Page 90 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

forty-four

Oryn

O ryn blew out a long breath as he stomped down the staircase.

Gitaela had all but stuffed him into the silver coat she’d made for Peytar Ralenet’s welcome feast, as if the occasion warranted a new coat, but the glint in her eye confirmed she was up to something.

After Leon broke the news of Ralenet’s landing, Enya had gone straight to the princess’s room.

From there, she had retreated to her stacks of books.

He hadn’t been able to coax any answers from her, Gitaela, or Alsbet.

He’d even tried bribing Harshilda. The dwarven woman accepted his gold and then told him to consider it the cost of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

With a knot of unease in his middle, he knocked on her door.

“Come in!”

Oryn blinked at the disarray as he stepped into her sitting room. “Have you taken to pillaging libraries now too?” It looked as if she’d ransacked the place and then someone ransacked her sitting room.

Her voice carried from behind the half-closed door to the bathing chamber. “I borrowed a few things and haven’t had a chance to take them back yet.”

“A few things,” he muttered as he stomped over to snoop. The Book of Names lay open to a list of Davoliers. “Have you taken an interest in Estryian politics? ”

“Perhaps.”

Oryn frowned at the assortment of titles. He picked up a worn copy of Nimala’s Vow. “Care to share what it is you’re planning?”

“Just trying to work out a few things Hylee showed me.”

Oryn set the book aside, studying a treatise on treesongs. “I thought you said she didn’t show you anything of the Treesinger.”

“She didn’t.”

Oryn looked up at the click of heels across the stone floor.

“Do you think this is enough to make the High Lord of Pavia shake in his boots?”

The book he had picked up fell back to the stack with a thud .

The sheer black fabric clinging to her curves wasn’t fit to be a dressing robe, even if it glittered like the light of a thousand stars.

The deep neckline plunged to her navel, leaving an expanse of wholly sinful skin on display.

His eyes followed that dangerous plummet and then ripped back to her face.

A smile, coy and catlike, flitted over red painted lips.

“I think he’s speechless,” Gitaela giggled at her elbow.

“He’s always like that,” Enya replied.

Oryn hadn’t realized it was possible after two hundred and twenty-three years for the sight of a woman to rip the air from his lungs, but Enya was always unexpected. He cleared his throat. “Where is the rest of it?”

Enya’s smile was nothing short of devious. “Let’s not be late, Gargoyle. The guest of honor will be waiting.”

Oryn didn’t care if Peytar Ralenet waited himself into the grave, but she looped her arm through his and tugged him to the door.

Alone with her in the hall, waiting to be announced last in a subtle snub to the High Lord, he growled, “Do you remember when I asked you to share any particularly perilous plans of yours?”

She hummed and shifted in those ridiculous shoes.

“I would consider whatever this is to be one of them. What exactly are you doing, Enya?”

She fluttered dark lashes up at him, setting his blood roaring in his ears as she said, “I’m going to war.”

War. The word echoed through his head like the gong announcing the royal arrival.

He was grateful Alsbet had artfully arranged to be closeted away with the Master of Coin on some matter that surely violated custom so that the man might not see his knees buckle.

He’d hardly gotten ahold of himself when she tugged him along, dragging him up the dais steps.

Ralenet was already seated at Leon’s side in the place of honor that usually belonged to him.

The empty chair at the High Lord’s other side was meant for Enya, at Ralenet’s request, but Oryn took one look at his smug smile and all but shoved her into the seat beside Alsbet.

Amusement flickered across her face as she quirked a brow at her daughter’s handiwork.

“Divine,” she muttered.

“Prince Brydove,” Ralenet drawled as Oryn took the chair at his side.

He only managed to incline his head in greeting, hardly hearing Leon’s address or the subdued applause from his kin.

War. The word settled deep in his core, wrapping itself around his bones.

Oryn prayed to all five gods she had been speaking figuratively, but when he tallied her score across Estryia, he realized that was a fool’s hope.

She’d been fighting her own personal war since Innesh even if she claimed to be nothing and no one.

As he stared blankly out at the Great Hall, he was afraid to contemplate what kind of warfare involved that kind of dress.

He supposed she could have a dagger hidden somewhere she intended to drive into Ralenet’s heart.

That was perhaps wishful thinking, but he sent a phantom breeze toward his companions.

He met Colm’s gaze and darted a look to Ralenet’s personal guard in silent warning.

By the way Bade was already eyeing the men, the signal to be on alert may have been unnecessary.

