by S E Wendel
Lora sighed. “Can you really not bear to see him leave?”
She knew better than to answer that. Whatever she said, her creaking, cracking voice would give her away.
“I’ll tell them you’re unwell if you promise me something.”
Ennis sniffed.
“When the time is right, and I ask you what this is about, you’ll tell me the truth.”
Knowing this offer was far too generous, Ennis accepted with a nod.
Lora rubbed her back for a moment, promised to be back soon, and then was gone.
Ennis buried her face in her pillow, thinking it would’ve been better if Manek hadn’t chosen her. Why had he? All her sisters were more beautiful. Why had he chosen her, brought her here, and made her love him? Essa would be disappointed; she’d meant it to be the other way around.
Rising was solemn today, but a steady thrum of noise still wafted into Ennis’s room. She heard horses and mules neighing and pawing the earth; she heard carts being loaded, swords being sheathed, and armor being donned; and she heard women weeping for men they might never see again.
One sound caught her ear and made her frown. A raspy knock. She opened one eye, then the other. Again, a knock.
“Ennis?” She could faintly hear Manek saying her name.
She sat straight up in bed. What was he doing here? Her head throbbed as anger, hope, and bitterness vied within her. As she pushed herself up and shook out her skirts, bitterness won.
Walking down to the Haven’s front door, Ennis steeled herself. He wouldn’t have come to argue more, but that’s all she’d give him. She wouldn’t kiss him goodbye and wave a kerchief in his wake as he galloped off to conquer the Highlands, her Highlands.
She opened the door to find him a few paces away. His hair had been cut, and he’d shaved. He was dressed like a warlord, a shining cuirass adorning his chest, greaves and gauntlets strapped around his limbs, a heavy furred cloak wrapped about his shoulders, and his warhorse standing just behind him. He inhaled sharply as she crossed her arms over her chest, determined to be more fearsome than he.
“I thought you had a war to wage,” she said.
“I didn’t want to leave without seeing you.”
She shrugged, though her eyes stung. “Here I am.”
“You weren’t with the Sisters.”
“I didn’t think you’d want me there.”
“I wanted you there most of all.”
“Yes, I’m sure it would’ve been a touching sight, the warlord marching off while his tearstained whore waves from the hilltop. That certainly would’ve made the gossips’ day.”
“Stop calling yourself that,” he growled.
“You have no—”
“I didn’t come to fight.”
“Then why did you come?”
“To see you.”
“You already said that.”
“Well—!” He threw his hands in the air.
“Why did you come, Manek?” she said, surprised at the softness of her voice. She decided to scowl to make up for it.
He stepped closer. “I couldn’t leave it like that.”
“Leave what?”
“Ennis, please—”
“Manek—” Her voice cracked, and she pushed him a step away. “Let me be angry—it’s easier.”
“Not for me.”
“Well, you aren’t the one being left behind!”
“I would stay here, with you, if I could.”
She clenched her teeth, unwilling to let out the sob that wracked her chest. How she wanted him to stay, to be hers. But it couldn’t be, and she found her resolve again with the thought. “And we’d do what? Continue this fantasy? I can’t do that, Manek—I won’t.”
“Ennis, I can’t free you.”
“Then we haven’t anything left to say.”
“You’re asking me to choose between you and my people.”
“I’m not saying it’s fair,” she said, pawing at the traitorous tears slipping down her face. “But those are my terms. I’m your equal before I’m anything else.”
He nodded, his eyes distant as they looked at something over her right shoulder. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much now,” he said, voice thick. “I’m off to die in the north.”
She barely contained another sob, burying her face in her hands so he wouldn’t see. Gods, why was she so weak? She wanted to scream at him, to throw a tantrum and rip the cursed black ribbon from her neck. Instead all she could do was stand there, dumbfounded by how much she hurt, how much she’d miss him.
He tugged her into his arms, pressing his lips into her hair. Burying her face in the hollow of his throat, she clung to him even with his metal breastplate between them.
