by S E Wendel
“And where was it you were captured, Sister? Not Ferrawood. One of the Westerland villages, then? Is that where you’ve been hiding with your miserable little group all this time?” Squaring her shoulders, she felt a rush of satisfaction to see surprise flashing across Renata’s face. “Oh, I know who you are, Renata Ainsley. I know how you can smile and speak honeyed words. You almost brought down Highcrest when you and your husband pretended friendship with my father, only to betray him to the Farlans. I know all this, I know you, and I’m telling you it won’t work on me. They may believe you’re the devout Lady Sister, but I know better.”
The memories darkened Renata’s face, but not for long. Schooling her features, Renata cocked her head ever so slightly.
“You truly are a sad, lost little waif. You think now, after all that’s happened, the Highlands matters anymore? I pity you, Ennis, if you think you’ll ever see the Highlands again.”
Ennis prickled.
“Can’t you see Irina and Lora just want to settle into their new lives, to accept the Mother, but they can’t find peace because of you?”
“No, you’re making them believe that this life is their only choice.”
“Choice!” Renata scoffed. “Choice? What choice do you think any of you have, Ennis? You may accept the Mother, welcome her into your soul, and become enlightened—or you can drown in your self-pity and stay a warprize forever. That is the only choice you have.”
“I won’t trade one,” she pointed at the black cloth round her neck, “for another.” Her finger jerked to the white sash wound around Renata’s torso.
“Oh, Ennis. Can you not see? Your choice is between freedom and slavery.”
“You don’t offer freedom.”
“Ennis, I—the Mother, offer you liberation.” She pulled down the neckline of her dress, revealing only skin. “Do you see anything there? Hmm? I’m no longer a warprize thanks to the Mother.”
Ennis’s heart leapt into her throat as Renata righted her dress. “When you accept the Mother, she’ll free you. Divine daughters are slaves to no one. So join us, Ennis. Give up the past and make peace.”
Ennis met Renata’s gaze, horrified. She thought she saw the Sister’s lips twitch, holding in a grin. It was a wolf looking at her again.
“A snake like you never wants just peace,” Ennis spat before retreating back into the Haven.
She startled several women sitting in the front hall when the door slammed behind her. The panic had broken free of her chest, making her hands shake and her breath come in short, ragged spurts. She had to pull herself up the stairs; her hands clawed at the wall for balance as she made for the bedroom.
Throwing the door open, she crumpled upon her mattress. She’d never been so fond of the lumpy thing. Pulling the quilt up to her chin, she ordered herself not to cry. She felt like raw glass, being spun and strung, ever thinning and changing. She was molten, malleable, vulnerable, and she sobbed to think it would be Renata’s and the Mother’s hands that would shape her now.
Hot, heavy tears splashed down her face no matter how much she tried not to cry. When the door creaked open, she pawed at her face. But another escaped. Another and another.
Lora sighed, a small noise that conveyed the depth of her disappointment. “Ennis, you can’t be in bed.”
She only moaned in response.
“Ennis, you can’t keep doing this! Who do you think Renata badgers to get you to behave? She comes to me, gets angry with me whenever you do something like this! Do you think I like Renata?—well, I don’t, but I’m not very fond of you right now, either.”
“I will not listen to the likes of her!” she spat beneath the covers.
Lora huffed and suddenly the quilt flew from Ennis, and the world was cold.
“Get up,” Lora clipped.
Ennis cracked her right eye open. Lora’s hands were on her hips, looking like she wasn’t to be trifled with. But neither was Ennis in her foul mood. Her tears turned into a sneer.
“I wasn’t meant for this!”
“No one’s meant to be a slave!—but that’s the fate dealt us, Ennis, and you must accept it.”
Blanket or no, Ennis turned onto her left side, facing the wall. “Why don’t you go pray to your Mother. I’m sure she’d be happy to listen to your whining.”
“My whining?” Lora threw her hands up, snarling in exasperation. She hauled Ennis up by her shoulders and gave them a shake. “Why must you do this? Would you rather be some warlord’s whore? This is our life now, Ennis—when will you see that?”
