Page 78 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

thirty-nine

Enya

U p and up they climbed until the air grew thin.

When the path was smooth, Enya let go of her reins and stuffed her hand inside the warmth of her fur cloak.

Where the sun did not reach the shadows beneath the pines, crusts of snow clung stubbornly to rock and root.

The trail sometimes hugged the edge of the mountain with nothing but a thin strip of rock between them and a deadly plummet.

In other places, it cut deep into the stone as if worn by infinite footfalls, and the rock shelves pressed close enough Enya had to train her eyes on the sky above.

A lantern with two casks 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, 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. Honey and tea.

Silver. Arawelo. My bow and quiver. My wits.

The dust scarf. The fur cloak. Three dragon eggs.

It was gazing upward that she caught a flicker of motion in her periphery, but when she whipped her head to the little crevice it came from, there was nothing there. She scanned the rock again. There were little pockmarks and holes everywhere she looked, hidden in the rough hewn recesses.

“Arrow slits,” Oryn muttered behind her. “Well spotted. ”

Liam whipped his head around in an admission he hadn’t noticed the camouflaged defenses.

“Are we close then?”

Oryn didn’t have to answer. As Bade rounded a narrow bend and the pass opened in a hollowed out little landing, a party of dwarves in finely worked plate and mail stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way.

Behind them, a boulder had been shoved aside from a stone door crafted to blend into the rock wall.

Like the dwarves in Wayforge, they stood a head shorter than Enya, with wild beards and busy brows in varied shades of flint, russet, and ochre.

In contrast to the fine, smooth plate, there was something rugged about their features, as if the elements had not smoothed the stone they had been carved from.

Her gaze swept up to the pennants that lolled on a long pole in the breeze: a mountain with a star over the peak, a bear, and a war hammer.

As the mounted party crammed into the little space, the dwarves drew themselves up to full height and pounded fists to chests, the sound rattling off their breastplates and echoing around them. Arawelo tossed her head nervously, but Oryn returned the greeting with one thump against his own chest.

“We received word of your approach, Prince Brydove,” a dwarf with a wild tangle of mahogany beard said formally. “We’ve come to escort you and your companions the rest of the way to the palace.”

“An honor, Lord Smeltmeyer,” Oryn intoned. “Lead on.”

The dwarves turned and marched through the pass. Oryn heeled Kiawa forward to ride at the front of their party.

“Do they think we’ll get lost?” Liam whispered as he fell into step behind her. “There’s only one possible way to go.”

“Quiet, boy,” Bade snapped, falling back to the rear.

Enya suppressed a grin as Liam gave her a bewildered look.

She noted other guard towers sculpted into the mountain as they plodded on and here and there, she saw eyes peering out at them from behind the peep holes.

When they crested a rise, the land seemed to fall away, making her suck in a breath that sent a twinge through her chest. A deep valley carpeted in emerald pines stretched as far as the eye could see.

She let that breath out in a gasp at her first sight of Drozia.

“Holy gods,” Liam blurted.

A great stone bridge that spanned a perilous drop to the valley below connected the peak they stood atop to the hulking mountain that rose up ahead.

Into the southern face, the facade of a palace had been carved directly into the stone.

Pillars propped up sweeping archways. Atop them, layers of latticed windows looked down upon a sprawling plaza cut into the mountainside.

Turrets and towers adorned by rough-hewn gargoyles stretched to challenge the snow capped peak.

Their escort thumped fists to chest once as they passed the guards flanking the foot of the bridge. A bugler raised a horn to his lips and let out three long blasts. The bodies moving about the plaza like ants in the distance seemed to pause at the sound.

Enya’s insides clenched as their escort led them out onto the smooth stone bridge. It was wide enough for three wagons to pass abreast, but nothing but a knee high wall stood between her and the deadly plummet on either side. She nudged Arawelo a step closer to Kiawa.

She thought she caught a glimpse of a smile on Oryn’s hard face. “Have we finally found a fear, Lady Silverbow?” He murmured so quietly, she didn’t think their escort heard.

Her breath stolen by the the view, Enya only shot him a look that indeed made the corners of his mouth turn up.

She hadn’t thought to ask what kind of reception they would receive in Drozia.

