by S E Wendel
She came to a stop, her back still to him. He watched her silently, saw the rigidness of her shoulders and the slight downward tilt of her head. For a moment, he wondered if she was weeping but then reminded himself she wouldn’t weep for him. Even if sometimes he wished she would.
He knew he needed to head to the square—Rising needed to hear the news. The bottom of his stomach opened up, sucking at his chest with dread. He didn’t want to see their faces when he told them.
“Rising will be a very empty place.”
“Yes.”
“They have faith in you,” she said, still not looking at him. “That’s more than many lords can say.”
That hurt almost as much as the thought of leaving her in two days.
“Sometimes I don’t think I deserve it,” he admitted, not totally sure why he did. It felt like a time for admitting truths. Perhaps it would make this easier.
“You care about them,” she said. “And they love you for it.”
“Maybe on campaign. Not here.”
She frowned at him like he’d started speaking another language. “What?”
“When I’m here, there are one too many warlords in Rising. And even on campaign, they’ll always see my father where I stand. I’ll never be more than a warlord—a warlord’s son. I’ll never…” He let his words die, fearing more would come tumbling out of him.
For a long moment, Ennis stood silently with a thoughtful expression. When she opened her mouth to speak, he was almost afraid of what she’d say.
“You want to be their lord.” Her eyes snapped to his. “Not just a warlord, but a lord, a leader, even a…”
He couldn’t look at her, didn’t know if he could bear someone else putting into words his innermost wish: that he wanted to be something—someone. He wanted to be more than Larn’s Lowland vassal. More than his father’s son. More than a warlord leading his men into battle, he wanted to be a leader who could lead them to a better life. He was relieved, then, when she didn’t quite say it, for saying it only brought the painful truth that it would never be.
“If you want to be their lord, not their warlord, then you must make your peace with giving orders. Whether it’s conscripting workers for a wall or drafting more to march on campaign so war isn’t brought home.”
It was this moment he’d feared. But because she deserved the truth and he seemed in a mood for them, he said, “You’re right—but I can’t give those orders, not in Rising.”
She frowned at him. “But you’re warlord.”
“Only on campaign.”
“That’s why you couldn’t…?” Her frown deepened. “Your father wouldn’t give the order to help?”
“He and I don’t always agree about what’s best for Rising.”
“Then perhaps only you should be warlord.”
It was gratifying to hear, but it still struck him hard in the chest. The thought, especially aloud, felt traitorous somehow. Disloyal.
“Manek,” she said, “people need a leader in times like these. Someone strong to trust and look up to. It cannot be good for morale watching your father disagree with you whenever you return home.”
“I know that.” He hadn’t even the heart to be annoyed. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend what he suspected would be his last moments with Ennis alone.
But she seemed determined. “Is there no way to challenge your father? To take the warlordship completely?”
“He’s my father, Ennis.”
“If my father were putting our people in danger, I would challenge him. And I loved my father dearly.”
He refrained from telling her about the weakness of the Mountain Gate. She didn’t seem to know, and he doubted Ehman Courtnay had paid it much attention either. If Ennis had known, Manek suspected he would’ve had much more of a challenge breaching the Gate.
“I’m not saying that everything must be a rule of one, or a tyranny as you like to put it. But look at Rising. Look at this wall. You can’t go on like this.”
He supposed he’d only himself to blame for this. He’d begun this confession, now he had to see it through, no matter how her truths hurt. He was knee-deep in the mire of it now, realizing too late that these weren’t the truths he really wanted to speak of with her.
She stepped closer to him, a fire burning in her eyes. It drew him in, close enough that if he reached out just a little, he could run his hand through her hair as he’d begun dreaming of doing again. Once hadn’t been enough.
“I’ve seen you with your people, Manek. They love you. I’m sure they’re fond of your father, but he is not among them as you are. He doesn’t lead them as you could.”
“After his leg was wounded, he…overseeing Rising is all he has left.”
Her look softened, but she didn’t relent. “Manek, this isn’t about if leadership is better for you or your father. It’s about which of you is better for Rising.”
“Should I stage a coup before we head north, then?”
She crossed her arms over her chest as if sensing she pushed a little too hard. She was retreating from him, and much as he hated the idea of wrenching control from his father, he hated the possibility of Ennis withdrawing more.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he said, “What you say is true. But I haven’t the time now.”
“Yes.” She turned her head to gaze at the riverplain, her expression inscrutable. “But I hope you will think on it.”
“Of course, my lady.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You can do it, you know.” She met his gaze, face still neutral but her eyes glinting in the stray sunlight. “You can lead them.”
Manek wasn’t so sure. She must have seen as much in his face, for she took a step closer, shoulders squared. “Themin made us from mud and iron for strength, but the stardust he stole was most important.” She placed her hand over his heart, her fingertips cold, and Manek held his breath. “It gave us intelligence and wit, but also courage. You seem mostly stardust to me, Manek.”
Manek stood there, stunned, as her words sunk into his skin and warmed his blood. Mostly stardust? He stared at her, lips parted. “Ennis, do you tease me?”
