Page 84 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

forty-one

Enya

E nya woke on her first morning in Drozia gloriously rested.

The tonic that had appeared in her room with a note from Alloralla on dosage had at last cast her into blissful, dreamless sleep.

Wrapped in the luxury of silk sheets and plush pillows, she could forget the weight of Hylee’s visions and mountain of laters, at least for a little while.

Harshilda brought breakfast to her room and she was flipping through The Wanderer’s Guide to Drozia when a timid knock sounded on her door.

Enya marked her place with a ribbon as Gitaela entered.

“I am afraid my mother is busy with the feast preparations, my lady, but I’ve come to escort you to the library tower.”

“Is there nothing I can do to help with the feast?” Enya asked.

Gitaela raised a hand to the pink pleats across her breast, looking positively scandalized. “Of course not, my lady. You’re the guest of honor. Well, you and Uncle…I mean, Prince Oryn, of course.”

“Why?”

“It’s custom, my lady,” Gitaela answered.

“And is it custom that I should spend the day in the library?”

Gitaela chewed her lip. “Well, no, my lady, but you can’t go out in Drozia until you’ve been introduced to the court and I thought, well… ”

Enya rose from her chair. She’d never seen a library and perhaps she could find a book that could help unravel some of what she needed to sort out. “The library it is then.”

Gitaela beamed and looped her arm through Enya’s as they descended the spiral stairs. They left the royal apartments and meandered through the upper floors of the palace. The princess pointed out various wings and rooms, remarking on the collections and the galleries.

“And all are welcome here?” Enya asked as they strode through a room full of marble busts of dwarven royalty.

“Of course,” Gitaela answered. “Well, all but Dothebelle.”

Enya blinked. “Why not?”

“Well, not just her, but any like her. Just until she learns to control her gift. She has a habit of turning things to gold every time she cries.”

Enya’s jaw fell open. “Gold?”

“Oh yes, she’s a stonesinger! She’ll be a marvelous one when she grows up. Dozmac and Gargitrud too.”

“They all turn things to gold?” Enya wondered.

“Of course not,” Gitaela answered as if Enya was missing the most obvious thing in the world. “Dozmac is an ironsinger.”

“He…turns things to iron?”

“No, but he will be a great smith one day. With the ironsongs, blades never go dull, things never rust and the like. Gargitrud is the regular kind of stonesinger, like Mother. When they imbue the stone the masons set with their songs, it melds into one solid piece and will stand forever unless something tears it down. Like the palace.”

“Or the bridge in Trowbridge?”

“Oh, yes, my lady!” Gitaela said excitedly. “You’ve seen the bridge? I’ve always wanted to see Estryia.”

“It’s not half so grand as Tuminzar,” Enya sighed. “And what of the rest of you? Who cannot sing? What will you do?”

Gitaela blinked at her. “Well, whatever we like, of course. Except Orimum. He’ll wear the crown after Father, he is Second Prince of Drozia. And Dozmac is Third, should something happen to him.”

“Are you not disappointed to be passed over?” Enya asked hesitantly.

“Simdeni, no,” Gitaela gasped. “I would never survive the Forging.” The dwarf girl barreled on before she could ask, so Enya added whatever the Forging was to the list of things she would have to look up in the library.

“I’m quite happy to be able to pursue a craft of my choosing.

And with three singers in the family, I won’t need to wed for political advantage. I can do what I like.”

“But they will?”

Gitaela laughed. “Don’t feel bad for them, Lady Enya. It’s an honor to serve the clan and the mountain. Besides, Doth is already one of the richest girls in Drozia. There’s an entire wing in the vaults full of things she’s turned to gold. She’ll have her pick of suitors.”

A wing. Light.

“Fashion may not bring me all the riches of stonesinging, but there is power in the crafts, my lady.”

Gitaela did not seem to mind her ignorance, so Enya asked, “What kind of power does fashion wield?”

“Well, I’ve never seen a stonesinger stop a man’s heart, but the right dress…” Gitaela giggled, dark eyes gleaming and the sound made Enya laugh too. “Here we are, my lady.”

They arrived at a set of stone doors flanked by two plum clad guards that acknowledged Gitaela with respectful nods.

Enya craned her neck, gaping at the tower that rose overhead.

A tight spiral staircase stood to one side, spearing up through the rings of balconies all the way to the tower’s crown.

Each ring was crammed with shelves from floor to ceiling with more books than Enya had ever imagined.

White robed dwarves shelved tomes and poured over work tables.

She whirled, trying to drink in everything at once.

Gitaela introduced Master Coalchin, the head librarian. The dwarf’s hair was as snowy as his robe and he bowed over Enya’s hand. “Lady Enya has an interest in books, Master Coalchin. Could you perhaps give her a tour and help her find something to read until it’s time for the feast?”

“An honor, Princess,” Master Coalchin bowed. “This way, my lady.”

Enya followed the dwarf up through the levels as he explained they were divided by subject. As they climbed around and around, Enya’s legs wished for fewer subjects.

“What is it you’re interested in, my lady?” Master Coalchin asked as they finally stood in the highest level, the section reserved for treatises on the gods. Enya avoided looking over the railing at the drop to the lower levels .

“The godsung gifts, especially the Silverbow and the Treesinger. Anything you have about dragons and the Dragon’s Dream, Ryland’s Rebellion, and the customs of Drozia.”

The librarian blinked at her.

“Oh, and the lineage of Estryia’s noble families.”

Master Coalchin cleared his throat uncertainly. “How long is it you intend to stay in Drozia, my lady?”

“Two weeks, I think.”

The man dry washed his hands. “Right. Well, we’ll…clear an alcove for you.”

Master Coalchin deposited her at a little work table by a window on one of the middle levels.

He whispered to a few of his colleagues and armloads of books were brought to her.

Enya had her nose deep in a tome on the godsung gifts when a harried Harshilda appeared, hands fisted in her plum livery.

“There you are, my lady,” she said breathlessly.

“Come along, it’s time to get ready for the feast.”

Enya looked around at the stack of tomes. “But I haven’t read about the feast yet.”

Harshilda blinked at her. “You eat, you drink, you dance, my lady. It’s not meant to be hard.”

“But my books-”

“Will be here on the morrow. Come, my lady.” Harshilda seized Enya’s hand and tugged her up out of her chair.