Page 24 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

More bodies had filled the common room since she’d arrived, and few tables remained unoccupied.

Enya tiptoed around the drawn chairs of the inn’s patrons to a small table in the back, trying not to draw too much notice.

A pink-cheeked serving girl brought her a bowl of beef stew and a heel of crusty bread.

The girl gaped at how quickly she cleaned the bowl and went to fetch her a second.

Washed and warm, hunger and thirst no longer twisting her insides, the exhaustion roared in earnest. Enya stared blankly over the heads of men in their ale as she sat and listened to the wordless buzz.

She was trying to decide which she detested more - the cheery common room of the Queen’s Dragon or being alone with only the company of her thoughts - when the serving girl dropped her a second bowl.

***

Enya did not wake until the sun was well up and glaring through her window.

In the comfort of a room with a locked door and a bed with a feather pillow, she’d finally found a deep, undisturbed sleep.

If Maia Trakbatten herself had landed on the roof with her blue dragon, Enya Ryerson would have slept through it.

She half wished it would rain and give her a reason to stay another day, but as much as she lamented returning to the road, she could not put off what she had to do.

The common room around her was deserted as Enya broke her fast. Master Finn approached as she finished her toast, wringing his hands. “My lady,” he said nervously. “Have you business about town today?”

Enya quelled the urge to ask him which town this was. “Just a few supplies, Master Finn, and then I’ll be on my way. ”

He bobbed his white haired head. “Might I suggest, my lady, that you depart before midday?” She glanced at what she could see of the street through the inn’s front window.

By where the sun stood, midday had to be near.

He wrung his hands again. “I’m not normally one to harry my guests, but there’s to be an unfortunate event today, and a lady such as yourself may wish to be far from the village when it takes place. ”

“What kind of event?” Enya asked. The innkeeper glanced nervously around the empty common room as if expecting eavesdroppers.

“They are to burn a witch,” he whispered with a shudder. “Nasty business. Nasty business that.”

Enya gaped. Master Finn didn’t need to tell her who they were.

Witches with their spells and potions were at the top of the list of magics Pallas Davolier could not contain, magics he had no tolerance for, but real witches were said to be rare, even rarer than demi-elves.

The women that were often chained to pyres in the name of the king’s justice were often nothing more than common village healers practiced in herbs and tinctures.

“Are there wielders in town, Master Finn?” She asked.

The innkeeper looked offended. “No, my lady. No. Just soldiers of the common variety, thank the stars for that.”

She inclined her head. “I shall be about my business quickly then.”

Master Finn gave a half bow and retreated behind his bar.

Enya stalked through the narrow streets of whatever gods forsaken town this was, avoiding the village green where the king’s spectacle was to take place.

She carried a parchment wrapped bundle of dried meat from the butcher as she marched in the direction he’d indicated for the cheese monger.

She stopped dead at the sight of the sign that creaked in the breeze, the sun catching the gold lettering. The finest cheese in Innesh. Innesh .

Enya squinted at the memory of her father’s map.

There was no drop of ink to mark Innesh, but there was an old tale of legions lost in the many wars before the Dragon’s Dream, trying to ford the placid looking waters of the Trydent.

Trying to ford far to the north, near what was now the village of Innesh.

Three weeks, and she had gone so far out of her way, she was hardly any closer to Windcross Wells at all. Brush, hoof pick, a sack of oats. She stood there, blinking at the cheese monger’s sign. You’re out of oats, you light blinded fool.

All the things she didn’t want to look at suddenly came tumbling out of the corner she’d swept them to .

Even if she did reach Windcross Wells, what would happen to her?

Would they clasp a collar around her throat?

Would it work, or would it go awry like the rod seemingly had?

Would they burn her as a witch? Brush, hoof pick, a sack of oats.

No, that was wrong. Arawelo, my bow and quiver, my wits.

Her hand plunged into her pocket and wrapped around the horse head carving.

Liam’s carving. Would they let her take that to the gallows? Would it burn with her on her own pyre?

My wits. Her wits had left her stumbling around Greenridge and gotten her locked in a barn. The fear she’d packed into that box in the corner of her mind suddenly exploded, crumbling the wall she’d been building to dust.

