Page 3 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

It had been well over a month since her father and two of the stable hands had gone south with a band of horses to deliver to Lord Barranson’s court.

He had departed as soon as winter started to loosen its grip along the coast and the first frost-hardy merchants started to trickle up the Sunset Road.

Mistress Alys bustled back in bearing a tray with two steaming cups and a small plate of bread, cheese, and blackberry jam. “I’ve put water on for your bath, my lord. Plenty of time before dinner.” The woman was already scurrying back to tend to the kitchen before her father could answer.

From a pocket inside his coat, he produced a small paper bag and upended it on the tray set between them, sending chocolates rolling across the silver. “Don’t tell Alys I’ve gone and spoiled your dinner.”

Enya snatched one up and popped it into her mouth. She cradled her teacup in both hands, savoring the warmth. They sat quietly, letting the joyful crackle of the fire fill the drawing room until her father produced a large parcel wrapped in brown paper from beside his chair.

“Happy name day, my darling.”

“My name day isn’t until tomorrow,” Enya objected half-heartedly, but she was already reaching for the gift .

“It makes up for the years the trip goes long.” Her father watched her over the rim of his teacup as she pulled the paper away and exclaimed gleefully over the quiver wrapped within. “For my own Sana Silverbow.”

Enya laughed, tracing her finger over the leaves and vines tooled into the fine leather.

She was far from the legendary archer. With her silver-tipped longbow, Sana felled beasts and turned battles.

She was even said to have brought down a dragon and ended the Ayath Uprising with a single arrow.

No, she was nothing like Sana, but it would be a fine thing to have a grand adventure.

“It’s wonderful!” She smiled.

“I hoped you’d like it. I thought about having a new bow made, but I know you’re rather fond of the old one.”

Enya was rather fond of the one Marwar had carved for her. It was a plain thing, unadorned, but it was her bow and it never failed her.

“We’ll take a ride in the morning. Perhaps you can put it to use.” She was still beaming, running her fingers along the vines, when her father’s usual easy tone shifted. “There’s something we need to speak about, En.”

She felt the smile melt from her face like winter’s last snow. “Not even an hour, and this again?”

“You’re twenty. We should discuss-”

“Practically a spinster,” she snorted, flinging herself back into her chair. She hooked her legs over the side to face him, pinching the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger in exasperation.

“Hardly,” he chuckled. “I’m not rushing you, En, but-”

“Really?” She shot back. “Because it certainly seems like you are.”

He waved a hand. “It’s considered rather rude to let the invitations go unanswered.”

Enya huffed. “And since when do you care? You’ve been spurning invitations for years.”

The familiar shadow of memory crossed his face, and Enya felt a twinge of guilt at the barb. Her mother was, and always had been, hallowed ground when it came to her father.

“I had a wife, and though her time with us was short, I count it amongst the greatest blessings of my life. I only wish the same for you,” he said levelly. Enya’s fleeting guilt ebbed as he barreled on. “Lord Hightower’s eldest-”

“I said no to all of the eldests. I thought the whole point was to not leave Ryerson House,” she snapped .

Her father nodded in concession. “The youngest of Lord Penrose’s boys is-”

“Lord Penrose is a stuffy old bag, and Aric Penrose is a sniveling little brat.”

“You met the boy once, En. And you were six.” Now he held the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in a gesture that mirrored hers.

“I doubt he’s changed drastically,” she threw back. Despite his exasperation, she saw the corners of his mouth quirk upward in a suppressed smile. “And if I recall, he didn’t even like horses.”

“There are plenty on the list who like horses,” he sighed. “What about Sir Westerton?”

Enya gaped at her father. For him to even suggest the knight was preposterous. “Sir Westerton perches atop his horse and flounces about town like a…like a...drunken hedge night.”

“Enya,” he said warningly.

She waved a hand dismissively over her teacup. “I grow terribly bored of these fools that only want to wed for the house and herd. I don’t know them, and I don’t like them. Besides, if I had a husband, where would we live until he was ready to inherit the house? It’s not as if you’re old .”

“Well,” her father said thoughtfully, casting a look around. “You could take over the primary, and I’ll move upstairs.”

“And how father, do you suggest my dutiful husband and I go about producing an heir when you can hear every sigh in this drafty old house? Do you really want to listen to…” She trailed, satisfied, as her father spluttered.

“I fear I may have failed you, daughter. You spend far too much time with the stable boys,” he muttered.

She pressed her advantage while she had it. “It seems that’s where I belong since you see fit to treat me like a broodmare.”

He gave her a sharp look. “I never implied such a thing and you know it. You are the greatest joy of my life.”

“Not second to Tyndar?” She teased, hoping to steer back to more suitable conversation.

“The horse is worth his weight in gold, my dear, and it is nothing compared to you. Nothing would make me happier than to see you find a love match. A true love match. But you refuse to go to balls, you ignore invitations to tea, and you won’t accept calls from suitors.

How exactly do you propose we go about this, Enya? ”

“Do you honestly think I’m going to find a love match twirling around some stuffy ballroom?

Or with some boy’s insufferable lady mother over tea while we speak of lace and ruffles and embroidering pillows?

” She asked. “Not one of these fools have ever invited me for a hunt, or even a ride for that matter.”

Her father studied her over his teacup. “I see your point.”

“I shall accept any invitation from a suitor for a ride or a hunt,” she declared. “But don’t you go putting the idea into their heads. If a man doesn’t have the sense to come up with it on his own, he doesn’t have the sense to run Ryerson House.”

“You make a compelling argument as usual, my darling,” he sighed, pushing himself to his feet with a groan.

He planted another kiss on her brow. “It shall be done. All invitations for dancing and tea shall be cast aside. We will abandon any notion that I may have raised a civilized, sociable young lady and and we’ll see only those suitors scandalous enough to suggest riding or hunting or brawling for that matter. ”

Brawling was a fine idea. They would see what these knights and lordlings were made of then. Enya grinned at the suggestion. “I knew you would see it my way, Father.”

“Gods help the poor man,” he sighed as he retreated down the hall to his rooms.

“Indeed,” Enya muttered, but most men didn’t keep faith with the gods. They hadn’t been worshiped in Estryia in earnest in over a thousand years. No, no gods would help whatever poor soul tried to shackle himself to her.

She popped another chocolate into her mouth and watched the flames flicker as she pondered those gods, the abhorrent construct that was marriage, and even more ghastly, the king’s decree that left only male heirs eligible for inheritance.

Enya didn’t care much for the politics of kings and lords, but as much as men grumbled about the slow decline of the Trakbattens, she supposed that was one thing the queens who reigned before Pallas Davolier had done right.

Perhaps that was why he’d dispensed with equal inheritance so quickly.

Mistress Alys sometimes whispered that men were the greatest plight on Estryia when she didn’t think anyone was listening, but Enya had heard it, and supposed the woman was old enough to remember life under the queens.

She didn’t have long to ponder the fall of that ancient line before she heard Liam’s boots climb the porch steps.

A moment later, he dropped into the chair her father had vacated and started helping himself to the abandoned tray.

She watched over her teacup as he spread a thick layer of jam on a slice of bread and folded the entire thing into his mouth in one go.

“Men,” she scoffed.

“Your gift?” He asked around a mouthful, jerking his chin at the quiver. “Nice.”

“Chocolate?” She asked as if she didn’t already know.

Her father was nothing if not reliable, and he always brought them each a bag from the confectioner in Bridgewater, or wherever it was he ventured off to. Liam’s bag only grew heavier once the man realized he was doling his chocolates out to the stable boys in his charge.

“Stones?” He asked.

She nodded and he began placing his game pieces on the board.