A Time of War and Demons

by S E Wendel

  A familiar but nameless woman answered Ennis’s knock. She smiled and ushered Ennis in out of the fretting weather. Taming her windswept hair, Ennis had little time to look about the room before receiving the laundered garments.

  “Here you are, dear. Good thing you’ve come—nice and clean for the coming storm.”

  “You think it will be bad?” she asked as the woman opened the door again.

  “There’s something ill-mannered about the sky today. Can’t mean anything good. You’d best get back quick now, dear.”

  Thanking the woman, Ennis left, clothes draped over both arms. She grinned, despite herself. She hadn’t been called ‘dear’ in quite some time.

  A chill ran down her spine, chased by a shudder, and she stopped, frowning. She noticed it first in her feet, then her knees, and finally her whole body quaked as the ground underfoot rumbled. She swung north and beheld a column of horses and riders thundering towards her. Her heart fell to her feet when she saw the flapping red banner of a black eagle, talons poised. Larn.

  She stumbled backwards without thinking—could she make it back to the red door? Her heart beat a staccato rhythm in her throat, and she saw fire as the eagle swooped down to strike.

  Something hot pushed against her back, and as the twenty riders reined in their horses not twenty paces away, a quivering black flank blocked her sight. Manek put himself and his warhorse between her and Larn’s men.

  “We were just about to greet the lady,” she heard one say.

  “Your business is with me, Dorran,” said Manek.

  “I’d much rather do my business with her.”

  Manek leaned forward in the saddle to growl, “And I’d much rather cut off your head, whoreson.”

  Chuckling, the man said, “We bring word. Lord Midland intends to campaign again.” The leader extended a folded piece of parchment over his horse’s head, sealed with black wax.

  Manek took it but paid it little mind, instead asking, “Is that all?”

  “He wants your reply. And your men.”

  Reluctant to take his gaze from Larn’s men, Manek finally glanced down at the paper. Breaking the seal, he unfolded it, stared at it, and looked up. Ennis frowned, realizing his eyes hadn’t moved back and forth. Could he not—?

  “He’ll have everything soon enough.”

  He folded the note and sat rigid in the saddle, glaring. His shoulders were pinched, the tendons in his neck prominent as his eyes flicked from one man to the next.

  “I’ll not be leaving without a reply, Manek.”

  “You’ll have it soon enough.”

  “And what’ll we do in the meantime?” Larn’s man asked. He shifted in his saddle, trying to catch a glimpse of Ennis.

  Manek turned on him, his gaze hot. “You’ll wait outside town. You can camp there. I’ll have your reply sent to you when I can.”

  The warhorse’s head flicked, and he began in a circle behind Ennis.

  “We’re weary and hungry. You won’t provide us with anything?” said the leader. “No hospitality?”

  Ennis took another step back in disgust.

  “I’ll have supplies sent. Until then, settle yourselves out there,” Manek replied, pointing at the meadow that lay northeast of Rising.

  The men grumbled and Dorran wasn’t satisfied. “Aren’t there other… accommodations?”

  “No.”

  Again, the warhorse came between her and Larn’s man, this time a hand reaching down for her. Without a second thought, she took it, placed a foot on Manek’s, and lifted herself up behind him in the saddle. Holding the bundle of clothes in one arm, she wrapped the other around his waist.

  “The food will be warm and the blankets dry. But if one of you steps foot in Rising, the man will be cut down.”

  Dorran and Manek continued to glower until finally Larn’s man gave a stiff bow of his head, his gaze never leaving Manek’s, and turned his horse to lead his men out of Rising.

  After watching their retreat for a few moments, Manek spurred the warhorse, making for the square. People gathered together, anxiously muttering, calling to Manek when they saw him.

  “Do you think it’s safe to be unkind to them?” she said.

  “No one’s kind to Dorran—not if they’re smart.”

  Coming to the square, Manek reined in the horse and held out his hand. Slipping down the side, Ennis gathered the clothes into a ball as she looked up at him, her brows drawn low. Their faces matched.

  “They’re sooner than I thought they’d be,” he finally said.

  Ennis couldn’t find anything to say. Something was nagging at her innards, and she was having trouble swallowing the lump growing in her throat. Manek looked so forlorn in that moment, just a little sea wall standing in the face of a tidal wave. She couldn’t explain why his desolate gaze spoke to her, couldn’t explain why it made her want to help him.

  But she didn’t know how, and he said nothing.

  Gathering the wad of clothing to her chest, Ennis waited. She gave him the time, and when he saw she wasn’t leaving, finally he said quietly, “Will you do something for me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Tell Kenna to prepare food. But don’t let her deliver it—send Taryn.”

  She nodded, glancing at the now crumpled paper in his hand.

  “I can read that to you, if you like…”

  His eyes dropped to the parchment. She waited anxiously as he thought, unable to tell what he was thinking, but finally one side of his mouth inched upwards.

  “I suppose I should know what it says.”

  He handed it to her and she unfolded it, adjusting the garments in the crook of her elbow. The writing was crisp and straight, and Ennis had a hard time believing it was Larn’s own hand.

