by S E Wendel
“There are many long, cold nights,” Essa said. “But I have many happy memories of Highcrest.”
“Good. Then you’ll never be alone, even when…” Her eyes fell back down to the wax and she remained silent.
Suddenly, Essa realized what this was about. Wiping her hands on her apron, she leaned over and gently put a hand on Elodie’s knee. “He will come back.”
Elodie grinned, but she wouldn’t meet Essa’s gaze. “You’re kind, dear. I know my worries are any mother’s.”
“That doesn’t make them any less painful.”
“When Waurin’s father died, I bore it. I wiped my tears, burned his bones, and made our home right. For our son. He was off almost every year raiding with this warlord or that one. He said he did it so our son wouldn’t have to.” Elodie’s eyes flicked to Essa. “But here we are.”
“From my experience, war is a constant. We must learn to live in spite of it.”
“Now that’s terrible advice.” They both laughed, without feeling, and fell back to work.
Sometimes she feared Elodie saw through her façade, but moments like this gave Essa hope she hadn’t been discovered. Elodie didn’t seem the type of woman to open up to someone she thought even a little untrustworthy.
Par suspected. But, Essa had soon realized upon coming to Carmetheon, Elodie liked Par about as much as Essa did. He rarely came to the house unless there was official business to attend to with Waurin, but when he was there his eyes were always watching, waiting. Those eyes told Essa to be cautious, to watch her step, and she was careful to do so.
She was in the middle of hanging up another set of candles when she heard several horns sound from the cliff. Curious, she and Elodie stepped from the porch to look at the winding cliff path. Four riders were headed down.
Shading her eyes, Elodie said, “Those men are from Rising.”
Essa’s wide eyes watched as the riders descended into town. They’d know soon enough what news had come, but she could barely wait. Her insides squirmed as she decided how she must feel. Outwardly she must grieve Waurin’s absence. The question was, how did she truly feel about it? Would she…would she miss him?
The question took her breath away, and the fact that she couldn’t decide baffled her. She knew her feelings, even if others didn’t. Her hate and her grief were the single clearest feelings she had. Why, then, was she so unsure?
She hadn’t sorted it out by the time they saw Waurin and Par riding for them. Elodie started walking towards them, her shoulders tensed and anxious, and Essa followed behind.
“What’s he said?” Elodie asked as Waurin jumped from his horse.
“Not sure yet,” he said, walking towards them with a sealed roll of papers.
“Sir,” insisted Par from his horse, “I think I should read it to you. I am, after all—”
“Oh, be still,” said Waurin as he handed Essa the papers. “She isn’t replacing you, Par. She just has a much lovelier voice.”
Ignoring Par’s pout, Essa broke the seal and unrolled the paper. “They’re orders,” she said, turning the first paper right side up. Reading quickly, she then read aloud a message from Larn about being in Scallya—his capital, Waurin explained—at the beginning of spring with double the men. When she finished, she looked at Waurin.
He wore a heavy frown, his eyes shadowed. He nodded at the papers, not looking at her. “What else?”
Reading the next one, she said, “This is from Manek.” She related that Waurin was to bring all the men he could spare and to meet at the convergence of the Aladain River’s forks. They were to bring winter gear and fifty warhorses with full barding.
Waurin made an unhappy noise in his throat. “I can’t get that many in time. I’ll have to send his messengers back with goods so he can trade with Kennick for us. Is that all?”
“There’s one more. It’s a—” Her words caught in her throat so that all that escaped was a gurgle. She knew this hand. She looked at the signature of the third paper, then at the penmanship of all three. Firm hand, curling g’s, blotchy s’s. Ennis.
She let out a sound somewhere between a cheer and a cry. The others looked at her in surprise, but she couldn’t contain her outburst of joy. Tears rushed to her eyes to see her sister’s hand, her sister’s name. She traced it with a trembling finger. Ennis Courtnay.
“My sister’s written me!” she exclaimed.
Essa turned from them, barely hearing Elodie ask if Manek had Essa’s sister and Waurin reply, “He has two.”
