Ennah

Sentisse, 66 years after the Rise

I haven’t been inside the shack for that long — the sun isn’t that high in the sky just yet, but the heat is already pressing down on me as I’m walking down the path between the grapevines. I’m so grateful for short skirts — in Granny’s books, the women all wore terribly long gowns that flowed from their wastes like upside-down tulips. The dresses around here are all short-skirted — as far as I know, having only Granny and Aunt Carme as examples. My skirts aren’t just short, but also wider than usual, to make it possible for the front and back hem to be buttoned together, making the skirts more trouser-like and ensuring the clothes will behave themselves around me. Walking around in my undergarments won’t do, of course. Visiters or not.

When I was younger and in a particularly sulky mood, I’d tell myself the only reason they dressed me like this was so that I could work without fabric flying around my face. If I am to stay here, those are thoughts I have to eliminate. I take a deep breath and focus on the task at hand. I need to pay attention. As soon as Uncle Aniol arrives with the Healer, I have to make sure neither of them sees me. And I also need to make sure that whatever Aunt Carme needs me to do, I do it quickly and without making a mess. Proving you’re up to the demands of the vineyard and capable enough to deserve a permanent place here, will require nothing but perfection.

Right. I got this.

Still, there’s a nervous fluttering in my stomach. I want to try to tell Aunt Carme about my plans again, but if she’s sleeping, or coughing so much I can’t really bother her with anything else, then my actions will have to speak for themselves. Not just to prove to her what I’m capable of, but most of all to Uncle Aniol. Another nervous streak through my belly. What if he’s the only one left to decide soon?

Thoughts I won’t give in to. I hurry down the path, the sun scorching my skin. Today will be extremely hot. I’ll have to make sure to water the vines tonight, after the sun has disappeared behind the rockface, and make sure the scrawny little grapes can grow larger — the brew influences taste, not the amount of wine we produce.

The cool shade of the house is so welcoming that I breathe a sigh of relief — also because there is no sign of either Healer or Uncle Aniol yet. The deeper I get inside the house, the darker and cooler it gets. I don’t know who was smart enough to build a home right into the mountain, but he must have been brilliant. The circadian lights are another stroke of genius; some Mage invented oil lamps that correspond with the rhythm of light and dark outside — even the intensity of the lights coincides with the time of day. Much better than having to step outside all the time, squinting into the sun.

Just when I reach the small corridor that leads to the bedrooms, I realize it’s quiet. Too quiet.

As if the silence needs to be filled, my heart starts pounding, the sound gushing against my eardrums. Please, let Aunt Carme be sleeping…

I cannot risk waking her, so I sneak closer to the door that’s slightly ajar as fast as I can, hoping for a cough that will prove she’s still alive.

I hear a voice, and I almost lift off the floor with relief when I realize it’s Aunt Carme. She sounds like she’s been coughing for ten hours straight — which isn’t that far from the truth — and she sounds very weary as she says, “Aniol…”

I come to a full stop. How is it possible that Uncle Aniol is here again? And if he’s here, then where is the Healer? Should I sneak away now? But if Aunt Carme’s coughing has ceased… He must be gone already, right? So maybe… Maybe all is well now.

I will my feet to stay on the floor and listen, before I do something rash like barging in and throwing my arms around Aunt Carme’s neck.

Well, not that escaping the shed wasn’t rash. And all those shards covering the floor… It may be cool in here, but my cheeks heat up anyway.

Uncle Aniol makes an indignant sound. “You practically begged me to. If I had known…”

“Known what?” Now Aunt Carme sounds quite sharp as well, even her coughing has a defiant edge to it. “That Nora was going to save our vineyard? They've brought nothing but good into our lives.”

“That's not true.”

“You see trouble where there is none to be found, Aniol. Nora saved us, and the both of them brought life, joy and laughter into our home.”

“And difficulty.”

“They saved us. And Ennah's still saving us.”

In the relative silence that follows, Aunt Carme coughs, raw and violently, and I can hear my heart thumping in my chest. They’re having a conversation about my future here. I should walk away. Sweep the floor in the shack, be the perfect so-called niece, make sure I can stay here. But I cannot move.

Then Aunt Carme resumes speaking, in a softer, even more serious tone. “We need her, Aniol. You need her, after I'm gone.”

My throat chokes up. What is Aunt Carme talking about? She's not… She can't be…

“Don't say things like that, Carme.”