He could hear his heart thumping in his chest as he waited for her answer. He dreaded to see a smile break out over her face with that playful gleam in her eyes. She was always teasing, always quick to turn serious words into something else. But her words just then were the most precious thing anyone had ever given him, and he couldn’t bear it if she took them away.
“No, I’m not teasing.”
His relief was so great he couldn’t help but close the distance between them and kiss her. For a long moment, his mouth on hers, all he could do was think how good she felt, warm and soft and sweet. He angled his head, fitting them together perfectly, and felt himself sinking.
Then it struck him what he was doing. And that she’d leaned up to meet him.
By the time he pulled back, just a little, her hands had slipped inside his cloak to rest on his chest, one over his thundering heart. She had to hear it, hammering away. His arms were around her, holding her close, and the furred collar of his cloak brushed her coloring cheeks.
“Ennis…”
She slipped a hand around the back of his neck and, with a gentle nudge, pulled him back down to her.
Before he knew it, he had her backed up against the wall, kissing her with a ferocity that unnerved him. He held her tight with one arm, but the other hand was on the small of her back, her hip, her waist. She took a sharp breath and kissed harder, catching his lower lip between her teeth. Thoughts dissolved into feeling; the heat of her skin, separated from his by only a few layers of fabric; his own desire pulsing through his body, making him fevered and giddy and content and demanding; the warmth surging through him at being pressed against her from thigh, to chest, to mouth. Gods, what she did to him.
It took a moment to register someone calling his name, and he stepped away from her, their arms disentangling just as Marc
, Taryn’s eldest son, came skidding around the wall.
Marc’s floppy hair was windblown, and he took his breaths is deep gasps. He looked between them with surprised, almost suspicious eyes.
Manek had to ask, “What is it, Marc?” before the boy would speak.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re ready for you.”
“Thank you.”
The boy gave them one last glance before heading back the way he came.
Manek knew it was time, but his feet wouldn’t move. When he looked back at Ennis, she was still leaning against the wall, her lips swollen and her color high. His body felt cold where hers had been pressed to his.
As if she could read his thoughts, she stepped forward to meet him. She placed her hands on his chest again, adjusting the collar of the cloak. His arms easily came around her to keep her close, as if they had done this thousands of times before.
“They need you.”
He finally caught her eyes, and his heart leapt into his throat to see them glassy.
“I’ll go in a minute,” he said, dread making him hold her tighter.
“Did you mean that?”
He leaned down to kiss her hair. She smelled clean, of orange blossoms and mint and something uniquely her, and her golden hair was soft beneath his lips, just as he remembered. “Yes.”
Her lips twitched as if she were going to smile, but she didn’t.
“Can I see you again, before I leave?”
Her mouth fell, and she suddenly looked miserable. A shard of ice seemed to lodge in his gut.
“It’d be harder when you left, I think.”
He nodded, relieved and disappointed and terrified.
Gazing steadily at the fastening of his cloak, she said, “All the Highlands knows you’re coming this time. King Dunstan will be there to support the Morns, and he’s never lost a battle.”
“Neither have I,” he said.
She touched a hand to his face and shook her head.
He took it and kissed her palm. “Then I hope I can see you again. At least once.” He leaned down and kissed her, memorizing her taste just in case it was his only chance.
Knowing that if he didn’t go now he was likely to keep Rising waiting until sundown, he kissed her one last time and bid her farewell. He hoped that she’d walk with him, but she stayed with the wall. When she was out of sight, he pulled himself onto Oren.
The whole town had amassed in and around the square, people pouring from houses and crowding the pathways. They fell silent when he came into sight, and Manek steeled himself. He brought Oren to a stop at the south end of the square and looked at his people, his heart heavy. Sitting in the saddle, his back straight, towering above them on the massive warhorse, Manek felt very alone.
He wished Ennis stood beside him, for she made him brave.
Twenty-Eight
Life for Themin was sweet. Every day he basked in the joy of his wife and his three blue-hued children. Yet his mind did wander, and often he found himself looking down upon the earth, at his green Mithria. His heart was pulled in two directions, and he could not help but visit his first love. She bore him two children, Ma’an, bold and true, and Tamea, swift and cunning. And he did love them and welcome them to his realm, for he loved their mother as much as he did his wife.
—How the Mountain and the Forest Were Born
Ennis listened to Lora and Irina’s steady breathing and the incessant drip, drip, drip of the gutter water as she stared at the ceiling. She kept herself awake, shocked that she’d let herself do it.
Rolling onto her stomach, she buried her face in her pillow. She felt like screaming but didn’t want to wake Lora. What had she been thinking?
That he’s leaving. That I’ll miss him. That I don’t want him to go.
She pushed her face into the pillow a little further.
When she let herself think of kissing Manek, Ennis decided it’d been nice. Better than nice. She hadn’t been held like that since the last time she saw Colm Dunstan.
The name gave her a little jolt. Colm. What did he think had happened to her? Did he suppose her dead? She realized with no small amount of guilt that she’d barely spared a thought for Colm since Highcrest’s sacking. Her thoughts travelled across Mithria to him, to his easy smile and kind eyes. It was the most uncomfortable conversation she’d ever had with her father, when she broached the subject of her perhaps marrying Colm.