“I am no slave.”
Lora slapped her, straight across the face.
Tired and strained, Lora’s sad gaze almost broke Ennis’s heart. But the sting of her slap was fresh against Ennis’s skin, and she couldn’t find it in herself to be forgiving.
“You are a slave,” Lora hissed, tears pouring from her eyes, “you’re a slave, I’m a slave—it is our fate. You only make it harder—for me and for you, fighting it.”
“Well, then,” Ennis said, “I’ll just become a proper little Sister, demure and devout.” She crossed her arms, placing each hand on the opposite shoulder, in mock prayer. “I’ll pray every day and live out my life the picture of daughterly virtue.”
“How dare you! You’re so selfish, so ungrateful!”
“My father—”
“Your father’s dead!” A hush swallowed them as they both took the words like a bucket of cold water over the head. Lora’s head sank into her hands. “He’s dead,” she sobbed, “your father—my father…they’re all…they’re all dead.”
As her friend, her lifelong friend, shook, Ennis steadied. All the ugly things she’d said sank into her flesh like barbs, stinging her heart. She took a step towards Lora, attempting to embrace her, but she stepped away. Holding her hand up, Lora wiped away her tears and straightened.
They stood gazing at one another for a long moment before Ennis bit out, “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
And with that, Lora left Ennis alone with her guilt. Ennis knew Lora’s pain wouldn’t be soothed with two simple words—not after all the words that had come before.
Her shoulders sagged from what she’d done. But her heart panged painfully from pride. She’d said nothing that wasn’t true. Highcrest was her birthright. She was Ehman Courtnay’s daughter, she was—
“Stop,” she muttered to herself, to no one. Slumping back onto the mattress, she pulled her knees up into her chest. What had she done? Putting her face in her hands, she grasped clumps of hair with merciless fingers and pulled until it hurt.
Highcrest crept into her thoughts, but it only made her sick. It was a dream now. She would never go back—she would never reclaim her city. She wasn’t a highborn anymore. She was worse than a slave.
She was alone.
Sixteen
I’m sorry, Colm, but it will be impossible to meet you for Wintersmeet. Father put in me in charge of the harbors, and I confess, they are not as orderly as I’d like. I can see why Father sacked his harbor master—his handwriting is atrocious, never mind his incompetence with numbers. I’m going to look the ledgers over, but I fear the man may have embezzled. Much as I loathe the idea of him swindling us, I won’t be sorry to see that man thrown in irons. So I must work through the holidays and get everything in order—all must be put to rights before spring. I am sorry again that we couldn’t meet; where will you be for the First Full Sun?
—letter from Ennis Courtnay to Colm Dunstan
“Gah!” Tossing away yet another scrap of paper, Manek’s head sagged into his ink-stained hands. Empty pieces of parchment taunted him, and he pushed away from the desk he’d so proudly added to his room three years ago, dejected.
Rough-edged papers littered the floor like refuse on the beach, and he felt guilty for the waste. Paper wasn’t a luxury the Lowlands created; as much as his men coveted jewels, furs, and swords, he loved paper, ink, and quills. He was almost giddy when opening a seized trunk and finding it
full of parchment.
The supplies he’d made away with from Highcrest were of the finest quality, which only made him feel worse about having them decorate his floor.
Pulling himself back to the wide writing space, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and began scratching. He gave up the tentative, wobbly letters for straight, precise lines. Quickly it turned into a grid-like drawing; an image of his blossoming ideas for Rising.
His home was small, vulnerable. There was a reason Highland cities had been the centers of power for centuries, a reason he fully intended to imitate. Order prevailed in places such as these. They were planned, organized, regulated. It was everything Rising wasn’t but could become.
He scratched several lines along the edge of the paper, visualizing the most important of his renovations: a wall. Highcrest’s Mountain Gate had kept out invaders for centuries. He’d breeched it only because it had fallen into disrepair, Ehman Courtnay putting off repairs from the Highland Wars to instead focus on his mines and fish. Complacency had been his doom. He saw the exact same complacency in his own father, but it wouldn’t be their undoing, not if he could stay in Rising long enough to see change put into motion.
