Page 87 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

forty-three

Enya

T he late morning sun was glaring through Enya’s window by the time she opened heavy lids.

Her mouth tasted like Blackash Keep and when she coughed, her lungs rattled.

Groaning, she dragged herself from bed to pad to the bathing chamber.

Her face was ghastly in the mirror, stained with the remnants of Alsbet’s cosmetics.

Harshilda swept in with a tray when Enya rang the little silver bell on her table.

Not a hair of the woman’s intricate braids were out of place.

Enya squinted. She had definitely swung past Harshilda on the dance floor in the Great Hall, but the woman looked as if she’d gotten a full night’s sleep.

She took one look at Enya, passing judgment and sentence with a single glance and started drawing a bath.

Enya was still nursing her tea when Alsbet flitted through the door. The Princess of Dwarves passed her own judgement and planted fists on hips. Enya squinted up at her in a vain attempt at a smile.

“Did you get into the stonebrew?” She sighed.

“Maybe,” Enya croaked with a voice raspy from the brew and the smoke and shouting over the din. “That’s the one that tastes like the forges of hell?”

Alsbet threw back her head and roared a laugh that made Enya flinch. “Aye. Best leave that to the stone folk. Fortunately for you, there’s only one thing you must do today. ”

“And that is?” She asked with an inkling of dread.

Alsbet poured herself a cup of tea and regarded Enya with raised eyebrows. “Open your hearth gifts, of course.”

“My-”

Her question was cut off as Harshilda reappeared with a mountain of paper wrapped parcels in her arms.

“What’s this?”

“Did Oryn tell you nothing?” Alsbet hissed with exasperation. “When an honored guest is hosted in Drozia, it is custom for the members of my court to send a gift for your hearth.”

“Alsbet, no. I can’t possibly accept,” Enya gasped. For starters, she didn’t have a hearth, it was borrowed, but she thought pointing that out might violate some custom or another. Her eyes widened as more servants appeared in the doorway laden with gifts.

“Of course you can,” Alsbet sniffed. “It’s terribly rude not to.”

When the gifts were mounded like Greenridge, Harshilda perched on the edge of a chair with a quill poised over a little leather bound notebook.

“Go on, open them,” Alsbet clucked excitedly. “Read the cards. Hilda will record the invitation and respond.”

Enya reached for a small box with a white silk bow and lifted the sealed parchment. She opened it and read, clearing her throat. “Mistress Oakfoot has invited me to tea.”

“Well-to-do merchants,” Alsbet said. “Import and export. Go on, go on.”

Enya tentatively pulled away the bow and lifted the lid on a small box to find a beautiful glass bottle of perfume oil. She blinked at it and looked to Alsbet. “What do I do with it?”

The woman peered across the plateau of gifts between them and sniffed. “You wear it, of course.”

Dumbfounded but waved on by the princess, Enya opened silk shawls and leather riding gloves that accompanied invitations to tea.

There were bracelets and rings with invitations to dine.

Bolts of fine silk and mountain furs accompanied invitations to take up various activities.

An invitation to go hawking with Lady Goldmont, one of Alsbet’s ladies-in-waiting, accompanied a hair net so heavy with emeralds that it made Enya gasp.

The demi-elves had sent gifts too. Aiden sent a set of throwing knives. From Colm came a shirt of fine chain mail and the staff that came without a note could only be from Bade. Alsbet waved her to a small box from her own house.

“Oh Alsbet, your hospitality is already a gift I could never repay,” Enya said, shaking her head.

The woman made a vexed sound. “Has Estryia changed so much that you do not know what a gift is, girl? It’s not meant to be repaid. It’s a gift.”

Enya sighed and lifted the lid. Nestled in a bed of silk sat a long, curved belt knife, the blade a deep smoky gray.

“It’s a sung blade,” Alsbet said excitedly. “Orimum chose it from the royal collection. It will never go dull.”

“Oh,” Enya stared at it, running a finger along the fine hilt. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Alsbet pursed her lips at the address and sniffed at the mountain of discarded paper and boxes. “I see Prince Oryn has neglected to send a gift.”

“Oh, I’m sure-” Enya’s objection died under Alsbet’s withering glare.

“Hilda, send word to the Unterforges, Blackstones, and Magmarogs that Lady Enya will join them on the morrow. You should take tea together with Alfogheana Stormfall and Yazolyn Ironhilt. They’ll take great insult if you see one before the other. After that…”

Oryn

Oryn was surprised to find a buoyant Enya Silverbow ready for dinner.

He’d expected the stonebrew to have taken its toll, but when she stepped out onto the spiral staircase in green silk, she had a gleam in her eye.

He blinked at his signet ring dangling from the long cord around her neck.

She looked down and hurriedly pushed it into her bodice.