“Will you…” he was breathless, “will you worry about me while I’m gone?”
“Of course I will.”
Horns sounded, soft and solemn. It was a fine, full timber, and it made fighting off more tears that much harder.
She felt his head lean down onto hers, and he threaded his fingers into the hair at her nape. “Can I kiss you goodbye?”
“You’d better.”
His mouth was warm when it met hers, at once fierce and tender, taking and giving. She wrapped her arms around his neck, frustrated at his shorn hair. She loved how it had curled at his nape and behind his ears.
She opened for him, and in that moment, she lost all sense of time and place; she didn’t feel the sun or the wind or the ground beneath her feet, just him, his arms around her, his hands on her, his taste in her mouth.
She felt him start to pull away, but she wasn’t ready and took his lower lip between her teeth and tugged him back. He came to her with a groan, his kiss hotter, more desperate than before.
“Ennis,” he murmured when they finally had to part for breath. His chest heaved like a man’s just returned from the battlefield.
She was breathless too, couldn’t pull enough air into her lungs. The world was spinning.
Taking his face between her hands, she said, “You’ll come back. I’m not nearly done with you. So you’ll come back to me.”
He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Yes, my lady,” he said, but his eyes were hollow, and she knew he didn’t believe it.
Thirty
Look at them marching in,
Marching, marching in,
Here to see the king.
Do you see them marching in?
Do you hear the drummer’s din?
For the king, for the king.
An army the world has never known
Their swords drawn and trumpets blown
In the name of the king.
—from Song of the Golden Army, Highlander marching hymn
Horse hooves clattered riotously loud against the cobblestones, combining with the thunderous cheering from the citizens of Dannawey to make a cacophony of noise that threatened to deafen Adren. But he smiled. The noise nourished that feeble, threadbare optimism that the march here had nearly sapped out of him.
Riding beside him and brooding in his saddle, Colm gave the occasional grudging wave. The crowd didn’t seem to notice his melancholy, and Adren tried to nod and wave that much more to compensate.
They’d entered through the enormous northern gate, passing beneath the double portcullis. The main promenade was a wide swath of cobblestones, the multistoried houses flying colorful banners from their upper windows above them. The promenade inclined gradually as they rode, slowly climbing to the castle, almost at the center of Dannawey.
The city had sprung up around the ancient castle centuries ago, at first leaning against the high castle wall before oozing across the riverplain south of the De’lan. The castle had been built upon a cluster of hills surrounded by flatland, giving it an advantageous view of the river to the north and the Gray Hills to the south. The castle wall had never been breached, though many had tried, and when the city swelled to near its current size three hundred years ago, yet another wall was built, snaking around almos
t one hundred square leagues to encompass Dannawey in stone. Both walls had proved impenetrable.
Thirty minutes of riding and they finally met the castle wall. Where the city wall was smooth blocks of good Highland granite, cut so precisely there had been no need for mortar, the castle wall was all jutting edges and porous surfaces. Moss covered it in places, its stones turned black from the elements.
Adren touched one of its stones as he rode past, praying it could weather this new storm.
The castle itself was just as ancient-looking a thing as its wall, all blackened spires and crenellated terraces. The east wing was newer, the fresh granite almost white compared to the other buildings.
A circular courtyard ringed by gray-barked aspens greeted them. At the far side, two staircases extended like arms, rising to an elevated terrace, behind which stood the two-story, peaked front door of the castle. It stood open now, a crowd already gathered to see the king’s entrance.
As his personal guard poured into the courtyard, Adren, with Colm behind him, made for the southern staircase. A squire met him at the landing, holding his horse as he shifted his considerable weight, courtesy of his father’s suit of gleaming golden armor, and dismounted. Adren alighted the stairs as quickly and with as much dignity as he could, wanting to be rid of it quickly. There would be time enough to wear armor in the coming months.
Arion Morn, Lord of Dannawey, met him at the top, a look of immense relief making the dark crescents under his eyes seem slightly less purple. After Morn bowed, Adren took the younger man’s hand and shook it heartily.
