Page 92 of Silverbow (The Godsung Saga #1)

That song… It was so heart wrenching. So sad.

Oryn let his sword arm fall, even as Enya wildly tugged at his hand.

Closer. He wanted to get closer. The stones beneath his feet shuddered violently and the plaza erupted.

Fountains of stone shot into the night sky.

The roar filled his ears and Oryn blinked.

Thought returned, slow and murky. Bade was blowing up Leon’s plaza.

He was drowning out the creatures’ crooning. Gods bless the man .

Oryn raised his sword and swiped for the beast that had ensnared Enya at his side.

Leon’s guard came pouring from the palace doors, short swords, axes, and war hammers in hand.

Aiden bathed the night in dancing, orange flames with Colm on his heels.

It was Bade who reached them first, twin swords whistling as they severed bat-like heads from necks, spraying black blood across Oryn’s coat and Enya’s bare skin.

He pushed her behind him as a beast fell at their feet and he turned on the fourth creature. It still crooned, but he could hold onto the shouts behind it and let the rumble of the mountain fill his ears.

The dwarves felled the fifth and final beast, brutally and slowly, but Oryn was already turning to Enya, scrambling to wipe the black blood from her face and chest. It could etch blade and armor. He didn’t want to know what it would do to a mortal’s skin.

Leon and his honor guard surrounded them, prodding at the creatures to ensure they were dead. “What in Solignis’s nine hells?” The Prince of Dwarves barked.

Quiet fell around them. The night didn’t hold any answers.

A slow dramatic clap came from near the palace steps. “Very heroic,” Ralenet drawled, surrounded by a ring of his blademasters.

“Where were you lot?” Aiden sneered.

“I’m the Master of Coin,” he shrugged. “Heroics are not my department.”

Bade spat and turned to Leon. “Sorry about the plaza.”

Leon shook his head. “The singers will fix it in the morning.”

Oryn gave Enya’s wrist a tug, but she stared at the crumpled creature at her feet, muttering the list he hadn’t heard since arriving in Drozia.

Black smoke started to curl from where its blood seeped into the mountain stone.

Oryn gave her another tug, and when she didn’t move, he swept her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

Alsbet stood tight faced with her children in the doorway, surrounded by a ring of guards.

She stepped aside for them to pass. Oryn’s gaze found Alloralla.

The elven woman nodded to him from amongst the columns and trailed in his wake, like the whispers that chased them all the way through the Great Hall.

“D-did you hear it?” Enya asked quietly as he started the climb up the steps.

“The song?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “The souls. They were screaming, Oryn. I could hear them. ”

Enya

Enya didn’t object as Oryn carried her beyond her own door, up three more turns of the spiral staircase. She didn’t object to being crushed against his chest; it was the only warmth she could find. Her own skin was clammy and cold, like all the life had drained from her in the snaring of that song.

He settled her into a worn armchair in a richly appointed sitting room. She hardly blinked as blankets and furs were heaped into her lap. Oryn stomped across the room to throw open heavy velvet curtains. Whether to let in the twinkling of the stars or watch the night sky, Enya wasn’t sure.

“Your Grace,” came the musical female voice from the door.

Oryn beckoned her in and Alloralla stepped into Enya’s view.

The elven woman didn’t ask permission as she laid a hand on Enya’s forehead, but she wasn’t sure she could find the words to object if she wanted to.

The song… She shuddered even as warmth spread through her.

Alloralla’s healing seemed to chill as it coursed through her blood.

“It will fade, my lady,” the elven woman assured her, or him. “It’s only the feeling, the memory. Have you been using the dream tonic I gave you?”

Oryn’s head whipped toward her, but Enya gave the barest shake of her head. Since Peytar Ralenet had landed in Tuminzar, she’d been revisiting Hylee’s visions every night, trying to puzzle them out and decide what to do with her laters.

“She said she could hear the souls, Alloralla.”

Thel elven woman frowned. “What did you hear, Enya?”

“W-wailing,” she stuttered. “They were wailing to be let out.”

“Strange,” the elf frowned. “Use the tonic tonight and for the next nights.” She crossed to a bar table and poured a hefty glass of stonebrew. She wrapped Enya’s fingers around it.

Enya sipped, letting the fire warm her from the inside out.

Alloralla excused herself and Oryn dropped into the chair beside her.

She cast a look around at the tapestries and portraits that hung on the walls.