She read hurriedly, greedily, and then returned to the top to read it again. Ennis’s words washed over her like a soothing rain, to be happy, to find a life for herself.
She felt hands on her shoulders and looked up to find Elodie smiling down at her. “Good news I hope?” she said.
Essa then realized her tears. Wiping them away quickly, she suddenly wanted nothing more than to retreat to her small room; it was almost too much to bear being, having their curious, expectant eyes on her while she devoured her sister’s words.
“Yes, she’s well. She writes of my birthday.”
Elodie smiled. “Is it soon?”
“Yes. Today, in fact.”
“Well! You should’ve said something, my dear.”
“May I write back to her?” she asked Waurin.
He nodded, but Elodie replied, “Of course you must!”
“I’d ask you to write a reply for Manek too,” said Waurin.
She smiled, her first genuine one in days, and agreed, though Par scoffed in the background.
With an arm around her shoulder, Elodie walked with Essa back into the hall, followed by Waurin, and said, “I’ve always thought it was a fine thing, sending letters. If I could write, I’d send one to everyone I know!”
“They wouldn’t have to travel far,” Waurin said, earning him a playful scowl from his mother.
“I could teach you, if you like,” Essa said, almost as surprised at the offer as Elodie.
Elodie let out a pleased laugh. “If you’re gracious and patient enough to teach me, then I can’t refuse.”
“Just be careful, Essa. Mother claims she knows everything, so make sure it’s clear who’s teaching whom,” Waurin teased, lowering his massive frame into one of the chairs circling the great table in the hall.
He got a smack on the back of the head with a rag for his impudence, but he and Elodie only continued to laugh.
Clapping her hands together, Elodie said, “Well, Essa’s had good news, and it’s her birthday besides! We’re going to have a little feast to celebrate. I’ll even break into the last of the cider I’ve been saving.”
“I think we could open something a bit better than the cider—there’s that wine we got from River’s End two years ago,” Waurin said.
“No, Essa doesn’t like wine. We’ll have cider.”
As Elodie began bustling about, Waurin shot Essa an inquisitive look. She merely shrugged and smiled, admitting to her dislike of wine.
“The wine from River’s End is fine stuff,” he wheedled.
“Then have some if you like. But I’ll be celebrating with cider if you please. I’ve had enough of the Highlands’ finest wines to make an informed decision on the matter, don’t you worry.”
Waurin shook his head in mock disgust, earning him a smile from Essa.
When Essa made to help Elodie begin their small feast—which, to Essa’s disappointment, would indeed involve fish—Waurin waved her back into her seat.
“If you don’t mind, Mother, I’m going to steal Essa for a while. I need that response for Manek.”
Elodie flapped her apron at him in assent, only half-listening.
Essa and Waurin spent the better part of an hour looking for all the supplies they’d need. Since neither Elodie nor Waurin were literate, parchment, quills, and ink proved scarce. In truth, Par probably could have found supplies in a few minutes, but Essa was loath to visit his little house across the way and ask.
Final
ly, with three squares of parchment, an old inkwell that needed a little water to coax the blackness back into the ink, and a quill so elaborately large it must have come from an eagle, Essa settled at the table with Waurin across from her, ready.
Her unpracticed hand flew across the page, though she was careful to think over spelling, knowing it was most likely Ennis who’d read these messages first. There was little Ennis loved more than precise spelling. She also tried to write Waurin’s message in small letters, conserving as much parchment for her reply to Ennis as possible.
When she finished, she read back Waurin’s message, affirming that he and his men would be at the Forks at the beginning of spring, and requesting Manek buy a score of Kennick’s horses with the funds he sent with the letter.
Waurin approved, and Essa put the parchment aside to dry. But before she could start her letter to Ennis, or even help Elodie with the cooking—a disconcerting amount of noise was coming from the hearth behind her—Waurin pulled the Kingsman’s Bluff board from further down the table and placed it neatly between them.