He’d once told her she would like the dwarven capital, but that was before she’d known he was a prince.

She suddenly became keenly aware that she was wearing travel stained clothes and a three-day old braid.

At her side, Oryn looked as unruffled as ever. Bloody gargoyle.

Her insides settled as they stepped out onto the plaza, but when it became clear that their escort aimed for the gilded party waiting on the palace steps, her mouth went a bit too dry.

Standing at the front of the assembled group, with a hand resting casually on the war hammer at his belt, a dwarf with long onyx hair flecked with gray at the temples regarded them from under bushy, furrowed brows.

He wore a studded leather jerkin under his coat trimmed in thread of gold and leather backed gauntlets at his wrists.

Around his waist, was a wide gold belt set with rubies that matched the crown atop his head.

To his right, stood a woman with russet hair and a bulbous nose.

Around her collarbone hung a wide band of gold over a draped charcoal gown.

Her warm brown eyes met Enya’s and lingered.

Flanking them on the steps were seven dwarven men in a variety of dress, from sweeping robes to short coats.

One had a crinkled face with hair as white as snow.

Another had skin that looked like polished ebony.

All were bedecked in more gold and jewels than Enya had ever seen.

Behind them, another pair lingered back amongst the columns and Enya’s breath caught.

A tall, slender woman in a flowing white gown stood beside a man in powder blue robes.

His hair was the same silver-gray as Oryn’s, and when his companion cocked her head with interest, Enya caught the flash of a pointed ear.

She darted a look at Oryn, still cursing him for not having prepared her for a bloody royal welcome.

Amusement danced in his icy eyes. Just do what he does.

It was easier said than done as he dismounted smoothly.

Enya cast a panicked look around at the other demi-elves who leapt off their mounts with ease.

She kicked her feet from her stirrups and prodded with a toe to find the step Oryn wielded for her.

He didn’t so much as look her way as she found it, but it lowered her gently to the stones.

If the dwarves thought someone levitating was unusual, they didn’t show it as their discerning gazes swept around their party.

Oryn raised a fist to his chest and thumped three times.

Enya looked down at her sling. She certainly wouldn’t be doing that .

“Your Highness,” Oryn bowed. “We seek the hospitality of your hearth.”

“My hearth is yours, Oryn, Son of Elred. Be welcome,” the crowned dwarf said in a voice that rumbled like the mountain itself. He turned dark eyes toward the gathered men behind her. “Be welcome, Bade, Son of Graund. Colm, Son of Augus. Aiden, Son of Bellas.”

A bushy eyebrow quirked toward Enya in silent question.

“May I introduce, Your Highness, Lady Enya Ryerson, daughter of Rhiannon,” he said, gesturing to her.

Enya blinked at him in surprise as a murmur ran through the gathered dwarves.

That was not a name she had given him, but she schooled her features to neutrality, wondering what she was supposed to be doing with her hands as the dwarves surveyed her.

“And her companion, Liam Marsh, son of Del.”

“Be welcome, Enya, daughter of Rhainnon. Liam, Son of Del,” he intoned.

One of the dwarf lords cleared his throat and Enya felt Oryn stiffen beside her.

“We received word from Estryia concerning the lady that has some of my advisors…nervous,” the dwarf said, his eyes sweeping over her and back to Oryn. “Do you vouch for the lady, Prince?”

Oryn inclined his head. “I would not dishonor your hearth or the gift of your hospitality. ”

“Then that settles it!” He boomed, clapping his hands to disperse his advisors. “Be gone, the lot of you.”

With that dismissal, the seven assembled men made to leave, but the woman cleared her throat and held out her palm expectantly.

One by one, each dwarf dropped a gold mark into her hand as they filed away.

Whatever barrier of formality stood between them suddenly collapsed and the dwarf stalked forward. “Brother!”

Enya blinked in surprise as strong arms wrapped around Oryn’s middle in a tight embrace. The woman at his side pocketed her gold and swept forward, beaming.

“Three years, Oryn Brydove and you send so little notice, we can hardly prepare a proper feast,” she snapped, but the hardness didn’t meet her eyes as Oryn stooped to plant a kiss on her brow.

“But I see you still managed to place bets on which of my party would need Alloralla’s healing.”