by S E Wendel
Colm’s brows shot up his forehead, and for the first time in a long while, he wore neither frown nor sneer.
“Master of War…?” he repeated.
It was a high title, an honor bestowed by the king in times of need, when he required help governing and commanding the army. He believed Colm would make a fine one, with some tempering, and hoped now that he had a cause—the utter defeat of the Midlands—he would finally find purpose and take the time to listen and learn. It was all Adren thought he needed, just some instruction, and Colm would be magnificent. He had a winter to make it happen.
Adren nodded and clapped his son on the shoulder before turning to Isla. He smiled despite himself.
“While we’re gone, I leave the Highlands to you.”
Isla frowned. “You mean Ells.”
“No. You will sit on my throne while I am away…and when I am gone from this life. I have already signed the decree. You will be the Highland Queen, the one she needs and the one I will be proudest of.”
Isla blinked at him owlishly, the news striking her silent.
Adren watched Colm from the corner of his eye and was relieved when he nodded at Isla once her gaze turned to him. If anything, Colm seemed relieved. Adren knew he never wanted to be king, certainly not without Ennis Courtnay as his queen, and now he wouldn’t be. Colm was a defender, a shield—Isla would be the sword.
But Isla didn’t seem pleased with the news, a fierce frown creasing her brow. She opened her mouth, perhaps to question, perhaps to argue, but then Morn squeezed her hand.
She looked at him in surprise when he gathered both her hands in his and drew her closer, a little out of her seat.
“You will be a magnificent queen,” he said, and though his eyes were still dull with sadness, Adren knew his smile was genuine and only for Isla.
“Yes, you will,” agreed Adren. “Can I count on you, Morn, to give what aid she needs?”
Both Isla and Morn looked at him, Morn hurrying to agree that he would do whatever he could for the future queen, while Isla considered him. He didn’t think his maneuvers were subtle, at least not to his clever daughter, and finally, she nodded. Taking the gift he offered to sweeten the large task he asked of her.
He needed her here. The Highlands needed her. But he would give her time with and access to those she loved.
“Good,” Adren said. “Today, we make safe what we can. Tomorrow, we take back what was stolen.” And he clasped Morn’s shoulder, hoping the young man understood that Adren would spend his life making right the wrongs that had befallen him, Highcrest, and all of the Highlands since Larn was allowed across their borders.
If it was the last thing he did, he would see the end of Larn of the Midlands.
And his dog, Manek of the Lowlands.
Forty-Seven
Though her siblings often took lovers from the mortal realm, Tamea remained true to Elak. The Host did deride her for sealing him in her sacred tree, but Tamea knew that when the stars did recall the gods to their place in the heavenly sky, Tamea would remain in her tree, with Elak.
—Tamea and Elak
Manek slumped onto his bed, dejected. Each morning, he estimated how much closer Dorran was to Scallya, how much closer he was to delivering his news. A sennight, give or take a day, before Larn knew. The real question—the one that felt like a blow straight to his gut—was how fast Larn would decide to invade. Would he wait out the winter? Could Manek dare to hope so? Could he gamble on such a hope? He drove himself mad asking these questions over and over again, but with his side still prickly and healing, he’d little else to occupy himself with.
His mother bustled in, bearing a tray of food and humming under her breath. She clucked at his appearance. Unkempt hair, unshaven chin, bleary eyes.
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
There was no point to lying. “Nor the night before.”
“Manek, you must rest.”
“All I’ve been good for is resting.”
“You must rest and get well again, what with…” She cleared her throat.
Hot anger bubbled inside him, but he smothered it, as he had for days now. What good would it do him? His father had never listened to him before and he hadn’t listened then. No, Manek wouldn’t have asked his men to march to the Mountain Lands, but still, he perhaps could have thought of a different plan, one that didn’t involve shooting at Larn’s son and thereby inviting an invasion.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Manek sighed. “I’ll need a writ made.”
“Will anyone come?”
“Hopefully. Those who can, at least.” Drawing in a long, fortifying breath, he asked, “Is Lora here? I’ll need the writs made and sent as soon as possible.”
Kasia shook her head. “No, but Ennis is downstairs.”
“Oh.”
Kasia pulled the chair away from his desk and placed it before of him. Once settled, his mother took one of his hands in both her own. “Manek, I’m starting to wonder if you should do as she asks.”
“What?”
“I’m not saying I like the idea—I’m not even saying I like her all that much. But we’re a long way from the Midlands. If it’d give you some happiness, then I just don’t understand why you can’t free her. Last winter, I would’ve sworn to Ceralia herself how you felt about her, and after everything she’s done for us—”
“Can’t I go one day without being reminded what she’s done?”
Kasia frowned at him, pinning him in place. “I didn’t raise you to be ungrateful.”
“I’m not ungrateful,” he argued. “I know what she’s done for me—for Rising. But the fact is, I can’t ever repay her.”
“You could—”
“It still wouldn’t be enough. Nothing I ever do will make me deserve her.”
Kasia’s face eased then, and he found this understanding glint in her eye more troubling than her frown. She leaned forward to pat his face.