Teaching Waurin how to play had proved an excellent way to spend the long, often dreary nights here in Carmetheon. With the rain pattering overhead and a fire crackling nearby, harmlessly flirting over the gameboard became an enjoyable evening activity. At least, Essa hoped it was harmless. Sometimes she didn’t think it was, and, worse, she didn’t know who it would harm—Waurin or herself.
Waurin set up the blue pieces then turned the board to give her the set, beginning to arrange the red for himself. Teaching him Kingsman’s Bluff had taught Essa a few things about Waurin: while not the most skilled opponent, he nevertheless thought about each option, his fingers often steepled in front of him as his eyes roved the board; he was loath to sacrifice his queen, even to save the game; and the first thing he learned well was how to recognize when Essa was letting him win, which he disliked wholeheartedly.
“I should probably help with dinner,” Essa whispered after a few turns.
Waurin gave an infinitesimal shake of his head, his eyes twinkling. “No one should ever have to cook their own birthday feast.”
Surrendering—at least to that argument—Essa tried to focus on the game, though it was proving hard tonight. She didn’t even have the wherewithal to flirt over their game, her mind instead composing her reply to Ennis. Essa was a little sore at not getting to throw herself into writing it, for in truth, it was the only thing she wanted to do. She pulled herself out of her hypothetical letter each time Waurin gained too much of an upper hand, not wanting him to think she was letting him win. But it was difficult.
What was life like for Ennis now? She’d barely mentioned it, not saying what Manek had her doing. And what about Irina? Ennis hadn’t mentioned their eldest sister at all. Worry niggled in Essa’s stomach. Ennis had said to be happy, to make a life for herself. Was she speaking from experience, or wishing Essa something she couldn’t have?
Waurin won their game, but he noticed she was distracted and, protesting she’d been going easy on him, set up the board again. Essa let him coax her into another game, though she paid about as much attention to this one as the last. Soon, the warm scents of buttered fish, beet soup, roasting hazelnuts, and winter squash wafted through the hall, making her stomach growl.
Elodie began to chat with them as she stirred the beet soup over the hearth. She and Waurin joked over his improving skills; at some fisherman who’d gone out so soused, he’d fallen right off the dock and had to be fished out; at the impressive number of mice the resident murderer, Salt the cat, had caught the past sennight. Essa listened but contributed little, still mulling over Ennis’s letter.
Be happy. Make a life for herself. But how? What kind of life?
Frustration bloomed in her chest, making tears surge to her eyes. She had to stop herself from snapping at Waurin and Elodie.
But then she realized what they were doing. Waurin and his mother were trying to distract her. Whether they thought it Ennis’s letter or her own birthday, they understood the dark mood pressing around Essa.
This startled her. Was she not as guarded as she thought? Had Waurin and Elodie learned how to read her moods?
For a moment, Essa didn’t mind it.
But just a moment.
The chair scraped against the stone floor as Essa jumped up, muttered a quick, “If you’ll excuse me,” and fled the hall.
The heavy front doors gave her momentary trouble, but then she was out into the darkening night, a salty breeze tugging at her hair. Essa walked quickly toward the edge of the rock platform, watching her footfalls carefully. Little slivers of moon reflected in shallow pools carved into the rock, promising a twisted ankle if she wasn’t careful.
She breathed in the ocean spray and willed it to calm her, to drive away the shakes that wracked her hands and chest.
Essa both loved and hated how easily her sister had shaken her carefully constructed composure here in Carmetheon. Even hundreds of leagues away, Ennis had unwittingly begun tearing at the seams of the shroud Essa liked to cloak herself in.
Of course, Ennis couldn’t know what she’d done, nor how troubling Essa found her advice. How could she, when Essa kept Ennis from her innermost self too? Though the most perceptive of all her sisters, Ennis still liked to think of Essa as young, innocent, and vulnerable. In her letter, Ennis was asking Essa to be that cheerful face again. To be happy.
But she couldn’t be. She hadn’t been happy, not truly, when she wore that cheerful mask.
Ennis didn’t understand that, hadn’t been allowed to. But despite Essa’s best efforts, Waurin and Elodie had glimpsed it.