Perhaps her father was right to try and pack her off to the Vale. She barely made it to Innesh. She’d never survive Pallas Davolier. She stood in the street before the cheese monger’s shop, frozen, while inside her, some thread snapped and plunged her into a deep well of despair.

I did not ask for a gift.

I do not want it.

Take it back.

The breeze pulled tendrils loose from her braid as she stood there, staring at the sign proclaiming the finest cheese in Innesh. Time seemed to crawl as she fought down the lump in her throat and the tears that pressed at the backs of her eyes.

Take it back.

But Mosphaera and Sakaala would not hear her even if she shouted at the top of her lungs. They’d long since abandoned the world, even if the remnants of their songs lingered. She could do nothing about it, nothing but keep moving.

When she exchanged coppers for loaves of bread, the round-faced baker handed her a honeycake she had not paid for and gave her a sad smile.

Whether he saw something of Enya’s plummet, or he was just fretting over the day, she did not know, but she savored it as she hurried back to the Queen’s Dragon.

She was still chewing the last delicious bites, blessing the baker, as she scaled the front steps to the inn’s door.

She paused at the three bits of parchment that fluttered on the breeze, tacked to the door with iron nails.

The first declared the public spectacle of the witch’s execution.

The second, a bounty that had her dropping the rest of the honeycake to roll in the dirt.

In the name of His Majesty the King, Pallas of House Davolier, High King of Estryia and Defender of the Dragon’s Dream, I, Lord Peytar Ralenet, High Lord of Pavia and His Majesty’s Master of Coin, offer the king’s bounty for the safe return of Miss Enya of House Ryerson in the Westerlands.

She is twenty years of age, small in stature, with copper hair and green eyes. She was last seen heading east from Westforks alone. Ten thousand gold marks will be awarded to the man who delivers Miss Ryerson to any of His Majesty’s outposts.

Enya stared at the parchment. She’d never seen such an outrageous sum.

Ten thousand gold marks. For her? Ryerson House didn’t have that much gold, even if they sold every horse and every stone of the old stable.

She doubted any but the High Lords and Pallas Davolier himself did.

Had her father asked this High Lord for help?

How could he? Ryerson House was of little consequence.

She stood within arms reach of the door, considering abandoning her saddle bags and running straight for Arawelo.

A small voice in her head told her to look again, and when she did, she saw the ink was smudged and the edges of the parchment curled.

It had been there for some time. Master Finn could have had her carried off in the night, but he didn’t, and she looked to the third parchment. Her heart stopped in her chest.

In the name of His Majesty the King, Pallas of House Davolier, High King of Estryia and Defender of the Dragon’s Dream, I, Lord Peytar Ralenet, High Lord of Pavia and His Majesty’s Master of Coin, offer the king’s bounty for information about the whereabouts of Griffin Ashill, Alys Ashill, Neigel Marwar, Del Marsh, and Liam Marsh.

One thousand gold marks will be awarded for each apprehended fugitive.

Fugitive? Oh, light.

Any notion that this High Lord was a friend withered.

Something had gone terribly wrong. Had the king’s Master of Coin learned of her gift and her flight?

And all that time she spent fumbling around in the forest was time her family was doing exactly what she was trying to prevent, fleeing Ryerson House.

She had to get to Windcross Wells. She had to…

She stopped, staring at the list, realizing what was missing. Renley Ryerson.

If every member of Ryerson House was wanted but her father…

she couldn’t look at that too closely. There were no answers to that question that soothed the raging tempest building beneath her skin, screaming to get out.

Glancing over her shoulder to see that the street was empty, Enya reached up and ripped the parchments from the door, letting them flutter to the ground.

Let them all burn; Lord Peytar Ralenet and his High King with him .

Master Finn let out a nervous squeak when the door banged against its frame.

Enya hardly heard either, lost as she was in her own racing thoughts.

Gone. All gone. I have to put it right. For three weeks, she’d been crawling toward Windcross Wells to turn herself in to preserve Ryerson House.

And it was gone . A gaping wound tore open in her chest, raw and ragged.

Something caught, and it was as if the parchment nailed to the door had lit a fire in her. A fire the rain and the road had tried to snuff out, and it was all she could do to channel the roaring flames into something wild, something unruly.