They had begun preparations the week before, to make quarters available for the residents who lived outside the estate walls. If word came of an advance company setting off from the fjord, the residents would move inside the walls, and the great stone gate would be drawn up. Emariya couldn't ever remember having seen the gates closed. The gate had always been a beacon of welcome to her, the sign that she had arrived home. It had rarely occurred to her that its actual purpose was to keep people out, not let them in. For her part, she and Mairi had been taking stock of what was stored in the cellar, making lists of any supplies they might need to acquire. They had also stopped much of their export of linen, and had begun converting as much of it as possible to bandages.
Just after sunset, she arrived back at the estate. Leaving Drea in the care of the stable boy, she gave the mare a quick pat on the neck and then headed into the foyer. When she caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror, she gasped. The day had taken its toll on her appearance. The practical braid Jessa had created that morning had come mostly undone. Pine needles and bits of dried grass stuck carelessly to her light woolen gown. Quickly, she headed to her chamber to change into something suitable. More often than not, her brother had been having guests at dinner, as his work spilled over into the evening hours. With so many details to see to regarding the defense of the fjord and Warren's Rest, he'd scarcely had time to sleep.
She worried they would only be able to hold on for a brief period of time if they didn't receive some sort of reinforcement, be it additional men to help guard, or weapons—preferably both. Without reinforcements, it was only a matter of time until they would fall. Eltar was not only the smallest of the lands, but they were the weakest militarily, as well. Their people weren't seasoned fighters. They were farmers and tradesmen. She wasn't naïve enough to think they could stand against Sheas without the help of Thalmas.
Emariya felt a strange kinship with Torian—the man left to lead in his father's mental absence. Even before he'd disappeared, Oren Warren had lost himself in grief. She understood firsthand how hard it was to have your father standing before you without him really being there.
Five days before the men had come and taken her mother’s life, Oren had been called to the Borderlands on Council business. Thinking his family was safe at home and not knowing what the forest would hold, he took most of the men of estate with him when he ventured to the Inn. He left one stable boy and Mairi at home to help his wife tend to the estate. He figured that he would be gone at least a week, but with the planting season over, there wasn't much that needed to be done.
When he returned, the stable boy was nowhere to be found. Mairi and the children were still under the floorboards, filthy and terrified. His wife's body had lain still and cold on the floor by the hearth. The embers in the hearth had long since died out, leaving the room devoid of all warmth or life. They said he had dropped to his knees and wept.
After her mother's death, Oren and the Great Council had imposed strict sanctions. They no longer allowed the traders from Sheas into their lands; instead, all trades now took place near the border, and then were distributed by traders designated and trusted by Eltar's Great Council.
It was said that Oren was never quite the same after Valencia's death. Most evenings after dinner he spent locked in his study, poring over leather-bound volumes of books. Anytime someone mentioned Sheas or Lady Valencia to him, his face would darken as thunderclouds rolled in behind his emerald eyes. He had never been a tall man, but he seemed to visibly shrink under the burden of his wife's death upon his shoulders. He grew his hair long and unkempt, and his face was often dark with days-old stubble. The ragged mustache on his upper lip did a poor job of hiding the grimace of disgust he often wielded.
Unbeknownst to her brother, she had sent a letter to Torian herself. Even though her brother had sent the official response, she felt she owed him a more personal one.
Your Highness,
Please forgive this letter if I speak presumptuously. I know my dearest and most esteemed brother has sent you our official correspondence. If it pleases you, sir, I wish to offer my humblest apologies for not accepting your most generous offer. While I have not yet had the fortune to make your acquaintance, it is my sincerest wish that someday we might meet. My failure to accept your terms, I hope, will not reflect poorly upon myself, or upon the Great Council of the Great Land of Eltar.
I simply cannot in good faith promise to stand by the side of one whom I do not know. Please forgive me.
In high regard,
Lady Emariya Warren
She hoped that in the future they might be able to agree to help each other without the necessity to wed. At the very least, she hoped it would prevent him from attacking Eltar in retaliation to her refusal. She didn't want that on her conscience.
CHAPTER SIX
Supplying Hope
Ignoring the slow, spreading ache deep within his shoulders, Garith hoisted the crate of heavy iron horseshoes off the pile bound for his father's small shop. The rough wood slats bit into his hands. The sun had relinquished the day, leaving behind the calm purple hue of the evening sky. Under better circumstances, his father would have retired for the day, anxious to be home for supper.
Garith wasn't the only one whose body was protesting over the longer, harder days of late. His father never complained. As the only smith near Warren's Rest, he often worked until the soot on his fingers became indistinguishable from the bruises left by the exhausted hammer missing its mark. The tenants had been collecting old nails, horseshoes, and whatever other old iron and steel pieces they could find. It fell to the younger boys to dart from cottage to cottage, collecting the meager offerings to bring to the smithy. There, Garith and his father reforged the metal before packing it tightly in crates ready to be sent to the fjord.
The farmers-turned-soldiers, serving as the first line of defense, greatly needed weapons. Garith's father had been repairing and reshaping the old horseshoes, and those would be sent for the horses out at the fjord. What couldn't be reshaped into usable horseshoes was melted down and poured into arrow molds or shaped into rudimentary knives. They might not be superior craftsmanship, but they were serviceable.
A wagon would depart for the fjord in three days’ time. Garith and his father made a habit of working long into the night, determined to have as many crates of rough weapons as possible ready to go. This would likely be the last wagon to make it through before the winter snows.