It all seemed a dream now. From her little hay bed in the Lowlands, Ennis allowed herself to finally admit the truth. She didn’t love Colm. She wasn’t sure she ever had. She liked his kindness and his good nature, but if the Midland hordes had never reached Highcrest, she was sure she would’ve been able to delude herself for years to come that that was enough. She would’ve been quite content. But now…
Flipping onto her back again, Ennis resumed staring at the sloped ceiling. Gods, she was thinking of Colm and comparing him to Manek. And…she thought she might care for Manek more. Gods.
He was off to fight in the north, headed for a battle that would no doubt make the De’lan run red as it hadn’t since the First Farlan Revolt. And she thought she might worry more for him than Dannawey or the Morns. Gods, gods, gods.
She should go to him.
Ennis smashed the pillow over her head. No, she’d find another time to see him. Perhaps in the afternoon, between overseeing cartloads of supplies. Perhaps she could catch him for a few moments the morning before they departed and wish him farewell.
Yes, shake his hand, wish him the best. Like an acquaintance. Like they hadn’t fought side by side, planned and saw a creation as impressive as the wall come to life—like he hadn’t pressed her up against that wall to kiss her like a starving man given sustenance. Even now, she felt the phantom sensation of him against her, and she knew.
She sat straight up in bed. She wanted to see him. Now.
Replacing her pillow, Ennis shoved her cold feet into her even colder boots and then grabbed her cloak. She took the two steps to the door noiselessly, opening it to just before the spot where it creaked, and slipped out.
The Haven was quiet and all long shadows as she pattered downstairs. The front door cried on its hinges, and Ennis passed through as quickly as she could, shutting it behind her.
It was a cloudless night, and she relied on the half-moon to light her way. Her whole body shivered and trembled, despite having her cloak drawn close, her nose sunk into the fur collar. She stumbled here and there, straining her eyes to keep to the widest, most defined paths.
Hoping no one saw her and took her for an omen in the night, Ennis mounted the hill and was soon standing before the great house’s front doors. She’d spotted light coming from the house as she approached, so she rasped her knuckles against the polished wood. Then terror sent a shock through her. How did she know it was Manek awake? What if it was his father? Or worse, his mother? What would she say?
Spinning on her heels so fast her cloak whipped about her, Ennis had taken three hurried steps before light splashed onto the pathway.
“Ennis?”
Her heart skipped a beat in relief as she turned around to see Manek, his features dark and his outline glowing in soft light from the hall. She rubbed her hands together, watching the ball of his throat rise and fall as he swallowed. His lips lifted in a small grin, and he opened the door wider for her.
Retreating from the biting cold into the blessedly warm hall, she saw a healthy fire in the hearth. Looking over her shoulder, she tried to grin at him, but her face wouldn’t do much.
“I’m glad to see you.” He took her hands then looked down at them; her fingers were clenched together with cold. Running his thumbs over her knuckles, he drew her closer to the fire, saying, “I’m sorry, I should have…”
He released her hands so she could put them close to the fire. It warmed her quickly, and soon she straightened.
“Are your mother and father awake?” she whispered.
“No, they w
ent to sleep hours ago.”
“I’m surprised you’re awake. I thought you’d want to sleep as much as you could before setting off.”
He shrugged. “A bed suits me just as well as the ground.”
“Ah, a useful talent. I’m partial to a bed myself.” She gritted her teeth with disgust. Gods, what was she doing? This had to be the worst flirting the world had ever known. Fiddling with a loose thread on her cloak, Ennis asked, “What’s it like, marching off on campaign?”
He tensed, and she clenched her teeth again. She wondered if it would be better if she left now and tossed herself into the Morroley.
“In my experience, it’s unpleasant. Though, I suppose if you’re marching for a cause you believe in, it’s better.”
“It’s not,” she said. “Not for us, anyway. It’s hard for us, no matter where you’re marching.”
“I know. But we like to think you’re proud of us. We’re doing it for you.”
“We’d rather you stayed.”
“We’d rather stay too, but…” He took her hand. “It’s the only way we know how.”
Terror of a deeper sort took hold of her, making her step into him and forget her nervousness. What if he didn’t return from the north? What if King Dunstan finally stopped the Midland conquest?
She took his face between her hands. “Promise me you’ll think about something while you’re away?”
“More to think on?” he said, his teasing smile making her blush.
“What if…” She traced his lower lip with her thumb. “What if you weren’t loyal to the Midlands?”
He froze, his nostrils flaring.
Ennis pressed on. “What if, instead, you allied with the Highlands? You would be on either side of the Midlands and might stall Larn long enough to become stronger.”
“Ennis, I—”
“Just think on it. Please.”
He rested his forehead on hers. “All right.”
“Thank you.”
He kissed her then, and she melted into it. It was slow, like they had all the time in the world, just how she preferred; though, she hadn’t minded being pushed up against the wall that afternoon.