  “It says, ‘On the first day of spring you and your horde will be in Scallya. Before the Highland snows melt we will take Dannawey. I want double the Lowland men. Don’t be late.’ Is he mad? He can’t possibly take…” She looked up and saw Manek’s eyes were closed, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “He’s many things,” Manek muttered.

  “Do you have this many men?”

  “They won’t all be men.”

  Ennis’s stomach rolled, and she closed her eyes tight. How could one man be allowed to cause such suffering? Themin knew, it was not right.

  “There’s something else I’d have you do.”

  Opening her eyes, she nodded.

  “I’ll need a response written, along with copies for the other Lowland towns. Orders too.”

  “Don’t you have a scribe?”

  “No. He died last spring. Please, Ennis, will you do this?”

  She bit her cheek. It certainly wasn’t dignified work—but then, neither were Renata’s errands. And Lora did say she should do something to keep herself busy.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said with a smile he tried but failed to contain. “Come as soon as you can.”

  He grinned at her a moment longer than he perhaps should have, and Ennis felt her cheeks warming. Clutching the wad of clothing close, she nodded again and left him to address the worried townsfolk.

  She waded through the gathering crowd to Kenna’s house.

  Ennis found her as she always did: laboring next to a hot oven. She hurried inside and shut the wind out behind her.

  Kenna looked up, surprised. “Well now. What brings you—?”

  “They’ve come.”

  “Midlanders?”

  “Yes.”

  Kenna’s face fell, her hands motionless in a bowl of dough. “Kellen, fetch your father.”

  With a quick, “Yes, Mama,” the boy ran from his seat by the fireplace out into the square, his curls bouncing. Ennis closed the door with some trouble behind him.

  “I-I didn’t think…”

  Ennis crossed the room to her friend, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’d hoped they wouldn’t come so soon. They…the
y just got back.” A tear splattered down into the bowl.

  “It’s just orders for now,” said Ennis softly. “They won’t be leaving yet.” She wiped away Kenna’s tears with her free hand.

  Kenna tried to smile.

  “Manek wanted some food prepared for them, but you’re not to bring it.” Ennis nudged her to make sure she was listening. “I mean it—don’t go anywhere near them.”

  Kenna nodded, beginning to knead again. Ennis put her arm around Kenna’s shoulders.

  “It’ll be all right.”

  Taryn came in, Kellen, Marc, and a blast of cold air with him.

  “Everyone’s gathering outside,” he said.

  Kenna had eyes only for the dough she squelched between her fingers. Ennis hugged her once more before moving back towards the door. As she reached for the handle, Taryn put his large hand on her shoulder.

  “You’ll look after her?” he whispered.

  Ennis’s lips quivered as she nodded.

  People were streaming from their homes to get the news from Manek, who still sat atop his horse amid a throng of anxious faces. Ennis navigated through the growing crowd, finally finding the small path back to the Haven. Before she left the square, she looked over her shoulder and momentarily caught Manek’s gaze. He inclined his head before returning to the crowd.

  When she opened the front door of the Haven, it was to find no one there, the front room empty. She dumped the pile of clothes on the small table by the fire, took her cloak from her shoulders, and began shaking it out.

  She jumped at a scoff from the doorway.

  “I give you one thing,” said Renata, walking into the room. “Where have you been?”

  “I was waylaid.”

  “You’re always waylaid.”

  Grimacing, Ennis said, “Riders from the Midlands have come.”

  “Yes. I heard. You saw them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Odd, then, that I didn’t have the news from you directly.”

  “Manek asked me to—”

  “Ah. Manek.” She snatched the bundle of clothes. “You serve the Mother, Ennis, not him.”

  “I’m not a Sister. And besides, he—”

  “You’re not a Sister yet.” Taking a step closer, Renata drew herself up to her full height. “But you will be, Ennis. That, or a warlord’s whore. Think long and hard about your choice.”

  And with that she was from the room with the heap of crinkled clothes.

  Ennis clenched her fists until they shook. That woman!

  She wouldn’t be a Sister. If only to spite Renata—no, especially to spite Renata.

  She still had much to learn to become a Sister. If she was with Manek, she wasn’t in the Haven and couldn’t learn. If she was with Manek, she might be able to convince him not to take more women. If she was with Manek, she wouldn’t be here. Scribe work had its benefits.

  Nineteen

  The ocean spray hit the mountains like a clap of thunder. The sound drew Ma’an the Stone-Bearer to the coast, and he asked Balan, “What do you mean by this, Brother Ocean?” “I come to claim this land, Brother Mountain,” said Balan. “You cannot,” replied Ma’an, “for this land was given to me by my mother Mithria.” “I spread my ocean to glorify my mother Ceralia. You would do well not to stand in my way.” The brothers clashed, but each time Ma’an tried to grip Balan, he would slip from his fingers in a gush of water, and each time Balan tried to scatter Ma’an, he would grab up rocks and reform his body. Finally, Ma’an sought the safety of the mountains, where Balan could not hope to reach him. “You have won today, Brother Mountain,” Balan said, “but know that you shall never cross my realm in safety again.”

