Page 16 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

Renley felt as if the world tilted beneath his feet. Gods. He should have kept a closer eye on her. He should have known she would do something like this.

“Did you know, boy?”

“I...I...”

“Did you know?” He roared.

Del sidled a step closer to his son.

“No, my lord,” he blurted. “It was just something she said after the Testing. I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”

Marwar cantered through the front gate and skidded to a stop in a spray of dirt and pebbles. Liam had to leap out of the way or risk being knocked out of his boots. “She doubled back to the road,” he said.

“Which way?” Del asked.

“Tracks angle west before they hit the hard pack.”

If the wielders were still in town, they’d take her. But Renley didn’t know if they were, and neither did Enya. The closest wielder’s outpost was in Windcross Wells. Enya would know that too. But what if she had gone to Westforks? To Louissa Adler of all people, Pallas’s most trusted wielder.

Renley turned to Del. “Take two of the hands with you and discreetly make inquiries around the Morning Glory. The rest of us will go east. If you find her, bring her back any way you have to.”

His oldest friend nodded gravely and wheeled his horse around, shouting for Billi and Cal. Oslee Amcott hurried forward with a saddled Farrah.

“Take her back to the barn, lad. Saddle Tyndar.” If Renley had any hope of catching her at all, he would need the stallion.

“My lord!” Griff jogged from the gatehouse as fast as his aged body would allow. “My lord, the tax collectors are coming up the road.”

“The books are in my study, Griff. Give them whatever gold they demand and send them on their way. ”

He shook his head, panting. “My lord, the Master of Coin comes with them.”

Renley blinked. Enya was missing, probably gone to hand herself over to Pallas Davolier’s wielders, and the Master of Coin, the most dangerous man in all of Estryia was coming up the road. The gods seemed to be having a jest.

“You’re sure?”

“His banner, my lord.”

Renley threw his had back to look up at the sky, a half-mad laugh breaking loose. “You bastards really have a sense of humor, don’t you?” He said as if they might hear him. “Marwar, bring her back.”

“You lot, with me.” The Master of Arms jerked his head toward the stable hands holding horses and didn’t wait for their reply before he wheeled for the gate.

“May I go, sir?” Liam asked.

“I need you here lad. Get the boys back to work. Best we not let the High Lord of Pavia know anything is amiss.”

At his order, the stable boys scampered back inside whispering about Enya and the High Lord. Liam hesitated but didn’t argue.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Griff said, squeezing his shoulder. “She can’t have gotten far.”

Renley didn’t have the heart to tell his old groundskeeper just how wrong he was. If she didn’t run into trouble, a possibility that curdled his insides, they’d never catch her.

Renley was still trying to swallow the lump in his throat when a sleek black carriage turned off the Queen’s Road and trundled toward the gate.

Cobalt feather plumes adorned the crowns of the matched team, and the driver and footman wore matching gold trimmed coats.

Behind it trailed a column of mounted men in the crimson coats of Pallas Davolier’s giftless soldiers.

A pair of gray clad scribes rode at the rear.

Overhead, they flew the king’s banner, the gold balance scales of the Master of Coin, and Peytar Ralenet’s personal black fox head on a field of blue.

Gawking faces peered out from the stables as the carriage rolled to a stop before Renley. He sent up a silent prayer.

A lifetime had passed since he last saw squared off with the High Lord of Pavia, of course, he hadn’t been a High Lord then, only an advisor to the king consort; an advisor that managed to attach himself to Pallas like a tick in Ouro Rock and hold on all the way to the upper echelons of Estryian society.

How the man had managed, Renley had no idea.

Why Pallas had allowed it, he didn’t care to fathom.

But Ralenet had been insufferable then, and Renley doubted the intervening years had made him any better.

Before the footman even opened the door, he bowed low at the waist.

Black polished boots crunched over gravel and stopped before him. “Renley Ryerson,” their wearer drawled. The lilting accent still held a touch of the South, even if the Puppet Master of Pavia had spent more than half his life squatting in the Thronelands.

Renley straightened, meeting the flinty gaze of the king’s Master of Coin. Peytar Ralenet was not a large man, but he had long ago mastered the art of looking down his nose in a way that gave the impression he was looming. “Lord Ralenet.”

“What’s it been, twenty years?”

“Twenty-five, my lord.”

But Peytar Ralenet would know that. Time had etched new lines in his face and gray now winged his dark temples, but it had not dulled the sharpness of his eyes, and it was too much to hope it had dulled his mind either.

“Time has elevated your station, my lord .“ Peytar said the title with a sneer.

There were many kinds of lords in Estryia, and even if they both bore the title, the space between them was as vast as the North. Renley wouldn’t soon forget it.

“My station has not risen half so far as yours, my lord,” he answered flatly. “You do my house a great honor. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Ralenet gave the humble house and yard an appraising look, no doubt counting every copper he could wring from it. “If you needed a break from the king’s tax, Renley, you should have written.”

A few of his guards sniggered.

“I’ve no complaints for His Majesty.”

The High Lord flashed him a mocking grin. “Not even one?”

