Page 174 of Silverbow
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.
forty-two
Oryn
Oryn sprawled in an armchair, sipping his dark stonebrew. Smoke danced on his tongue as Leon grumbled about his wife keeping him waiting, keeping all of Drozia waiting. Keeping all of Drozia waiting was one of Alsbet’s greatest talents, but he kept that thought to himself. He was in no hurry to get to the feast anyway.
An acquired taste, stonebrew; it seared like the forge fires, but he thought he might need a dose of dwarven courage this night. A Great Hall packed full of Leon’s kin and Enya bloody Silverbow in a dress ought to make for a fine evening. His first glimpse of her in that borrowed blue silk the night before had almost knocked the breath from him.
He was second guessing his choice to claim guest right. Perhaps he should have packed her off to Colm’s townhouse. Perhaps he should have sailed straight for the Vale, Frothfangs and Bay of Beasts be damned. He had known Alsbet would take an interest and Leon’s wife was as formidable as the mountain around them. When she realized there was nothing between them, he might end up banished, or worse.
She might string him up this very night when she learned he had ceded the dance of honor to Orimum. The lad had paced his room, working up the courage to ask for it. Enya Silverbow certainly would not be saving the dance of honor forhim, even if speculation was running wild through Alsbet’s court. The Princess of Dwarves seemed content to let that speculation breed and take on a life of its own.
He took a gulp that seared as it went down. Oryn was considering fleeing his own welcome feast when two pairs of footfalls echoed down the staircase, chased by girlish giggles and an entirely ungracious snort. Leon grunted and set his crystal goblet on an end table. Together, they rose and Oryn realized there was not enough stonebrew in all of Tuminzar.
Where Alsbet had rooted out a Zeskayran gown on such short notice, he couldn’t fathom, but the provocative, two piece ensemble was meant for a night on the desert sands, not the Great Hall of the Palace of Drozia. Enya had abandoned her ideas of Estryian propriety, it seemed, as moon white flesh stretched between the beaded emerald top and the wispy layered skirts that left the shape of her legs entirely visible.
The beadwork glinted with each rise and fall of her breath, but his eyes lingered on the angry red scar marring her skin in a glaring reminder of his failings. Her hair had been plaited and bound at her nape, lest the long lengths make the ensemble any less scandalous and even more scandalous was the vow mark in plain view across the expanse of her back.
“Lady Ryerson,” Leon bobbed. “Wife. We are late.”
“It’s impossible to be late to one’s own party,” Alsbet sighed, patting the hair piled atop her head like a great bird’s nest. “And neither can the guests of honor.”
“Lady Silverbow.” Oryn gave a formal, shallow bow and offered his arm, trying to shut out the roaring in his ears. He was half surprised she accepted, letting her hand rest lightly atop his coat sleeve as they descended through the corridors.
“You did not complement my dress, Prince Oryn,” she mused as they waited in the antechamber for the herald to announce their arrival.
Oryn eyed her, looking for the trap. “My apologies, my lady. I didn’t think that you would want me to.”
She huffed. “What would give you that impression?”
He blinked, still not entirely certain their tenuous truce erased her previous promise to relieve him of his hands. “You.”
Enya let out a dark chuckle that was lost in the vibrating crash of the gong.
Liam
Liam didn’t know where to look when he followed Bade and Colm into the Great Hall. The thrones on the dais had vanished, replaced by a long table set for the royal family and their guests of honor. Tables just like it were packed between the stone columns, set with plates and goblets in gold and silver.
Dwarf lords and ladies milled about in their finery, their children darting between legs and peering out from around long coats and skirts. Liam had never seen much of Estryian lords, but he’d never seen such wealth. Exotic fabrics and furs, intricate laces and extensive embroidery, all lay beneath necklaces and chains of gold and silver, crusted in every color of gemstones.
