Page 29 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

He shook his head ruefully. “Ought to go back to the Bobber,” he said. “Best inn in Trowbridge. Nothing this side but the sailor’s lodgings. Not fit for a lady, I should think.”

“Thank you.” With a heavy sigh, she turned Arawelo back.

Enya rode across the east end of Trowbridge taught as a bowstring, but aside from a few whistles and shouts that made her blush, she crossed back across the bridge without incident and handed Arawelo off to a stable boy in the spacious yard behind the Bobber.

It was a sprawling inn bigger than any she’d seen before.

Voices and laughter drifted out into the street, along with the divine smells of a well staffed kitchen.

Enya yanked her hood farther forward before climbing the back steps to where bits of parchment fluttered on the back door. A hair comb and a bit of soap.

A barmaid wrapped in the arms of a patron squeaked when Enya suddenly appeared in the hall, but she pushed beyond the girl and her lover without a word.

Steeling herself, she peered around the corner into the boisterous common room.

It was packed with men, but two tables were occupied by women with their heads together, speaking in hushed whispers.

Enya relaxed slightly at the sight of them.

The innkeeper noticed her standing at the end of his bar immediately and bustled over. Master Ganin was a round man with wispy hair and a crisp white apron. He made no remark on Enya being alone, and showed her promptly to a room on the second floor.

“I have traveled a long way, Master Ganin. Would it be too much trouble to take dinner in my room? ”

“Not at all, Miss,” he said, bobbing his head. “One of the girls will be along with a tray.”

“Your best meal, Master Ganin. And a bath, if it is not too much trouble.”

“Not at all, Miss.”

With a dinner spread fit for a feast day and a bath full of suds and rose scented oil, Enya saw why the Bobber was considered the best inn in Trowbridge. She sighed contentedly when she sank into the soft mattress. Gods, how she missed a good feather pillow.

But even as she luxuriated in the crisp, clean linens, she found after sleeping outdoors that the small room seemed to press in on her. It was too quiet, even with the dull buzz of a common room still full of people below. She wasn’t sure what was worse - the crickets and frogs or the quiet.

She had barred the door and jammed a chair beneath the handle, but she still held her breath at every pair of boots that stomped down the hall.

Despite the bed, she found little rest. Instead of the dreams of men hunting her, she thought of all those faces downstairs.

Faces that would find themselves ten thousand marks richer if they only knocked on her door.

A dense fog clung to the river when Enya stepped out in the morning.

As she approached the bridge market, the ships were hidden from view, but it did not dampen the sounds that drifted from the docks.

Men shouted to each other over mooring lines, fishermen hauled nets to market, and dockmasters scurried about with great leather bound books, making notations about crew and cargo as they collected the king’s duty.

With the fish market open, the bridge was packed gill to fin, and Enya was jostled as she tried to make her way through the press.

“Rainbow! Brown! Brook! Cutthroat!” A man bellowed over his fish.

“Catfish! Walleye! Largemouth!” Another bellowed over top of him.

“All the way from Durelli! Silk, satin, velvet! Artelaian cotton!”

“Potatoes from the cold cellars in Valbelle!”

The cries were lost in the dull roar of people bidding and haggling.

There were spices and sweets, confections and chocolates, leather goods and garments.

There were strange fruits she’d never seen before, beautifully blown glass baubles, and one market stall had a cacophony of brightly colored birds in cages.

“All the way from the Summer Isles!” A man shouted, gesturing to the gilded cages .

“Want your aura read, girl?” A hook nosed woman draped in black lace asked as she scurried by.

“No.”

“It blazes like the sun!”

Enya shook her head, hand wrapped tightly around her coin purse and Liam’s carving inside her cloak. There was only one market stall she sought. The pinch faced man made her coppers disappear into a pouch at his waist as she tucked the lamp oil into her cloak.

It was growing too warm to be swathed in wool, but despite the sun that burned away the fog on its ascent, she gave a nervous tug at her hood, ensuring her face was cast in shadow.

As she crossed the bridge market, a scurrying boy crashed into her middle.

Enya gripped her coin purse, and her hood fell back in the jostle.

She righted it, but not before her eyes met those of a man with a jagged scar that ran from chin to ear.

She eyed him with cool disinterest and moved on, but an itch settled between her shoulder blades.

Pushing her way to the end of the bridge, she turned out along the docks and darted between the men hauling cargo to waiting carts and wagons.

More than one cursed at her underfoot, and more than one whistled after her.

Stepping carefully out of a wagon’s path, Enya stole another look over her shoulder and her heart tried to leap into her throat.

The scar faced man was some dozen paces back .

If the scar wasn’t enough to set her on edge, the cudgel in his hand surely was, but he didn’t meet her eye again.

Fool , she cursed herself as she wove between townsfolk. Bloody fool .