She blinked at faces she knew, and others she didn’t.

There was a portrait of the two princes as boys and another of a beautiful couple that could only be the last King and Queen of Eastwood.

Her gaze lingered on them, and then it swept up long rows of bookshelves, adorned with items from far flung places.

She wanted to ask about some of those objects, but she could only manage the words for one question. “Why are they drawn to me?”

“I don’t know,” Oryn admitted, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Hylee said they could hear the resonance too.”

“Is that unusual for a Silverbow?”

“It’s hard to say what is or isn’t usual for a Silverbow. You’re only the second one.”

Enya furrowed her brow. “What about Gandaec Honorhide or Marrusli Piar?”

“Sana is the only other confirmed Silverbow.”

“What makes them unconfirmed?”

“They missed when it mattered most.”

Something about that was almost as unsettling as the demondread.

Oryn only let her return to her rooms after ensuring there were no dark creatures lurking in the shadows of her wardrobe or beneath her bed.

He loomed over her as he watched her take three drops of Alloralla’s sleeping tonic, and she half expected to find him still looming when she opened her eyes the next morning.

Instead, she found him in her sitting room, nosing through her books.

He closed Stories of Sana Silverbow and slid the volume onto the table as Enya padded across the room, wrapping a dressing robe around her shoulders. “Did you sleep well?” He asked.

“Did you sleep at all?” She countered.

From the look of it, he’d spent the night cataloging what she’d borrowed from the library.

They were neatly staked by subject. It left spires of tomes and treatises on every surface of the sitting room.

Oryn didn’t answer as she settled into the chair across from him.

She hummed as he poured her a cup of tea and stirred in the perfect spoonful of honey.

“What is it you’re looking for?” He asked.

“I’m not sure,” Enya answered, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Just…something to help.”

Oryn’s icy gaze bored into her. “In this war of yours?”

She met his stare over the rim of her teacup.

“What exactly is the plan, Enya? ”

“I have a vow to fulfill,” she sighed. “Has there been any word from Covwood?”

“Nothing yet. Did you see something of the witches?”

She chewed her lip, recalling the vision of that battlefield. “Maybe. Do you know a witch with violet eyes and white hair?”

Oryn furrowed his brow. “You’ve met the only witch I know.”

“And what a delight she was,” Enya mused, burying her face in a book on the fifty-two forgers.

Oryn

Enya’s books held no explanation of why the demondread seemed to flock to her. Oryn only hoped they wouldn’t encounter more on the way to the Vale. At least the royal apartments allowed no easy access for a creature of Covwood.

The repairs to Leon’s plaza were well underway by the time he visited the stables to speak to Rabream about preparing their escort.

The masons were still clearing and patching, but the singers had already smoothed over some of the lesser damage.

Oryn was grooming Kiawa when an impossible wind came tearing through the stables, snuffing out the lamps and torches.

He dropped the brush as his own gifts strained in answer and bolted for the palace.

The royal apartments were mostly deserted at this hour, but when he burst through Enya’s door, Harshilda waved a feather duster at him in warning. “You should knock,” the dwarven woman snapped with a hand over her racing heart.

“Something’s wrong,” he said gruffly. “Where is she?”

Harshilda scowled at him, but she said, “She was summoned to tea with the High Lord in the state parlor.”

Gods help her.

Oryn flew through the palace to the formal state rooms, his gifts trying to explode from him with each breath.

He skidded to a halt in front of double doors flanked by men in Davolier’s crimson and two of Leon’s personal guard.

Ralenet’s men moved to stop him, but he dropped them to the floor stones with a blast of air as hard as steel and burst into the room.

Enya wheeled, her hand flying to her chest, and Oryn stared in horror at the band of black encircling her wrist like a shackle. Peytar Ralenet looked up at him with smug satisfaction .

“Prince,” he crooned. “You’re just in time to celebrate.”

“What. Is. That.” Oryn hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oryn-”

“Enya has just agreed to marry me.”

His eyes slid from the vow mark to her face and back again. No, she hadn’t just agreed. She’d vowed .

The world tilted. Time seemed to stall, or perhaps, that was only his heart.

He lost control of his gifts. A raging tempest erupted from him, shattering the parlor windows. Enya’s hand came up to cover her mouth in surprise or horror, he wasn’t sure.

Oryn fled before he or Mosphaera brought the mountain down on their heads.