In a poor show of manners, the High Lord of Pavia leaned forward to speak to Enya across the prince and princess. “Funeral black,” he tsked, his eyes roving boldly across her chest. “In Drozia?” His own brocaded silk coat bore enough gold to look at home in Leon’s hall.

“I heard you like your women in black, Peytar,” she answered huskily.

Oryn’s stonebrew almost came through his nose. He coughed into his napkin, eyeing her over Ralenet’s head. No, this was not the sort of warfare he expected from Enya Silverbow.

The man chuckled and flicked a brow his way in answer. “And I heard you like your men old .”

Enya raised a goblet to her lips. “Lucky for you, my lord.”

Ralent’s cold smile didn’t falter. “It is a shame Louissa couldn’t join us. I’m sure she’d love the chance to leash your mutt. ”

Enya’s face remained smooth, but Leon growled a warning. “Remember where you are, Peytar.”

The High Lord chuckled. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten, Prince. Say, Lady Ryerson, have you trained this one to come when you call?”

Rage was rippling off Oryn like heat in a desert as he contemplated hurling the man from the high table.

Enya, unperturbed, fluttered dark lashes at him. “Why, Peytar? Do you want to come when I call?”

“I’d like to-”

Alsbet cleared her throat loudly. “There are children at this table,” she hissed, her gaze rotating between the Estryians. “I thought you lot set much store by propriety.”

Oryn cast a look around at his nieces and nephews.

Orimum stared at his plate, his eyes wide.

The Second Prince of Drozia certainly hadn’t been prepared for this evening either, but to Enya’s other side, Gitaela sipped her wine casually, the corners of her mouth turned up in a faint smile.

He should have worried more about that alliance.

“Forgive us, Your Highness,” Ralenet drawled. “Neither Lady Ryerson nor I were raised with courtly manners.”

Oryn sent up a prayer of thanks to Simdeni for whatever serving woman at his back dropped a whole bottle of stonebrew at his fingertips. Leon swiftly turned to matters of trade.

Enya

It wasn’t her gift at all that Peytar Ralenet was interested in. It was her name.

She had realized that the moment Hylee had shown her the vision of her mother, but it was Alsbet who filled her in on the High Lord’s meteoric rise to power. From a low merchant family to the king’s Master of Coin was a remarkable climb up Estryia’s social ladder. There was only one rung left.

King.

But to achieve it, he needed legitimacy. He needed a name. It wasn’t a bounty at all. It was a bride price.

When he bowed over her hand and asked her for the dance of honor, she acquiesced with a flutter of lashes.

She could feel Oryn’s eyes on her back as the High Lord led her from the dais and out onto the floor.

She could feel all the eyes of Drozia upon them.

The Great Hall seemed to be holding its breath.

She’d expected the Estryian waltz, had practiced it for hours with Alsbet’s ladies-in-waiting, but she hadn’t expected how roughly Ralenet would pull her in close.

Enya nearly stumbled in her shoes. Gitaela had insisted on them.

She had to hand it to the princess, they made her tall enough he could not look down his nose at her, but spinning across the floor, they suddenly seemed like a hazard.

“You put on quite a show, Lady Ryerson.”

Enya willed her heart to steady and flicked her gaze toward the gathered dwarves. “You asked for an audience, Peytar.”

“Seeing as we’re on a first name basis…” Her breath hitched as he dragged her even closer, his body pressed against hers. It was an effort not to recoil as she thanked the gods Liam was elsewhere. Ralenet’s breath warmed the shell of her ear. “You’re wasted in Drozia.”

She smiled sweetly. “Ah, well. I have a little problem with a bounty in Estryia.”

“Nothing that can’t be remedied,” he breathed.

“How do you propose to do that, Peytar?”

His words were little more than a purr. “I do love the way you say my name.”

Her pulse went skittering as his hand drifted scandalously low on her back. She didn’t dare look toward the dais. “Hmm. It’s too bad I’ve been cursing it since you put a price on my head.”

“Is that the thanks I get for incentivizing your safe return?”

Keeping the bitterness from her laugh was an effort.

“I’ll admit, a bounty was not the betrothal I had in mind, but you are a difficult woman to track down.”

The little intake of breath was not entirely feigned. “How romantic, Peytar.”

“If it’s romance you want, it can be bought.”

Enya hummed. “And what did my father say when you asked him for my hand?”

“Haven’t seen the man.”

Her heart dropped like a stone as she missed a step and stumbled.

“Oh, do you mean Renley?” Ralenet pulled back, a devious smile flitting across his face. “I didn’t realize we were still pretending. ”