She hoped she was jumping at shadows. A haggard looking woman held out a bolt of cloth as she passed, and Enya paused with feigned interest. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man stop too. She did have a shadow. A blanket roll, a towel, three changes of clothes.

The hand clutching the knife at her belt felt slick with sweat.

Her free hand found Liam’s horse head carving.

She did not look, would not look, until she crossed another block.

A hunting knife, a spare bowstring. This time, her eyes met those of her pursuer and a slight smile twitched across his face. It was not the friendly sort.

My bow and quiver, my wits. A lot of good they did now, stowed in her room, and her wits seemed to have abandoned her .

She considered pointing the scar faced sailor out to the knot of crimson clad soldiers standing idly at the crossroads, but one peek under her hood would have her hauled off to the Master of Coin for whatever it was he wanted.

For an instant, she wondered if that was so bad, considering the alternative involved a cudgel.

She shivered despite the sweat that dampened her shirt now, but she passed them by.

No, losing the man was the best thing for it, if she could manage.

If she could not, it would be only an inevitable end.

Rounding a corner, Enya broke into a run.

The high buildings and narrow streets of Trowbridge made for a twisting labyrinth.

She darted through alleys lined with crates and barrels.

She ducked beneath laundry strung between windows.

Thrice she skittered out to cross the wider streets, not caring who she ruffled in her haste, but the third time brought her too close to a wagon driver.

The lash of his whip caught her cheekbone and sent her staggering as warm, wet blood seeped out from beneath the hand she clapped over it.

“Watch it!” She bellowed. “You nearly took my eye out!”

She blinked in surprise at the red clad men who laughed.

Enya backed away, stumbling into the alley between a tavern and a tannery.

She leapt behind a stack of barrels, crouching low, trying to catch her breath.

Her hand was sticky with the blood she tried to hold in, and tears welled, threatening to blind her.

Whether from the panic or the pain, she wasn’t sure.

She didn’t care. She let rage consume it all.

She hated Trowbridge and the Trydent, hated the scar faced man and the wagon driver.

She hated it all. She blinked the tears away, straining to listen over her own ragged breath.

When boots pounded into the alley, she didn’t dare exhale. “Which way?” Came a gruff man’s voice. There was no audible reply, but the boots passed by and were lost again to the street.

Slowly, cautiously, Enya sat forward and peered out between the barrels.

The alley was empty. With one hand still clasped over her face, she straightened her hood and rose.

With as much calm as she could will into herself, she strode back out into the street, trying to regain her bearings.

The walls seemed to squeeze her chest, and she fought to draw breath.

She started to cross the street again, to inch back toward the Bobber, hunched over, trying to hide the mess of her face. When she dared to raise her eyes and peer out from the shadow of her hood, she saw a burly man raise a thick hand to point at her. Enya spun and sprinted again .

Twisting and turning she ran, boots and shouts dogging her heels as she wove back and forth in the maze of shops and houses. She ducked beneath a row of bedsheets billowing across an alley and threw herself into a shadowy alcove.

It seemed more boots had joined the pursuit when they thundered by, cursing at the linens that danced in the breeze.

Enya held her breath as a sailor bumbled into one, ripping it from the line.

Its owner poked her head from a window and shouted down at him, the man returned curses in kind, but he did not continue to where Enya pressed against rough brick, holding her sleeve to her face.

She waited for long agonizing minutes before she tiptoed back out the way she came. The streets were mostly deserted here, so she broke into a jog, seeking a crowd to melt into. She turned right and then left, and skittered to a stop.

A band of crimson coated men marched up the street, peering in wagons and carriage as they went. It seemed the chase had drawn notice, and even if they didn’t know what they sought, they were searching. Oh, light.

Enya studied the street, looking for an escape. A rough hand clamped over her mouth as a thick arm snaked around her waist, dragging her back into a narrow alley. She thrashed against it, kicking and flailing like a wild, wounded animal.

“Be quiet,” a rough voice hissed in her ear.

The crimson coats tipped crates on their sides and demanded goodwives empty their baskets in the street, inching ever closer. She sank her teeth into the fingers pressed against her lip and bit down until the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.

“Stop it! I’m trying to help you, you little witch.” She twisted, feet and elbows flailing. “If you don’t stop it, I will.”

Enya screamed into the hand against her mouth and threw her head back, connecting with a hard jaw. Satisfaction flitted through her as she heard his teeth crack together, but the arms that bound her were like iron.

“I warned you,” he growled.

The arm snaking around her waist came across her chest, and a broad hand wrapped around her throat. No! She thrashed again as hard fingers dug into her pulse. Her heart throbbed and strained against them until her vision went black.

** *

Enya drifted.

Black became white when her eyes fluttered open. She blinked up at a ceiling, the paint cracked and peeling. Her cheek throbbed and the metallic taste of blood still lingered on her tongue.

“Hello, Miss Ryerson.”