Page 109 of Silverbow
Colm
For almost every one of the two hundred and twenty-three years Prince Oryn Brydove, Elred's only heir, had known this life, Colm had guarded his back. When Itham Ryland flew on Eastwood and unleashed his devastation, his only order was to get the boy across the wards to Tuminzar. Strictly speaking, he’d done his duty, but the toll of that crossing still weighed heavy in his heart.
He’d watched Amawyn Brydove shield the children of Elred’s vow marked with her own back when the dragonfire blasted their way. Her dragonscale armor saved the boys standing with them now, but it couldn’t save their queen. Colm tried not to think ill of the dead, but he hoped wherever the gods had sent Itham Ryland, he suffered with the knowledge it had been his own hand, his own blind fury, that killed the daughter he launched a war for.
With Oryn in a cradle in Drozia, Colm marched with Anala for revenge or perhaps to atone. When Ryland's Rebellion ended, he returned to the boy and he hadn’t left him since. He considered Oryn’s rearing mostly a success except for that blasted bargain with Hylee Starseer. That had been adisaster.
The demi-elves around him were haloed in the essence of their gifts. The ground shuddered beneath his feet and wind tore at his shirt and hair, but he watched the place where the godsongs strode too close to Hylee’s shadows. Theysimply winked out, disappearing in the dark. He flung his arms around Oryn's chest, holding him back from crossing into that godless sphere.
“Hylee,” Oryn pleaded. “Hylee, she’s mortal. Let her go. Please.”
The witch did not respond. Colm struggled as Oryn tried to wrench free.
“Don’t touch her,” he muttered in his prince's ear. “If the tether snaps when she’s on the other side, there’s no bringing her back.”
“It’s gone. I can’t hear it.”
The note of panic in his voice tugged at something in Colm's chest. He could not sense whatever it was that resonated with Oryn's gifts, but all around him, he saw the gods straining to reach the girl who stood as if turned to stone. “I know, lad.”
“Hylee! It’s gone on too long. I beg of you. Let her go.”
Oryn’s pleas fell on deaf ears as long, agonizing minutes dragged by. Worry gnawed at Colm's insides, worry and the regret that came with the promise he'd made to her father to see her safely to sanctuary. But there was little they could do for her, caught as she was in Hylee's web.
Finally, after what seemed like an immortal lifespan, Hylee’s shadows retracted and Enya Silverbow slammed back into her body with so much force, she crumpled to the ground. Oryn’s raging wind fell away and the gods quieted, listening. Enya clutched at her chest, but her heart beat loudly enough to hear, thundering where there had been only silence moments before. The gasping, rattling breath she drew from her hands and knees sounded like an inverted scream. Hylee's shadows swelled as she inhaled the satisfaction of her devastation.
Oryn strained against his faltering hold, but still Colm held. He had failed to keep him from Hylee once; he wouldn’t make the same mistake again, even as he sent up silent prayers of thanks to all five gods. Enya had survived crossing to and from whatever world the witch sent her to - she could withstand a few more minutes in the her dark presence, even if the pain rolling off her was so strong, it was palpable.
Hylee chuckled darkly and peered down her nose. “Did you understand what Maia asked of you?"
That name seemed to stop time; made it stretch and warp between the demi-elves gathered. Oryn's gaze shot to him over his shoulder, rage and accusation etching his features. Colm gave a terse nod, admitting what he'd known since they'd gone running west to retrieve her. Even after all this time, the Trakbatten eyes were the same. Anala’s eyes. But it wasn’t the gold flecked green that had givenit away. He hadn’t noticed it at Ryerson House. It was the orange morningstar that he’d fled in the dream.Bimrei.
Wherever dragons went after death, Bimrei the Bold seemed to have clawed his way out to guard the new Trakbatten Second in the dream. How that was possible, he didn't have the faintest idea, but Colm had known on sight who the girl with the unusual gift had to be. A dangerous secret hidden in plain sight. Renley Ryerson had confirmed it when Colm spoke to him in the dream.
Pallas Davolier had wasted little time in declaring Maia dead when she fled the Haarstrond Throne almost thirty years before, but her dragon remained in Blackash Keep. For seven years, spies reported Preya's comings and goings. Dragons did not always die with their riders and the bond between Maia and Preya had been new enough, it was conceivable the dragon could have survived it. That was, until a report drifted across the Saulet Sea that the dragon had flown out over open water and never returned. Wherever Maia Trakbatten had been for the seven years after abandoning her duty, she had managed to evade Pallas Davolier and their mate-bonded dragons. Anything was possible in seven years, but he hadn't expected to stumble across the Second. That meant there had to be an Heir and Colm had no doubt that Peytar Ralenet knew it too.
“Yes,” Enya rasped. Hoarsely, as if she had been screaming. As if whatever shadow realm Hylee had cast her into had enough substance, it had not been only in her head. Colm had feared as much when he heard her heart stop beating. Silent tears slipped from her face into the grass as her lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Enya,” Oryn breathed.
Colm watched her form the echo of her list between wheezes as her hand raised again to her chest.
The witch snorted derisively. “If you want to be a man's pet, girl, you should choose Peytar or Pallas."
Oryn went rigid. Enya pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, chains still rattling between her wrists and ankles.
“Hylee-”
The witch studied her nails with bored disinterest. “Poor Liam. Bleeding out in an alley as we speak and you're letting a man with a pretty face cart you off to sanctuary.”
Nimala shelter the boy.
“Where is he?” Enya snarled, staggering a step toward her.
Hylee waggled her finger at the girl. “That’s not the task at hand. Your end of the bargain, remember?”
“Where. Is. He.”
“How am I supposed to know? It was your vision.”
