Page 17 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

nine

Enya

E nya stretched through the balance forms Marwar made her work with her practice sword, trying to assuage the protest in her legs and back.

After half the night and most of the day in the saddle, every bit of her ached.

Arawelo greedily tore up green shoots at her side, the mare’s disgruntlement plain in her glare.

“I know. I know. You don’t have to rub it in,” she muttered.

She’d pushed too hard. There was no question her father would come after her.

As would Liam. And Marwar. And probably Mistress Alys too, perhaps especially Alys, even if the woman couldn’t ride a horse.

Enya grimaced. Alys Ashill was the last person she would want to intercept her.

If she made good time, there was little risk they would catch Arawelo, but Enya was still relying on opening as much distance as she could before anyone realized she was missing.

By dawn, Liam would have noticed the empty stall.

Perhaps, if she was lucky, he would be late to his post after a night spent in the stable.

That may be the only blessing to arise out of that little misfortune.

She’d had to forgo a tent, stored as they were in the loft above the east end where the stablemaster and his son attended to their duties late into the night.

Every footfall and rustle of saddlebags threatened to give her away, but no alarm had gone up as she crept out of the Greenridge gate .

Enya held her breath until she was cantering down the Queen’s Road in the dark. It felt like the start of an adventure, as long as she didn’t think much about what waited at the end. A collar. Or the gallows. Pallas Davolier didn’t much like gifts he couldn’t contain.

She rode by moonlight over the hard pack of the Queen’s Road. They set a brisk pace through the night and the whole of the next day, pausing only for Arawelo to eat and take a few short rests. By afternoon, Arawelo’s toes dragged.

Enya thought long and hard about taking a room in Crook’s Rest, but decided against it.

She’d only stolen a pocketful of gold from her father’s desk.

It would need to last her to Windcross Wells.

Besides, a girl arriving alone at an inn would be memorable.

She didn’t intend to leave such an easy trail so close to home.

So she put an arrow through a rabbit as afternoon faded to evening and made a sparse camp in a little clearing tucked off the road.

She stripped off Arawelo’s saddle and curried the mare down as her dinner roasted.

Squatting on her heels, she took stock of what she’d been able to pilfer without anyone noticing.

A lantern with a spare cask of oil, flint and steel, her belt knife, a spare bowstring, a waterskin, a tin cup and bowl, a small kettle, a blanket roll, towel, three changes of clothes, bandages, a salve, a needle and thread, sewing scissors.

A brush, hoof pick, feed bag, a sack of oats.

A hair comb and a bit of soap. Bread, hard cheese, dried meat, honey, and tea.

Silver and gold, a few coppers. The horse head carving. Arawelo. My bow and quiver. My wits.

It would have to be enough to see her to Windcross Wells.

Crissa

Candles burning in a crystal chandelier sent light dancing gayly on the walls in an imitation of the figures turning about the room.

The polished black and white floor tiles were smooth under Crissa’s slippered feet.

She stood back amongst the columns supporting the arched ceiling overhead with a knot of eligible youths.

People in all their finery milled about the edges of the room, swathed in silks and velvets.

Servants in the green and white livery of Thornson House darted between them, proffering food and drink on silver trays.

The dull roar of music and merrymaking filled the ballroom despite the sorted glances toward the figures that stood near the Lord of Westforks and his lady wife .

The High Lord of Pavia’s fine blue coat was worked with so much gold embroidery it could have been gold with blue patches.

Around his neck hung a great golden medallion etched with a set of balance scales, and on his breast he wore an intricately wrought gold pin in the shape of a fox’s head.

His free hand stroked a pointed beard, but it was the woman on his other arm that had the Thornson’s guests gawking and whispering behind gloved hands.

The hawk nosed woman’s dark hair hung in curls around her shoulders and her eyes had been made sultry by smudges of dark powders.

Though Crissa was still awaiting her own Testing, the name Louissa Adler was whispered throughout the room with a mix of fear and awe.

The air wielder wore a clinging black gown and a red painted smile that did not meet her eyes.

A stack of silver links glittered at her wrist.

The collars matched to those links glittering above black coats.

The revelers gave the men a wide berth, allowing Crissa a clear view of their hard faces.

She looked too long, and a man who wore the teardrop badge of a water wielder met her gaze.

She gulped and dropped her eyes to her wine.

At her elbow, Theo Thornson was lamenting the absence of a certain guest.

“You didn’t really think she’d come, did you?” Charlotte sniffed disdainfully. “And you aren’t really broken up about it, are you? Light, Theo, I thought you had better prospects than that .”