“I’m not going to get into an argument about deserving—you’re my son and I’m biased. I will say that she doesn’t see such things. She’s chosen you, Manek. So, you’d best decide what to do about it.” Standing, Kasia straightened out her skirts. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs and send her up to you. I’ll have your father round up some men to take the writs the instant the ink’s dry. When you’ve finished, try to sort all this out between you. And, Tamea take you, be civil.”
And with that, his mother left him feeling about twelve years old.
He stood, pushed the chair back to the desk, sat back down. Clenched and unclenched his fists as he waited.
He heard Ennis’s footsteps down the hall, and then she was there, her demeanor begrudging and expression guarded. She entered the room warily.
“You asked for me?”
He nodded; for one desperate moment, he couldn’t make his mouth work. “I need summons written up.”
“Ah.” Something sharp flitted across her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it’d come. With efficient, precise movements, Ennis pulled the chair back and began preparing all she’d need on the desk.
He watched her silently, his gut twisting with dread. The fact was, Manek had severely overestimated his ability, and resolve, to drive her away. Being cold was one thing; making his feelings match his actions was quite another. The only way to tamp down his anger at his father was to douse any and all anger with resignation, and that included the bitterness he’d felt as he bled from the Midlands to the Lowlands, not knowing if he’d live to see home but sure that it’d been her advice to blame for this. All that was left was his longing for her, a sharp tugging below his ribs he’d long grown accustomed to, and the dread of not knowing what to do.
He’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t thought of freeing her, especially now. What did it matter if she was freed? Larn was coming anyway. He let himself indulge in that fantasy more than he should, often when he couldn’t sleep at night, envisioning what a life would be like with her
in it, truly in it.
But could he take that risk? Could he free her when he still felt in his gut there was a chance she’d take the first opportunity to flee north? Could he free her if there was still a chance to salvage the situation with Larn?
He didn’t know. And he hated not knowing.
Manek had lived his adult life knowing he’d lay down his life for Larn on the battlefield somewhere north, had comforted himself with the thought that it would protect his home and his people. The Lowlands may not have chosen him, but he would be worthy of her trust. But then Ennis came and she insisted and pushed and prodded, making him look up, making him see what else could be.
But he didn’t know how to make these things so. He didn’t know what the future held anymore, other than fire and destruction and death, so much death, all for nothing.
Ennis cleared her throat, ready for him.
It took Manek a moment to collect his thoughts. She was looking at him now and he had to give himself a little shake.
“I’ll need six of these.”
“I thought you had a dozen or more towns like Rising in the Lowlands.”
“Most aren’t strong enough to help us anymore.” She grimaced, and he answered with his own. “Write that Larn’s decided to invade—we expect him here at Rising by the solstice. I’m not sure what sort of force he’ll bring, but whatever it is, we can’t hope to face it alone. Ask that they send as many as they can. Tell them the Lowlands must band together against Larn if we want to stand any chance against him.”
She nodded along as he spoke, and when he finished, the only sound was her scratching away at the parchment. Once she had the last word down, she set her quill in the inkwell and read him what she’d written.
“That’ll do,” he said. “I’d like a special one written for Kennick too.”
“The horse trader.”
“More or less.”
“I thought he was only your trade partner.”
“We’ll find out. Tell him that Larn’s coming, we expect by the solstice. Tell him that he ordered us to march into the Mountain Lands to attack the clans there—say that I suspect if Larn’s got his eye on the Mountain Lands, it won’t be long until he pushes further south into the Meadowlands. Say if Kennick will come to our aid, I’ll consider us allies, with all that implies. I’d come to his aid against Landon. I’d be interested in trading more than just horses.”
“Do you think he’ll come?” she asked as she wrote.
“I hope so. Themin knows I’d happily take just his horses.”
“I should like to see these warhorses in action. You keep singing their praises, yet all Oren ever does is eat.”
“He can have more than one talent.”
She laughed at that, her warm eyes turning to him. The full force of her smile hit him, and all the air fled his lungs. As he stared, her own eyes widened, and she jerked back to the desk, setting herself to finishing Kennick’s letter.
When she read it back to him, there was no emotion in her voice. It hurt to listen to, and he barely heard what she said before he nodded his approval.
With that, she set about making five copies of the first writ.
He watched absently as her hand glided across the page, undulating with different letters. His eyes drifted up her arm to her shoulder. Followed the curve of her collarbone to her neck, gracefully arched over her writing. Ennis held herself so confidently, her movements so fluid. She was lovely.
He couldn’t help that his thoughts strayed from the coming battle, seeking shelter in the memory of how it’d felt to have Ennis in his bed, the heat of her, her body pressed to his, skin-to-skin.
“Was that everything?”
It took him a moment to register she’d spoken and even longer to shift his gaze from her mouth—with its bowed upper lip and uneven dimples around the edges; Tamea take him, she had lovely dimples—to her eyes. He knew she saw, even with only a small smirch of color on her cheeks as proof.
“Yes,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.