It was an effort not to grind his teeth. Renley had any number of complaints for Pallas bloody Davolier, but there were far more important things he would lose his head for than a personal grudge.

“Rather surprising, given how you last departed Misthol,” Peytar chuckled. He stroked his pointed beard as studied the stables. “I suppose that debt to Lord Oakhart weighs heavy.”

Renley did grind his teeth as that barb dredged up things long buried. Gawen Oakhart had forgiven his debt the day he wed his daughter, but in all the years since losing her, regret had scabbed over that wound .

“Did you come all this way just to reminisce, my lord, or is there a reason for this visit?”

The High Lord chuckled as he turned back to him and waved a hand lazily toward his escort. “It’s my business to know the business of the realm, Renley.”

“Spoken like a Master of Spies.”

“Oh, Master Vyrwel would be loath to hear you say so. But I have learned much touring with the collectors these last years.”

“May it serve His Majesty well.”

A cool smile spread across Peytar’s face. “Indeed.”

“The hospitality of my house is yours, my lord. I am afraid we were not expecting your visit, but my housekeeper has gone to see after the tea.”

“I have no interest in your hospitality, Renley. Just your gold.”

“Of course, my lord. If you will follow me to my study-”

Peytar waved a dismissive hand at the scribes who clambered down from their horses. “I assume your man here can handle the matter of payment. I rather fancy a tour.”

“A tour, my lord,” Renley repeated thickly. “Of course. Griff, show them in. Oslee, fetch some water for the High Lord’s horses.”

Peytar watched the men trail after his groundskeeper with a disdainful quirk to his mouth. He chuckled as Oslee Amcot scurried forward, slopping water from a bucket as the lad tried to run and bow all at once.

“Fancy my carriage, boy?”

“I-It’s a fine team, m’lord,” Oslee stammered

“I half expected it to be made of gold,” Renley muttered.

Peytar flashed him a coy smile. “I save the gold one for the streets of Pavia.”

“The orchard-”

“The stables, if you please.”

“Of course, my lord. Our first foal of the season was born in the night. A fine colt, right this way.”

Peytar Ralenet had barely set foot into Ryerson Stable before he turned to Renley and asked, “Where is this daughter of yours?”

Renley’s heart thundered. “My daughter?”

“Enya, isn’t it?”

Gods save us all. “I am flattered, my lord, that you take such an interest to remember.”

Peytar snorted. “I wouldn’t, except for that little curiosity in your roll.”

Renley tried to work the moisture back into his mouth. “Curiosity, my lord?”

Peytar darted an uninterested glance at Piper’s colt. “Where is she, Renley?”

“I’m afraid she’s out, my lord.”

“Out? Out where?”

If only I knew. Renley hurried to keep up as the High Lord clasped his hands behind his back and started strolling down the aisle.

“I don’t suppose her absence would have anything to do with your stable being empty and your men fleeing down the Queen’s Road?” A slow smile spread across Peytar’s face.

Renley cleared his throat. “I am afraid, my lord, that she’s chosen today of all days to flee her suitors.”

“Ah, the perils of courtship.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“My men can retrieve her.”

Renley knew enough of Peytar to know that offer was a thinly veiled threat. “That is very generous, my lord, but it won’t be necessary. It is only a family matter. I’m sure she’ll be home before dark.”

“Of course.”

“This is our herd stallion, Tyndar.”

“Some Zeskayran blood in this one, isn’t there?” Peytar drawled.

“A good eye, my lord.”

“Zeskayran blood fetches a premium in the Haarstrond Court, and yet you only sell in the North and Westerlands.”

“Bridgewater and Valbelle are easier rides, my lord.”

The High Lord’s lip curled. “Is that why you never come to court?”

Renley stiffened. “I will not pretend I love the city, my lord, but-”

“It wasn’t the city that tied you to a questioner’s block,“ Peytar chuckled. “That was Pallas .”

Cold sweat dotted Renley’s brow and his knees wobbled at the memory.

“He was inconsolable after the disappearance of his young wife. I’m sure you understand, having lost your own.”

Renley fought to get a grip on his composure. “Of course, my lord. A shame Her Majesty was never found.”

A gods damned blessing .

Cold eyes bored into him. “A shame indeed.”

Marwar sometimes muttered that the gods abandoned them long ago, but Renley realized then that they hadn’t. He didn’t know what Peytar knew, or thought he knew, but Enya’s departure was nothing short of its own blessing.

Nimala forgive my blasphemy.

When they stepped back into the yard, the scribes had remounted, content with whatever Griff had given them. The High Lord of Pavia strode back toward his carriage and Renley felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

“I will see you and that girl of yours at Lord Thornson’s ball tomorrow,” Peytar said glibly.

Renley blinked. “My lord, I-”

“Do not mistake me, Renley. It wasn’t a request.”

The wretched man knows.

“Present her, Renley, or it will become a matter for my men.”

The carriage door closed and the High Lord of Pavia rapped for the driver to go. As the entourage disappeared from view, Renley sank to his knees and whispered a prayer.

May Nimala guide her, Mosphaera fill her sails, and Sakaala send her balance. May Simdeni shelter her and Solignis light her way.

May Marwar return empty handed.