“They have to be said, Aniol. The Healer was right.”

Uncle Aniol grunts. “He helped you. Look at how well you are doing now.”

“Borrowed time, my love.”

What is she saying? This can't be true. It must be her overly dramatic side, it has to be. But somehow, her tone isn’t overly dramatic. She doesn’t seem to be playing out something.

“He can do it again.”

“I can feel it. I’m so grateful for…” Coughing takes her over for a few heartbeats before she can resume speaking, “… for having some relief, but I can feel it. I’m so sorry, Aniol.”

I have to get out of here before I hear things I can't un-hear, before something is said that could never be taken back and therefore has to happen.

“I cannot lose you, Carme.” There's an emotion in Uncle Aniol's voice that I've never heard before. So much love, so much fragility. I choke up at the sound of it.

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“Aniol…” Aunt Carme says kindly.

Aunt Carme sighs. “Promise me you'll always see Ennah first, and not her… capabilities. The vineyard needs her. And so do you.”

“Carme, they’re looking for her again. I saw it on the Mess.”

“What?” Aunt Carme voices what I can't let slip.

I’m on the Mess? I’ve never seen the thing in real life of course, but I know it’s like a big canvas or board with messages on it. Mostly news, like where Damagic has surfaced or what king is getting married. There’s only a sentence on it; if you want the full story, you have to pay. But why would I be…

“It must have been someone else,” Aunt Carme says, and I think she’s right.

“Missing: female, about twenty years of age, from the surroundings of Yoszovar. More information…”

“Did you pay for the rest?” Aunt Carme's voice sounds doubly as feeble as before.

“What choice did I have? The Healer wouldn’t be around for another five minutes. I had to see if it was really about her…”

“And?”

“Defies gravity.”

Well, not right now. I feel heavier than ever now that Uncle Aniol said these words, the soles of my feet so solidly on the ground that it hurts.

“Oh, Aniol…”

“The reward has gone up since Nora saw the notice way back when.”

What? Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me things? I always knew a Mage was looking for me, but that was just one Mage in thousands of people. But if he has everybody looking for me… Fear grips my stomach even harder, and I want to turn and run, flee to the shack, to the basement, to anywhere I will be safe and hidden. But I can't help but keep listening to the conversation. What if… What if Aunt Carme and Uncle Aniol decide I'm worth less than the reward?

“I just don't know…” Uncle Aniol starts.

“Aniol!” I've never heard Aunt Carme speak to Uncle Aniol like this before. Like she has no more patience for him. “Listen to me. Keep her safe.”

“I just…”

“Keep her safe. Promise me again. Now.” Aunt Carme starts coughing again, a sound as if stones are scraping against each other in her throat. It makes me cringe.

“Carme…” Once more the warmth in Uncle Aniol's voice strikes me. I shudder, knowing he has never poured such an amount of kindness into any word spoken to me, and he never will too.

Aunt Carme's voice is weak; I have to strain my ears to hear her. “Even if Damagic is on our doorstep, or Càgila is breathing fire down your neck, Aniol. Keep her safe.”

This is too much. I can’t breathe, I feel I might be sick, I… I…

I can’t run. I can’t make a sound, I cannot let them know I heard all this. So I lift off the floor, forever grateful that the ankle bracelets are safely on the floor of a locked closet, and I hurl myself into the blistering heat outside.

I hardly register the temperatures, or the bright light almost blinding me. My feet have to touch the ground. I must appear to be walking, to be running. That’s all I can remember through the racing thoughts dizzying my mind.

The danger is real. It’s tangible. I feel so exposed out here, like someone is ready to snatch me and finish the business they once started. But for what? If I’m worth so much to him, what does he need me for? What is my death supposed to bring this Mage?

Whatever it is, I don’t want to find out. I’ll keep myself safe, out of sight.

Somewhere to my left, a bird flies up toward the bright blue sky with a shrill shriek. Is that a bad omen? Is the Mage on his way, or is it Càgila, or is it Damagic?

My chest feels constricted, it’s as if I cannot breathe as I hurry to reach the path closest to the mountainside. There, the grapevines are wilder and least contained compared to all the other rows of plants — maybe it could almost pass for lush and, most importantly, that path is the furthest from the entrance to the vineyard.