“Themin knows I’m glad to see you, Your Majesty,” Morn said, a tentative smile breaking over his young face. Twenty-seven was much too young to be rallying a city against invasion.
“And Themin knows this is just where I belong. I’m pleased to see Dannawey in such high spirits.”
“The people are brave. And they’re gladdened to have their king. They know you’ve never lost a battle.”
“And I don’t intend to start now. Has anyone else arrived yet?”
“Lord Aric is already here with a thousand men. We’re still waiting on Winwood.”
Adren tried to keep the unease from his face, determined not to let a Winwood worry him ever again. The youth would come—Hammel Winwood would answer his king’s call, of that Adren was sure. Even if he was begrudging and late to the battle.
Lady Morn appeared at her husband’s elbow, bestowing a radiant smile on him. Adren did his best to return it, though it was hard to overlook the fact that, were fate kinder, it would be his daughter Isla at Morn’s side, not this woman.
Straightening from her low curtsy, Lady Morn said, “How was your journey, Majesty?”
“Fine enough, considering.”
“And how are you, Your Highness?” This to Colm, who’d finally followed his father up the stairs. Adren hoped he had the good sense to hide his gloom; there was little more dangerous to morale than gloomy princes.
Colm bowed his head to her and said, “Well enough.”
Adren winced as Lady Morn looked between them, her smile growing strained. Neither Dunstan seemed to have a way with words today.
“Would you care to see the men, Your Majesty?”
“By all means,” Adren said, letting Morn lead him to a narrow set of steps ascending the castle battlements.
The two hundred men of Adren’s guard stood in the courtyard below, but on the other side of the castle wall, Dannawey’s barracks stretched out before him. Neat rows of barracks, stables, smithies, and armories fanned out from the castle wall—and all ten thousand men, plus Adren’s own five thousand, stood there, their faces turned up to him.
Another booming cheer went up at the sight of Adren and Morn, the king and his lord ready to face whatever Larn of the Midlands brought against them.
Adren’s heart swelled to see so many brave Highland faces. Many men wore uniformed armor, their tunics a mix of Dunstan blue and Morn silver. Dannawey’s silver aspen tree adorned their chests, ringed by the five stars of the Highlands. Despite being in the southern Highlands, aspens had always thrived in Dannawey, in defiance of nature, just as the old city defied all who would invade her.
Let them try. Let this Larn of the Midlands have his turn at Dannawey. What could he do to them? In the space of one night, Larn had accomplished what Adren had fought to do for his whole life: he’d united the Highlands. Fifteen thousand Highland soldiers now stood ready, daring Larn to try again. They would be ready for him this time. The Highlands would not bow to the likes of Larn.
Here, at Dannawey, the Highlands would act as one kingdom, one people, united. Larn would not have Dannawey, not Ells, not the Highlands. Larn would not have one more inch of Highland soil. This Adren knew with his whole heart, and he prayed Themin knew it too.
Thirty-One
As he toiled day after day in the fields, producing naught but squalor, a Midland man looked to the North and raged that his home should be poor while the Highlander’s should be rich. Falling to his knees, the man lifted his face to the sky and cried out for Dea the Destroyer, promising her everything, even his very flesh, should she but help him remedy this injustice. In a crack of lightning and flame she did appear, scorching the earth. Taking his left hand, she sliced off a finger and ate it, her teeth bright with his blood. With the bone she made him a great sword, and, pointing it North, she said, “I have seen the future, and it is forged with this sword. Take it to the North, and what is theirs shall be yours.” And so it has been, and upon the scorched earth where Dea stood, Larn did build himself a new city and a new age.
—Midlander legend
Manek knew they approached Scallya from the way Dorran and the other Midlanders’ horses twitched in anticipation, anxious to be in their own stables. He heaved a heavy sigh as Dorran and his men trotted on ahead, their voices light and jovial. The tall towers of Larn’s castle speared the horizon; Scallya, the Black City, rose like a coronet from the flatlands.