Crissa rolled her eyes. No doubt Charlotte counted herself amongst Theo’s better prospects, but for once, she found herself in agreement with the middle Thornson. She too had hoped Enya Ryerson would appear tonight if only to have someone other than her mother or Charlotte to talk to.

“She is rather good looking, even if she is as pleasant as an ice bear,“ Aric Penrose laughed.

Henry, the second of the Thornson lot, snorted. “She could be a bloody demondread for all I care, and I’d still wed her.”

Crissa would pity the demondread. Henry was dreadful.

“If you want the land and the herd, you could always wed her and pack her off somewhere, I suppose.”

“Light, Charlotte,” Crissa muttered.

Henry grinned and raised his glass in salute. In a match between Henry Thornson and Charlotte Penrose, Crissa didn’t know who she’d pity. The rest of Westforks, perhaps .

“You would have a soft spot for the horse lord’s daughter,” Charlotte sighed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crissa asked.

Theo cleared his throat, his eyes darting to someone standing behind her.

Crissa turned, her layered pink skirts frothing around her.

Her goblet slipped from her silk glove and clattered on the tile floor, sending red splattering across white.

The black coated wielder picked up the fallen cup and liquid suddenly leapt back to where it belonged.

He set it on the tray of a passing servant that let out a terrified squawk before sprinting for the exit.

“A dance, Miss…?”

“Crissa,” she squeaked. “Crissa Blakwell.”

Peytar

“How charming this place is, don’t you think Peytar?”

“I suppose, if one finds sheep to be pleasant company,” he answered dryly.

Louissa followed his wandering gaze and her eyebrow rose. “Do you grow tired of my company, Peytar?”

“Of course not,” he said, abandoning his fruitless search. “I only grow bored of this place.”

Louissa harrumphed her agreement. “There’s little out here but giftless goats. Except Recruit Trakaw tells me that that one there is a water wielder.” She inclined her head toward a pretty doe eyed girl in a pink dress.

“I’m not sure black will suit her half as well.”

Louissa chuckled into her wine.

“No one wears black quite like you.” Peytar pressed a simpering kiss into the back of her hand. “Don’t you ever take a night off? What is the point in having the king’s good favor if you never enjoy it, hmm?”

“What exactly do you propose, Peytar? A turn about the floor with a country bumpkin?”

“If you wanted to dance, you only had to ask.”

“I do not,” she sniffed. “Not in present company.”

“It would give them something to talk about. ”

“I find it rather ruins the effect. Besides, it’s hardly work. That one is so strong we don’t even need the rod.” She grinned deviously. “It would be a shame to leash her now and wear out our welcome.”

She said it as if she were contemplating just that.

“Try not to kick the anthill before I’ve collected my gold,” he sighed.

“The king’s gold,” she corrected sharply.

“Yes, yes, of course. His Majesty’s gold.” Sloppy mistake. He needed no reminder of where Louissa’s loyalties lie. A pity, but every tool had its use, and Louissa was more useful than most. “I can’t imagine you’ve got a collar stowed away in that dress, so let us try to enjoy the evening, no?”

***

Having seen to her enjoyment, Peytar slipped back into his boots and took an oil lamp from his room. He descended from the top floor of the Morning Glory and rapped his knuckles on the door he sought. He waited half a heartbeat and rapped again, tapping his foot impatiently.

There was a muffled shuffle behind the door and something that sounded like a pile of books toppling. A lock clicked. The door opened a crack, and the little man peered out, squinting in the light of the lamp.

“My lord,” he bowed. “Is something the matter?”

“I’ve a curiosity to satisfy.” He pushed into the scribemaster’s room and stalked to the cluttered desk. Scribemaster Lorry might travel in the company of Louissa Adler, but the man was squarely in Peytar’s pocket.

Lorry, wearing nothing but a nightshirt, wrung his hands nervously. “What can I assist you with, my lord?”

“Scroll number seven from Westforks.”

Lorry retrieved the rolled up parchment from a stack as Peytar set his lamp atop the desk. He scanned the names of the houses upcountry. “Tell me, Lorry. Do you travel with a copy of The Book of Names ?”

“I do, my lord.” He scurried to a mountain of dry looking tomes in the corner and chose one from the bottom. The book that thudded to the desk was nearly as tall as Peytar’s lamp. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for, my lord?”

“The scrolls that cover the villages outside Maymoor, too. ”

“Maymoor?” The little man dry washed his hands. “I’m afraid the northern scrolls are down in the store rooms, my lord.”

“So go get them, Lorry.”