breasts. Her right hand crossed over her chest, resting over her heart, while her left reached out, Renata said lovingly, to whosoever sought her guidance and affection.
Humming the low tune Renata had taught her, Irina ceremoniously raised the wooden pitcher she’d brought above her head and asked for the goddess’s blessing and to be ushered into her loving embrace. Irina’s zealousness bemused Ennis. Never devout to anything other than her family, her fiancé, and her dogs before, this new Irina was baffling.
But then, the seemingly endless days of walking away from their burning city had changed Ennis as well. Each time she closed her eyes, Ennis saw that inferno, swallowing up all she’d ever known. Her father’s head rolled through her dreams each night as she lay on her lumpy mattress. Some nights she didn’t sleep at all for fear of living through that night again.
After the water was poured, Irina sat on her heels and reached for her sister’s hand while softly humming another hymn. The touch of her sister, almost foreign now, nearly brought Ennis to tears.
While Irina hummed, Ennis gazed upon the statuette. And under that enigmatic, stony gaze, Ennis knew she would never be graced with the Mother’s love. She was far too ambitious—her peace was in vengeance. Her peace was in Highcrest.
But for now, she was content to grip her sister’s hand. The woman beside her may be new, but she was still her sister. Religious zeal could never change that.
Quiet footsteps came up behind them, and Ennis felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she beheld Renata, whose other hand rested on Irina’s shoulder. She smiled down at them beatifically, but while Irina smiled back, Ennis only scowled.
“I’m glad to see you two together,” Renata said. “It’s a rare gift, to be sisters in both blood and faith.” She looked to Irina and grinned. “You see? I told you she’d open her heart soon enough.”
Realizing she’d been brought there at Renata’s suggestion, Ennis stiffened and retracted her hand from her sister’s. Perhaps it was out of love and concern that her sister wanted her to find the Mother, but that Renata was behind it all agitated her beyond belief.
Renata’s smile turned sharp; it was the look Ennis suspected a wolf wore when it had cornered a fat rabbit. There was a cunning glint to Renata’s eyes, and as she stood over her, all feigned sympathy and sugary sweetness, Ennis remembered with a gasp where she’d seen her face before. It had gazed down at her once, the same maliciousness shining brightly just before her father was nearly assassinated.
Jumping to her feet, Ennis wouldn’t meet Irina or Renata’s eyes as she retreated to the Haven.
&
nbsp; “Ennis, I would have a word with you!” Renata called after her.
Ennis stopped, readying herself. She crossed her arms, as if that could shield her from Renata’s sharp eyes, could contain the fury burning her blood to a boil.
“Why do you do this?” Renata asked.
“Do what?” said Ennis through gritted teeth. How long would the Lady Sister play this game? She’d known who Ennis and Irina were that first day, when Manek had left them on the Haven’s doorstep. Ennis remembered the gleam in Renata’s eyes as she snapped her fingers, and the bottom of her stomach fell away.
“Why do you undermine your sister’s happiness?—your own happiness? Surely you see the progress Irina’s made.”
“Irina’s greatly improved,” Ennis agreed, forcing the words out. By Themin, did Renata have designs on Irina? All the menial, humiliating work she gave Ennis made sense now, but what was her game with Irina? Panic bloomed in the center of her chest, and Ennis vowed she’d never let Renata sink her claws into Irina. Never. Not her sister.
Renata folded her hands in front of her, a gesture Ennis was coming to despise. “The path to Ceralia’s love isn’t an easy one. I know you’re afraid to put it underfoot.”
“I’ve no intention of joining your Sisterhood.”
“Do you think you’re so different from the rest of us? We all came to this place as highborns—we were all meant for something much different, but then the hordes came. I was the first of Manek’s gifts. I too watched my father and brothers put to the sword, my sisters sent to the four winds. You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last.”