Manek couldn’t help looking at it with a twist of jealousy. Within his own lifetime, Larn had raised a small farming village into a city that rivaled any of the old Highland strongholds. Unsurprisingly, Larn’s castle was a towering structure, its great stones standing higher than anything else in the surrounding landscape. One could spot the sharp spires for leagues before coming upon the walled city, surrounded by forded creeks and flooded fields, all boasting rich crops.
Scallya was overflowing with riches lately. Wheat from the plains, iron from the hills, tribute from the Lowlands, and booty from the Highlands all converged on this one magnificent feat of hubris. And Larn lorded over all as he grew his borders, bringing the wealth of the world to him and his people. Soon he’d have it all.
Manek thought of the Lowlands, of Rising and its half-finished wall, and his heart ached. When would he ever have the time and the men to make Rising a rival to such a place?
He raked a hand through his windblown hair as his gaze drifted south.
A large hand thumped his back. “You look like you’re about to choke,” said Waurin.
Manek grimaced. “Just thinking.”
“Mm. You must be thinking a lot—you’ve had that face the whole trip.”
“I could’ve been smiling like an idiot the whole way to the Forks for all you know.”
“I doubt it.”
Manek remained sullen as the walls of Scallya began to rise from the earth. Less than three leagues now. The thought didn’t improve his mood.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Am I usually happy to be here?”
“No, but you’ve usually said more than ten words. So, what is it, then? A woman?”
The only way he could hide his face from Waurin was to turn it aside, but that gave him away anyhow. It’d been torture, listening to Waurin babble about “his Essa.” He spoke of little else, so much so that Manek sometimes fantasized about shoving his boot in Waurin’s mouth to shut him up.
But
how could he even begin to tell Waurin? He’d scarcely made sense of it himself. He’d been so angry that morning—devastated to see her trying to disappear with the dawn, shocked that she thought he’d abandon her, wrathful to think she’d been using him. But did he believe it? Now that was the question. If he did, why had he gone to her before leaving?
“She wants me to free her,” he said barely loud enough for Waurin to hear.
Manek watched as Waurin’s face fell. The humor fled his eyes, and he shifted his gaze away to the eastern hills.
“Is it such a bad thing?” he said finally.
“Larn would—”
“I know their laws,” said Waurin. “Spare me. That doesn’t change the way I…that I want to…it’s a stupid law.”
“But it’s law.”
“It’s his law.” Waurin fixed Manek with eyes that gleamed with fire. “But he isn’t my warlord. I’m not Midlander.”
Manek scowled. “You sound just like her.”
The frustration, the thwarted lust, and something else that was too small and precious and terrifying to name roared through him. It had been a losing battle against it on the long march, and Manek felt himself succumbing. He was angry at Ennis, angry at himself, and angry at Waurin for starting the struggle all over again.
With a kick, he and Oren trotted ahead. Waurin didn’t try to catch up.
So Manek crossed the moat, passed beneath the iron portcullis, and began up the main promenade of Scallya alone. The city hummed with activity, hammers beating metal and leather, voices shouting prices and bargains, and carts wheeling up and down side streets. Those in the cobblestoned main street hurried out of the way of Dorran and his men, calling loudly to him to pass their best wishes on to Larn.
It never ceased to amaze Manek, the Midlands’ fierce loyalty to their lord. Did they not see his black heart? Then again, Larn had made something from nothing; that must have been more than enough for most. Larn not only brought women back with him, but unheard of wealth. Manek had seen his treasury once. It was closely guarded for good reason—it overflowed with Highland gold, silver, jewels, furs, and swords. Chests full of goods came with Larn back from campaign and he was good enough to share with his people. Not all the men were warriors, and those who didn’t help bring back the booty received gifts from Larn for their loyalty and hard work in Scallya, farming the crops, building the walls and towers, patrolling the southern border to keep the mountain clans in check..