Damn it all, where was his control? He’d kept her away so far, why not a little longer?
The silence stretched. Ennis focused on cleaning the quill and blotting the drying ink. Manek, on the other hand, was at the full mercy of the awkwardness as the moments drew longer. He resisted fidgeting.
He said the only thing that came to mind, the thing that would make her angry and perhaps rekindle it in him as well. “I suppose you’re pleased. You’ll have your battle,” he said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Gods,” she swore.
It was Manek’s turn to raise his brows.
“I won’t do this again. I’m sorry for what’s happened. I’m sorry it’s come to this. I’ve said all I can,” she said, glaring as she turned in the chair to face him. “What do I have to do, Manek?”
His elbows resting on his knees, he scrubbed his hands over his face, hiding it from her. “Nothing,” he said into his hands, feeling the warm echo of it on his palms. “You’ve done enough.”
He hadn’t said it with malice, hadn’t really known how he meant it at all, but Ennis took it as a blow.
Something like a gasp escaped her lips. She stood, the chair scraping against the wooden floorboards, and Manek had a moment of clarity—yes, here it was, she would leave, leave as she always did now when she spoke to him. He’d driven her away, and from the devastation in her eyes, he knew it would be for good.
But when he’d finally found the words to do it, he couldn’t bear the consequence.
She turned from him, biting the inside of her cheek. She only got two steps; he only let her get that far before he couldn’t bear it.
He caught her wrist, stopping her, entreating without words that she stay.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice thick.
“Then what did you mean?” she whispered.
He didn’t know, but “Not that.”
She met his gaze, searching, and he was relieved when her shoulders eased. She didn’t come to him, but she didn’t leave either. Standing before him, she took him in, and Manek had the thought that she was inspecting him, that she could see into the very heart of him, down to the dregs.
“I know it’s easier to fight me than Larn. I…I just wish you would let me fight him with you. We could be allies, Manek.”
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he admitted.
“Then don’t.”
It was easier than he thought, easy to let his anger and bitterness fade to the back of his mind. It was so hard to keep his anger, hard to keep it at bay but also to keep it at all. What had it gotten him? It was easy to want her near, and, with a little tug, pull her closer.
She stepped between his knees, standing over him. Slowly, she lifted a hand to his face, tracing his brow before running it through his hair. He shuddered at the light scrape of her nails, the comforting warmth and pressure of her hand on his head.
Without thinking, without caring, only needing, he leaned forward, at first lightly touching his forehead to the center of her chest. He felt the breath she took and released, a little sigh he desperately hoped was content. She toyed with the end of a lock of his hair, letting the natural curl wrap around her finger, before she combed her hand through it again and pulled him closer, deeper into her.
And he went willingly, so, so willingly, his own sigh, of relief, of contentment, rushing out.
She held him like that for long moments, and Manek soaked up the comfort of it, letting it ease the ache in his chest, using it to bolster his nerve.
“Everything is going wrong,” he finally said, his words a little muffled in her dress. “I don’t want to ask my men to fight again, not backed into a corner and standing between Larn and their families. I’ve been trying so hard to keep him away from here, but nothing I do…I don’t know what to do, Ennis. I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Sometimes you can’t fix it. Sometimes you must replace it.”
He s
hook his head against her sternum and wrapped an arm around her hips, pulling her as close as he could without making her topple on top of him.
“You don’t understand. My father doesn’t understand. You don’t know him, you don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“He razed my home, Manek. I think I know—”
“Your sister, the one he claimed, she’s alive.” He looked up at her, eyes bright, needing her to understand what they’d welcomed into the Lowlands. “I saw her when I went to Scallya in spring,” he said, and he told her of the gauntness of her sister, of the wasted look of her. How no light shone from her eyes, the fight drained from her. Larn did that, he insisted, was cruel enough to do that to not just one person but many. And he hated how the light seemed to die from Ennis’s own eyes, hated that he used her sister to try to make her understand.
She wouldn’t look at him for a long time, her unseeing gaze trained around his throat.
Manek worried he’d gone too far, and a part of him knew he had, but he was desperate to make her see. Perhaps he needed to feel as if he didn’t just say things into a void.
“I know,” she said, so quietly he barely heard. “I know what you say is true. I know he’s killed my sister, even if she yet lives. I…sometimes I dream of him, that look on his face when he stood over me, holding me by my hair. I feel the burn of it on my scalp sometimes. I don’t want him to come here, Manek. I don’t. But he is.”
Manek winced. He knew that, of course he knew that, but sometimes he wished that his own will in avoiding it would be enough to make it so.
“But, Manek,” she held his face between her hands, closing off any escape from her eyes as she said, “that means you—we must fight. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I don’t want anyone to suffer.”
“I know you don’t, and I don’t either. But this is their lives and homes too. I know what you must have gone through at Dannawey was a nightmare, but we lived through our own here. The plague took almost everything. These people fought it with everything they had. They’re not going to let Larn take what little they have left. Don’t ask them to hand it over without a fight—don’t ask them to stand by while Larn consumes everything like a slow plague.”