  —The Battle of Land and Sea

  Waurin held Essa’s hand as she gingerly stepped down into the longboat. She held on tight, navigating to the seat at the stern, where he’d put a cushion. Sitting down carefully, she shaded her eyes and smiled up at him.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  She tried not to let him see how white her knuckles grew gripping the sides of the boat while he eased into the middle seat. She told herself not to look but still stared at the dark water sloshing just a foot from her clawed fingers.

  When Waurin came to her with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, suggesting he take her out to the islands in the bay, Essa had welcomed the chance to get out of scrubbing the hall floor with Elodie. But when she saw the boat they’d take, she’d instantly regretted her decision. She’d imagined a ship, any ship—for the love of Ceralia, she would’ve settled for a fishing boat. Instead she was consigned to this rickety dingy, which she was sure would sink halfway across. She looked at the dark water and knew if Ceralia was to punish her for her lies, it would be on this boat ride.

  With a heave, Waurin pushed off the dock and sunk his oars deep into the water. It took only a few strokes of his strong arms to have them sliding seamlessly across the bay.

  “It’s a rite of passage here, to sail out to the islands,” he said in his friendly timber. “People like to say that when Ma’an and Balan fought, Ma’an stood on that tall peak there, but Balan flooded the bay, leaving Ma’an stranded.”

  Essa nodded along to the tale, trying desperately to listen rather than watch her distorted reflection in the water.

  Waurin laughed. “They say he had to fling himself across the bay to get off the island, but he misjudged the jump and instead crashed into the cliff, knocking it back from the sea just enough to make the beach.”

  “How nice,” she said, her voice, despite every effort, tight.

  Waurin’s cheery grin faltered. “Are you all right?”

  Her throat worked around swallowing her fear, but instead it choked her.

  “You’re pale.”

  “Isn’t it a little…deep?”

  Waurin glanced down at the water. “Yes. No one knows how deep.”

  Essa made a sound somewhere between a groan and a shudder.

  He really was looking concerned now, and Essa decided this was what she got for indulging him. She should have told the truth this once, should have told him she couldn’t swim. She was a Courtnay—she’d been on her fair share of fine ships, but this, this was a piece of carved driftwood.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, ceasing to row. He tugged a hand through his hair, a gesture that was becoming very familiar to her; he did it when he was bashful or flustered or frustrated. “We’re a little more than halfway across—we should turn back.”

  “U-um…” Essa looked over his shoulder too, trying desperately to contain her panic. The islands seemed much closer, and she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Let’s make it across.”

  Waurin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t have to be brave for me.”

  Essa let out a pained laugh.

  Waurin redoubled his efforts, barely chatting for the rest of the journey. Soon they came to a small wooden dock built between several low rocks. Though she wanted to throw herself onto it, Essa told herself to put on a brave face. She was feeling a little better knowing that if she fell in here, she could flounder long enough for Waurin to save her.

  After Waurin hopped onto the dock, he helped her out of the boat. Essa was tempted to fall upon the rocks and kiss them, even if they were Lowlander.

  As he led her up from the dock onto a small path, Essa looked about. They’d landed on the shallower of the two islands. The rocky spire of the other island stood beside them, jutting from the sea like a spearhead. White gulls cawed to each other as they flew in circles around it, and she spied large nests built into crevices.

  “There,” Waurin said as they came to the top of the island. “You’re a Carmethian now.”

  She grinned up at him despite wondering how many had found a watery grave in pursuit of that honor.

  They walked around the island, but it took only a few minutes to reach the far side. They passed by several tufts of grass, but other than that, nothing grew there.

&nb
sp; “All the birds prefer that one,” said Waurin, pointing at the other island. “Sometimes the swells are so large that waves crash over the top of this island. Wouldn’t be a very good parent if you let your nest get washed away, don’t you—?”

  She squeaked.

  He looked back in surprise to find her several steps behind, her mouth open, aghast. He smiled and chuckled. “Don’t worry, that only happens during a bad storm.”

  She squinted at the dark clouds overhead. “It’s dark today. Couldn’t it storm?”

  “It’s like this most days. If it were to storm, the clouds would be almost blue.”

  “It’s cloudy like this often?”

  “More often than not.”

  “Even in summer?”

  He grinned sympathetically. “Yes. Was it not like that in Highcrest?”

  “Not at all. In winter Highcrest is buried in snow. It can get quite dreary, but the fires in the castle keep out the worst of it. And summers are divine—not too hot like across the De’lan.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “The weather?”

  “Highcrest.”

  Now what kind of a question was that? Wasn’t the answer obvious? Waurin and his mother were determined to make Carmetheon Essa’s home, and while she did appreciate the hospitality, she often found it frustrating that they couldn’t understand. But how could she tell them? How could she describe the pain of having a dagger between the ribs as a memory passed across her eyes? She knew that should she ever tell the truth, all of it, every throbbing pain, she would drive them away forever.

  Still, a sickening curiosity overcame her. She’d done this experiment before, each time hoping for a different outcome. Waurin set up the experiment himself. He asked her this sort of thing now and again, though never so direct before. Sometimes she would let her eyes get glassy but would say something noble. Sometimes she reached into herself and let him peek at her true thoughts—just a peek of course.