Now there was the problem of it. Leaning back, he put his hands behind his head and gazed out the bright window above the desk. The past five years he hadn’t been able to stay long enough in Rising to accomplish much of anything. Raiders ensured he came back to a crippled home and Larn made sure he couldn’t stay long enough to see it fully recovered.
He ran a hand through his hair, aggravated his father was so short-sighted. What Kierum wanted was a raiding party of their own, to counteract Rick to the south. And Manek couldn’t gainsay him. On campaign, he was warlord in his father’s stead, but in Rising, his father ruled. Even now, Kierum was out seeing to the northern farmsteads and their family’s holdings in the east while Manek wound away his time with ink and parchment.
What little time he had at home was wasted. He saw it ticking by, unable to stop it.
He expected word from Larn any day, having been peacefully at home for almost half the winter. Manek would be leaving his home almost defenseless come spring. Larn would want more, more, always more, and the last reserves Manek had been able to leave as a façade of protection for Rising would come with him.
Kierum, with his crippled leg, and a few old men would be all that was left. And his father’s reputation wasn’t enough to keep the Oltaraani at bay anymore. In his day, Kierum had been a fearsome warrior—had won the right to call himself warlord twenty years ago in a contest between all the strongmen of the Lowlands. All the Lowland tribes sent their best men to vie for the honor. Kierum walked away the victor with everyone’s respect and loyalty, and from then on, all the Lowland towns had looked to him as their leader. But war was a pitiless livelihood—rather than dying in battle as he wished, Ean planned a much crueler fate for Kierum. His leg was so badly wounded on campaign with Larn that though he lived, the duties of warlord unofficially fell to his son.
Standing, Manek wondered if he worried too much. Waurin told him so often. His head felt heavy, the air around him thick. He needed to get out, away from his desk, his room, his plans.
Heading down the narrow corridor then the staircase, he crept along the back wall of the great hall. His mother sat with a bundle of yarn in her lap at the long redwood table his father had lovingly placed in the hall years ago. It’d been for meetings that never took place, now a reminder of ambitious dreams that went nowhere. The hall itself was a sad sight too; dark and cavernous, now the only things that hung from the great timber rafters were memories and regrets. He made for the side door, taking the long way to the stables.
Oren was gnawing on hay, and while happy to see Manek, he seemed unenthusiastic at the prospects that came with him. He gobbled up quick mouthfuls of hay while Manek threw a blanket then saddle over his broad back.
“Perhaps there’ll be carrots in the market—maybe even apples?” he crooned. Such treats perked Oren’s ears, and he managed an apathetic trot down the hill from the great house into Rising proper.
Since he didn’t have somewhere in mind to go, he and Oren wandered nowhere in particular. Oren finally came to a stop to nibble on some particularly bushy patches of grass as Manek searched the town, looking for anything to occupy himself with.
And then there she was. Walking hastily along a winding path, Ennis watched her footfalls carefully, a package nestled in the crook of her elbow. A long braid swayed behind her.
The gray novice dress did little for her shape, and he was unreasonably relieved not to see the white sash of a Sister crisscrossing her torso. Instead, she wore the cloak he’d given her what seemed a lifetime ago, his very own. He’d nearly emptied his own trunk by the time they’d made it home, but the women were his responsibility and clothes were a small ask. Everything had been brought to him by a shy Lora several days after returning to Rising, pressed and folded. Everything except that cloak. His eyes lingered on the sun glinting through her hair, the sway of cloak’s folds that just hinted at her hips, the curve of her neck.
When Ennis made it to the main path, she looked up. At first she didn’t see him, but when she did, her brows rose. He squirmed a little in the saddle as he forced himself to nod.
She tentatively grinned, raised her hand as if to wave, and then seemed to change her mind. Instead she nodded stiffly and hurried on her way, catching the westward path into the town square.
He sat there dumbly in her wake, unsure what to do next.