The women near the estate worked to gather supplies, as well. Sheets found new purpose, and were cut down for bandages. Extra cloaks were lined with sheep's wool to stave off cold. Tenants of Warren's Rest were no strangers to relying upon each other for their survival and, as such, they were a close-knit group, but never had so much been resting on them before. They were working together not only for their own survival, but for that of the entire land. If Warren's Rest fell, there would be none that could interrupt Sheas's inevitable advance.
With so much to be done to prepare for the defense of the estate and its surrounding lands, as well as the supplies to be sent to the fjord, Garith hadn't been able to see Emariya since she had declined Prince Torian's offer. He vowed to himself that he would get up to the main estate soon to see her. He was afraid she might doubt her decision. One of the things he loved most about her was her compassion. However, that same compassion meant she was likely taking the threat that faced them to heart, wondering if she had chosen differently the people of the estate might be safer. She would be feeling guilty, and she probably needed a friend.
He felt the familiar tug under his ribcage at the thought of Riya. He couldn't help but feel relief that she wouldn't be venturing to Thalmas, away from him. She would never be his, and he had always known that, but it had never truly occurred to him before that she might marry and move away from the estate and leave him behind. He didn't like the thought of not having her near. He didn't try to kid himself into thinking his diligence toward the supplies was for anything other than for her. If they were able to defend the fjord, maybe he could keep the fighting from reaching the estate. It was the one thing he could do to try and keep her safe.
He had begun to formulate a plan. If the fjord fell, and word came that Sheas was advancing on Warren's Rest, he would take Riya and run. They would use the pretense of riding to a neighboring estate for assistance. Where they would go, he wasn't sure. He figured she would insist on actually going for help, though no help would be enough. The most important thing would be for him to make sure she went. He couldn't bear the thought of what might happen to her, were she here when Sheas arrived. He had heard the whispered stories of her mother's fate, left cold and still upon their stone hearth. By his last breath, he swore he wouldn't let Riya join her.
Maybe we should go now
, he thought. But could he convince her? It would have to be presented in a way that didn't seem like they were running away. She would have to think they were trying to rally assistance. But it might work if she believed she could help the fjord by riding to the other estates. The question that remained was: would her brother allow it?
If he doesn't, I will take her and go anyway
, Garith decided.
“
Son of a—ow!” he screeched as a hammer tumbled from the crate he'd been carrying, banging into his knee as it plummeted to the ground. He supposed it served him right for not paying attention to what he'd been doing. He'd run the end of the crate right into the wall. After setting the crate next to his father's forge and replacing the hammer, he grabbed a crate of completed arrowheads. Putting his exhaustion aside, he headed back outside to the wagon. He tried not to think about the throbbing in his knee. There wasn't time to stop and nurse it.
Up the road a bit, he could make out two men carrying a third into Neela and Norval's tiny cottage. He didn't give them much thought as he continued back to the shop. The injured being brought to Neela had become an all-too-common occurrence as of late.
The fighting hadn't begun in earnest at the fjord yet, so fortunately battle wounds were rare. Those who were wounded there mostly didn't make it back. However, the frequency of regular skirmishes with hunters and traders in the Borderlands had picked up, leading to more injured coming in. Every year, as winter neared, men would be injured while trying to get some of the last game of the year to help tide their families over through the winter.
Arriving at the wagon and adding his crate to the pile, he was pleased to find the wagon was over half-full. He hoisted himself into the back to take stock of what else they might need the most.
“
Garith! Garith!” Garith's head jerked up. Norval rushed towards the wagon, arms flailing in front of his aged body. “Garith, go now! Lady Warren!” Stopping, Norval gasped for breath. The run up the street had taken a lot out of the old man.
Garith's heart thudded in his ears. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Emariya?” By The Three, if she were hurt…he couldn't bring himself to think it. He'd planned to go see her tomorrow. He jumped quickly out of the wagon, barely feeling the protest from his still-throbbing knee. At least Norval hadn’t seemed panicked. Surely he would have been, if something had happened to Emariya. Given the way he'd come running, it was obviously a matter of urgency, but Norval seemed almost excited. He took Norval by the shoulders. “Norval, what is it—speak, man!”
“
Her father…” Norval took another desperate breath. “We've got a man from Sheas—he keeps mumblin' of Oren.” Another breath. “He won't last…the night…”
Garith didn't hear whatever Norval said next. He was already running for his father's horse.
***
A few minutes later, Garith was galloping up the road, heading for the sprawling Warren Estate. He had traveled this road often for more than a decade, and never had it seemed to stretch out so hopelessly long before him. He had accompanied her on this road the day that Emariya's father had disappeared. The memory of her desolation that day and thoughts of her ongoing grief still haunted him. Garith had held her helplessly as she had sobbed, and then watched as she put on her calm, socially practiced face, hiding her despair. They often walked side by side down this road. Each time, he casually pretended not to notice as she silently scanned the distance of the dirt road, the hills and the trees, looking for her father's returning silhouette. Hopefully, whatever news the injured man brought tonight would bring her relief instead of more sorrow.
He urged his father's plow horse faster than was wise. Not all of the residents of the village were fortunate enough to have their own horse, and the gentle bay was more accustomed to helping till the fields during the planting season than late evening rides at breakneck speed. Every stride passed in slow motion. Finally, the gate rose out of the mist ahead of him. He dropped from full-on gallop to a halt, skidding into the stable yard, hollering for Roel while swinging his leg over his mount. The stable master came around the side of the barn in surprise, quickly setting down the bucket of feed dangling from his palm.
Garith shoved his reins into Roel's waiting hands. “Saddle Drea, and I'll need a fresh mount, as well. Lady Warren will want to depart at once!” he commanded, sounding more like a young lord than the blacksmith's son that he was. He didn't wait around for an argument. Breaking into a run, he headed for the entrance of the large house.