“Should I be worried?” He asked with a sigh.

“The head librarian let me bring a few books back.”

Oryn eyed her sidelong as they descended to the dining room. “I didn’t know you had an interest in books.” It was a ridiculous thing to say, he realized. It was not as if their time on the road was conducive to reading.

“You hardly know me at all, Gargoyle,” she sniffed .

Oryn sighed, glad to deposit her beside an eager Gitaela, full of giggles and gossip about the feast. Oryn waited all through the meal for Alsbet to swoop in, but she kept her musings to polite remarks on the festivities and the latest court gossip, as if the primary subject of that court gossip was not seated at the table.

He’d gone to the training pits early in the day and was chased out by the mutters and speculation.

Drozia was buzzing like a hive beneath the mountain.

That blasted vow mark she showed to half of Leon’s kingdom was no help.

There were betting pools on who she’d sworn it to, and most seemed to think him, nevermind the lace of vines and moonflowers twining up his own arm.

Alsbet’s show of not meddling could only last so long, and so long turned out to be until the sitting room. She took up a cup of wine and prodded Bargitelin to the piano bench. Oryn smiled at his niece as she began to play, her face screwed up in concentration.

“Do you paint or draw, Enya?” Alsbet asked.

“No.”

“Do you sew or weave?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Faint spots of pink appeared in her cheeks as she cast a look around at the royal children.

“Play an instrument?”

“Not really.”

Alsbet eyed her suspiciously. “What does ‘not really’ mean?”

“We had a piano, but I am-”

Alsbet clapped her hands excitedly. “You must play something for us.”

Enya’s face flushed crimson. “Please do not ask me to inflict such torture upon us all.”

“Nonsense,” Alsbet waved. “Bargitelin, make room for Enya.”

His niece excitedly slid to one end of the bench, patting the cushion beside her. “Join me, Lady Enya.”

Oryn didn’t meet her eye as she cast him a pleading look. He tried to hide his amusement in his pipe. With far less protest than he expected, she loosed a resigned sigh and joined the girl on the bench.

“Do you know any duets?” Bargitelin asked.

Enya chewed on her lip and tapped a key. The note rang clear and pure through the sitting room. “Ostra’s March?”

“That is an old tune,” Alsbet remarked .

A tune a Trakbatten would know. Bargitelin, on the lower part, counted them off. His niece played flawlessly, her hands flitting over the keys. Enya, as red as Pallas Davolier’s lion, cringed each time she fumbled a note, but when they finished, Alsbet’s children clapped politely.

“You’ve been practicing, Bar,” he mused.

Alsbet sniffed. “It’s been three years, Oryn.”

Leon harrumphed his agreement.

“How long do you intend to stay in the Vale?” She demanded.

“The Vale?” Dozmac gasped. “Can I go with you, Uncle?”

A chorus of agreement came from the boys and girls alike. Oryn eyed Alsbet over his glass. She lifted a brow in challenge.

“Not this time, Doz. I have some business to see to with Lady Enya.”

“Are you coming back?” Gargitrude asked.

“I always come back.”

“No you don’t.” The crinkled brow made her a mirror image of her mother. “You stay away for an eternity.”

“Long enough to forget the customs of our court, it seems,” Alsbet chided. “The absence of your hearth gift was noted, Oryn.”

Enya seemed to sink into the piano bench as Leon fixed him with a stare. “Is that true, brother?”

“I hope her ladyship will forgive the delay. I couldn’t find a suitable gift so I’m having something made.”

Alsbet turned her attention on Leon. “Husband, what of Enya’s marriage offers?”

Enya jerked, clanging a key and Oryn smiled into his cup.

“Marmok Ironspike, Budrud Ashbellow, and Khestrig Kragfall.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Who…?”

“You danced thrice with Marmok Ironspike,” Oryn answered levelly. “Red beard, green tunic. Budrud Ashbellow wore the maroon tunic with gold embroidery. Khestrig Kragfall was all in gray, with the great golden chain. I believe you robbed him of a fair bit of gold over a game of Dragons.”

Slack-jawed, Enya swiveled to Alsbet.

“Oh don’t fret so, my dear. A dwarf isn’t really serious until he’s showered you in jewels and asked at least three times. Leon had to ask me five before he dined with my parents. ”

The Prince of Dwarves grunted around his pipe. Oryn remembered the battlefield that was that courtship. He’d seen less interesting fights with Durelli sellswords.

“I’ve no want for a husband.”

“Here here,” Gitaela said, raising her own wine cup under her mother’s bored look.

“You seemed to like Enya’s friend last night,” Orimum shot.

Scarlet flooded Gitaela’s face as she scowled at her brother. “And what about you, Ori? Not bold enough to make your own marriage offer?”