There was the gentlest of tugs in his chest, between his ribs. He recognized the sensation; he was stopping on her account again. He wanted to follow her, see how she was getting on. He sighed, remembering his promise to himself that he’d give this up when they made it to Rising. True, he’d little else to do, but something deep inside him suspected that seeing her now would have consequences. He couldn’t explain the suspicion, only felt that Ennis Courtnay could be very dangerous to him.
He knew all this, felt it to his core, yet gave Oren a nudge, turning onto the path she’d taken. Just once more, he told himself. Just once to satisfy his curiosity.
As he neared the square, he caught a glimpse of glinting golden hair disappearing around the front of Taryn’s house.
The plink of Taryn’s hammer hit him as he approached. The roof extended into a wide awning that draped over Taryn’s workspace, keeping him safe from the incessant Lowland rains. The fire roared in his forge and steam exploded from the barrel of water he stood behind. Extracting what would become a sword after many more backbreaking hours, Taryn placed the cooled metal back into the forge.
Looking up from his work, Taryn raised a hand in greeting. His teeth, exposed in a broad smile, were blinding against his dark, sooty face. Adjusting the sword in the searing coals to where he liked, the swordsmith walked over to Manek.
“Come to put a claim on this next beauty, eh?” he laughed as he and Manek met on the edge of the yard.
Manek chuckled. “I expect this next one to be something special.”
“For you, it’ll have my special touch. I must say, all the swords we brought back from campaign are mighty good inspiration.”
“The best swords come from the Highlands,” Manek agreed.
Taryn smirked. “Not for long.”
“Father!” called a boy, emerging from the house. “Did you want me to cool this?”
“That’s a good lad, Marc. See to it, then!”
The youth went about the task as Taryn wiped some of the grime from his forehead.
“Well, now, what brings you to my humble forge?”
Oh, hell. He hadn’t come up with a good excuse. “Well…Oren seemed as if he needed the exercise.”
Both men peered at the warhorse. Munching lazily behind them, Manek could breathe easy as the horse bolstered his bluff.
“Yes, he certainly seems to have forgotten all about that long, long walk home,” said Taryn, rolling his shoulders uncons
ciously. “I’ll be happy not to do that again anytime soon.”
Manek looked anywhere but at his friend. It was the worst for men like Taryn, men with young families. Taryn had already missed so many days of his children’s lives, time that couldn’t be made up. But then, at least Taryn had come home.
Taryn caught Manek trying not to look at him and understood. The swordsmith and the warlord needn’t converse to say how heavy their hearts were at the prospect of another campaign.
“When?”
Manek shook his head. “I haven’t gotten word yet. By the end of winter, perhaps.”
Taryn nodded.
Manek glanced over Taryn’s shoulder at his son. A youth, not fifteen, Marc was the last of the Lowland dogs Larn could expect. They’d nothing left to give. But he hadn’t the heart to tell Taryn that now.
When Manek’s eyes kept flicking to the alleyway between Taryn’s house and the next, watching for any glint of golden hair, a small grin overtook Taryn’s face. “Would you like to come inside? Kenna’s been baking all morning.” He waved his hand in front of him as if to smell baked goods.
“Pie wouldn’t go amiss. But I shouldn’t stay long.”
He thought he saw Taryn roll his eyes as he led the way to the front of the house.
“Could you watch him for me?” Manek asked, handing the reins to Marc. The boy nodded enthusiastically, patting the warhorse, who was preoccupied with the several patches of grass within his munching range.
Manek entered the sweet-smelling home behind Taryn cautiously, as if there were enemies inside. Taryn stopped before him, his shoulders shaking in laughter. Peering around the great bear, Manek saw why.
“Oh, almost, almost! Quickly now, get her, get her!” cried Kenna, clapping her hands.
Across the room, Ennis parried a blow from the wooden sword of Kellen, Taryn’s younger boy. Smiling impishly, Kellen launched forward with a determined cry, hacking this way and that. Through thrusts and laughter, he cried, “Got you!—I’ve got you now!—Again!”