Was that why she was standing out here in the cold night, shaking and terrified? Because someone had glimpsed her?
A heavy cloak came around her, the fur-lined collar brushing deliciously across her cheeks. From the corner of her eye, she saw Waurin standing beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, feet set wide apart.
They stood together in silence, listening to the waves crash below.
Finally, Waurin turned to her. “You’re unhappy,” he said, gazing just over her head. “Is it the letter?”
As if it could sense it was being talked about, the letter seemed to weigh in the pocket of her dress. “Yes.”
“You said it was good news. Is something—?”
“I miss her,” Essa said simply. She knew she shouldn’t be sharp with him, that he was showing concern, but the tumult of feelings mixing around inside of her made her annoyed at his trying. She wasn’t sure if she could keep him from glimpsing more of her right then.
“Yes.” Now his gaze shifted out to the dark sea, a choppy obsidian surface reflecting the almost perfect pearl of the moon. Off in the distance, the black silhouette of a fishing boat cut across the moon’s reflection, an impossibly small lantern lighting its watery way.
He seemed to be thinking, his brows furrowed, and Essa waited, unable to find anything to say.
“Will you answer me something? Truthfully?”
Her hesitation drew his attention. “Yes,” she forced herself to say.
“You aren’t happy here.”
“That isn’t a question.”
“Essa…”
Unable to keep his gaze, her eyes flitted away. She knew she couldn’t answer truthfully, couldn’t tell him how she loathed fish and hated salt and granite and ships. She couldn’t speak of how heavy the black ribbon round her neck was, like iron, at times searing her like a brand, her pride chafing beneath it. But she saw no way of getting out of telling him some truth, letting him see some small part of herself. She would just have to choose the easiest to bear.
“You’re of the sea, Waurin. If your mother’s to be believed, you were born at sea. So how does it feel to leave the sea behind every year?” She paused, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She didn’t need or want a response, but she gave the words time to permeate. “I’m of the mountains. The Courtnays have always been of the mou
ntains. We built our city from its stones, and Ma’an protected our people. For me, the sea’s too flat, the air’s too wet. It smells like salt here, not earth and stone and pine.”
Her voice had fallen to little more than a whisper by the time she finished. Fighting tears, she wouldn’t look at him, because there was the truth Ennis’s letter made her face: she couldn’t make a life for herself here.
He was quiet so long that she began to worry. Stealing a look at him, she found him pensive. His hands were still clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders taut.
“Yes, I’m of the sea,” he said finally. “I know what it is to miss home. To long for it.” His eyes slowly shifted back to her, and he fixed her with a stare Essa couldn’t break yet couldn’t bear. “But I think I could be happy, could make a life for myself away from the sea if I found something as much a part of me as it is.”
She didn’t like this talk. “Ah, but you have the luxury of choice.”
“In some ways. In others, no.” He shrugged, but the effort fell flat. “My time, my men aren’t my own anymore. I know every spring that I may not see home again.”
He faced her then, and though he didn’t reach out to touch her, she felt as if he did. She almost stepped back, his stare heavy, glinting with moonlight.
“I can’t offer you mountains, Essa. But I had hoped…” The words trailed off, as if Waurin couldn’t quite let them out. Essa was grateful. Instead he said, “I can’t force you to feel something you don’t.”
Essa looked up at the moon. “How would you feel, if it were you?” she asked it.
“Anchorless,” he said, and she nearly smiled in spite of herself. Seamen. “Essa, I…what I can offer—what I’m trying to give you is a home. I know it isn’t the one you had. I know what they—what I did was…”
“Yes, it was.”
They stood in silence, looking at the sea. The night was never quite quiet here, the lapping waves a Carmethian lullaby. Hearths dimmed, houses yawned as the windows slowly darkened. It was a scene Essa had liked to see, looking down from her high room in the Keep. When she couldn’t sleep, she would watch the fires of Highcrest’s homes slowly burn out, flickering in the late hours. As she looked at Carmetheon’s homes, huddled together against the sea cliff, she felt the same kind of peace, if only for a moment.