I’m still trying to find a balance between walking and stooping when I realize this won’t get me to the safety I crave fast enough, and the shaking of my legs combined with the cramp in my stomach makes me want to lie down and not do anything anymore. I have to get to safety. I have to make sure nobody sees me, nobody hears me.

When I almost stumble, I’ve had enough. I lean forward, switching from navigating the earth to navigating the skies, and I glide forward like I’m a snake carried by a shimmering heat mirage. I like the effect of the wind brushing my heated cheeks, my whole body now covered by the still long shadows of the plants around me, and by the time I reach the final path toward the shack, I feel a bit beter.

Now, I don’t dare to stand still to pay Granny respect, let alone send her a heart when anything could attract unwanted attention. I murmur an excuse and fly into the shack — literally. I smash the door so hard I make the window ring and press my back to it. Fear is still clenching my gut, but at least I’m inside. At least I’m out of sight.

The sunlight seeping in through the window graces the shards on the floor, lighting every broken piece of glass it touches with a glow that seems out of this world. I can’t help but be mesmerized by it, no matter how hard the fear is tugging at me. The play of light seems Magical, unreal.

With the warm wood against my back and the roof over my head, I allow the sight to calm me down. It’s ironic how the stained glass window pane I used to need to cling to when locked up in a closet, is now soothing me as I almost feel like wanting to lock myself into that very closet once more, and stay there until that Mage is dead and gone.

I swallow as a bitter thought hits me. Why didn’t he die instead of Granny? Why did I have to lose everything — my home, my family, my life — to a Mage so wicked he even outlives the people that truly love me?

Oh feathers… Aunt Carme. She’ll be next. And after that… My eyes drift to the chest high up in the wall’s recess. Will I have something in there reminding me of Aunt Carme’s love too? Too soon, too painful? What would it even be? Her beautiful necklace, perhaps? Or something she embroidered? Before I know it, tears are flowing down my cheeks, tracing cool paths over my heated skin. I quickly wipe them off. If I allow myself to ponder this for too long, I don’t know if I’ll ever recover. I have to do something.

I don’t even have to wonder what — they’re staring me right in the face, all thousands of them. The shards of my old dreams, ready to be collected in a bucket and given to Amador so his father can smelt and blow them into something new. I like the idea of that and pick up the first shard within reach.

Oh, right, of course. It’s glass. That it's weightless to me does not help in avoiding cuts — even before I pick up the third piece, I'm already bleeding. If I don’t come up with a better idea, the ground will be littered with red blots before I’ve even picked up a fraction of the mess, and I’ll be empty.

On the counter, I spot the pile of buckets I’ve left there after finishing last month's brew. That’s where I’ll start. There are no brooms or wipers to be found inside the shack, thanks to Granny's spell to keep it clean — dust and dirt find their way out in a matter of hours, normally — but there is a drawer filled with old cloths, and the cutting board I use for slicing the amarold into the tiny rings needed for the brew will come in handy as well. My nose is less pleased about the idea - amarold is one of the smelliest herbs I know and its juices soak right into the wood. You’d think that someone clever enough to invent a brew to make things taste good, would also invent a spell for reducing stench, but alas, the Mage who wrote the book didn’t mind smelly stuff that much.

Hovering on my belly, just above the floor — and breathing shallowly — I start to collect all the strewn pieces of glass and lead, scraping them together with the cutting board and shoving them into the bucket as best as they will. The finer pieces will have to be done with the piece of cloth. Oh, the noise these shards make! The air is filled with tinkles and chimes, making it impossible to hear anything outside. I can't hear if Uncle Aniol returns, and if someone else is present on the grounds, I might even lead them straight to me. My insides clench at the thought, but I need to make this right. Now more than ever, I know I have to make sure Uncle Aniol and Aunt Carme want me around. I can’t goof up.

So I barrel through, trying not to send shards of glass flying all over the shed while collecting them as fast as I can, hoping the hem of my dress won’t stir the shards still on the floor below me.

As I move a dark piece of glass, formerly a part of the manor grounds, the lead that had encased it falls off. A small detail catches my eye, and I drop the cloth I used to moved the shard with. Could that be…

I reach for the fragment, a frown on my brow appearing as I focus on it. There, on the rim, a symbol has been etched into the glass. I squint to properly see the small geometric form, and a shudder travels down my spine when I realize that I know this shape. I carry it with me on—

The door opens, and I shoot upright so fast, that I now hover at least three feet above the floor.

“What in the name of fur have you done?”