Page 34 of Silverbow
“Present her, Renley, or it will become a matter for my men.”
The carriage door closed and the High Lord of Pavia rapped for the driver to go. As the entourage disappeared from view, Renley sank to his knees and whispered a prayer.
May Nimala guide her, Mosphaera fill her sails, and Sakaala send her balance. May Simdeni shelter her and Solignis light her way.
May Marwar return empty handed.
nine
Enya
Enya stretched through the balance forms Marwar made her work with her practice sword, trying to assuage the protest in her legs and back. After half the night and most of the day in the saddle, every bit of her ached. Arawelo greedily tore up green shoots at her side, the mare’s disgruntlement plain in her glare.
“I know. I know. You don’t have to rub it in,” she muttered. She’d pushed too hard. There was no question her father would come after her. As would Liam. And Marwar. And probably Mistress Alys too, perhaps especially Alys, even if the woman couldn’t ride a horse. Enya grimaced. Alys Ashill was the last person she would want to intercept her.
If she made good time, there was little risk they would catch Arawelo, but Enya was still relying on opening as much distance as she could before anyone realized she was missing. By dawn, Liam would have noticed the empty stall. Perhaps, if she was lucky, he would be late to his post after a night spent in the stable. That may be the only blessing to arise out of that little misfortune. She’d had to forgo a tent, stored as they were in the loft above the east end where the stablemaster and his son attended to their duties late into the night. Every footfall and rustle of saddlebags threatened to give her away, but no alarm had gone up as she crept out of the Greenridge gate.
Enya held her breath until she was cantering down the Queen’s Road in the dark. It felt like the start of an adventure, as long as she didn’t think much about what waited at the end.A collar. Or the gallows.Pallas Davolier didn’t much like gifts he couldn’t contain.
She rode by moonlight over the hard pack of the Queen’s Road. They set a brisk pace through the night and the whole of the next day, pausing only for Arawelo to eat and take a few short rests. By afternoon, Arawelo’s toes dragged.
Enya thought long and hard about taking a room in Crook’s Rest, but decided against it. She’d only stolen a pocketful of gold from her father’s desk. It would need to last her to Windcross Wells. Besides, a girl arriving alone at an inn would be memorable. She didn’t intend to leave such an easy trail so close to home. So she put an arrow through a rabbit as afternoon faded to evening and made a sparse camp in a little clearing tucked off the road. She stripped off Arawelo’s saddle and curried the mare down as her dinner roasted. Squatting on her heels, she took stock of what she’d been able to pilfer without anyone noticing.
A lantern with a spare cask of oil, flint and steel, her belt knife, a spare bowstring, a waterskin, a tin cup and bowl, a small kettle, a blanket roll, towel, three changes of clothes, bandages, a salve, a needle and thread, sewing scissors. A brush, hoof pick, feed bag, a sack of oats. A hair comb and a bit of soap. Bread, hard cheese, dried meat, honey, and tea. Silver and gold, a few coppers. The horse head carving. Arawelo. My bow and quiver. My wits.
It would have to be enough to see her to Windcross Wells.
Crissa
Candles burning in a crystal chandelier sent light dancing gayly on the walls in an imitation of the figures turning about the room. The polished black and white floor tiles were smooth under Crissa’s slippered feet. She stood back amongst the columns supporting the arched ceiling overhead with a knot of eligible youths.
People in all their finery milled about the edges of the room, swathed in silks and velvets. Servants in the green and white livery of Thornson House darted between them, proffering food and drink on silver trays. The dull roar of music and merrymaking filled the ballroom despite the sorted glances toward the figures that stood near the Lord of Westforks and his lady wife.
The High Lord of Pavia’s fine blue coat was worked with so much gold embroidery it could have been gold with blue patches. Around his neck hung a great golden medallion etched with a set of balance scales, and on his breast he wore an intricately wrought gold pin in the shape of a fox’s head. His free hand stroked a pointed beard, but it was the woman on his other arm that had the Thornson’s guests gawking and whispering behind gloved hands.
The hawk nosed woman’s dark hair hung in curls around her shoulders and her eyes had been made sultry by smudges of dark powders. Though Crissa was still awaiting her own Testing, the name Louissa Adler was whispered throughout the room with a mix of fear and awe. The air wielder wore a clinging black gown and a red painted smile that did not meet her eyes. A stack of silver links glittered at her wrist.
The collars matched to those links glittering above black coats. The revelers gave the men a wide berth, allowing Crissa a clear view of their hard faces. She looked too long, and a man who wore the teardrop badge of a water wielder met her gaze. She gulped and dropped her eyes to her wine. At her elbow, Theo Thornson was lamenting the absence of a certain guest.
“You didn’t really think she’d come, did you?” Charlotte sniffed disdainfully. “And you aren’t really broken up about it, are you? Light, Theo, I thought you had better prospects thanthat.”
Crissa rolled her eyes. No doubt Charlotte counted herself amongst Theo’s better prospects, but for once, she found herself in agreement with the middle Thornson. She too had hoped Enya Ryerson would appear tonight if only to have someone other than her mother or Charlotte to talk to.
“Sheisrather good looking, even if she is as pleasant as an ice bear,“ Aric Penrose laughed.
Henry, the second of the Thornson lot, snorted. “She could be a bloody demondread for all I care, and I’d still wed her.”
Crissa would pity the demondread. Henry was dreadful.
“If you want the land and the herd, you could always wed her and pack her off somewhere, I suppose.”
“Light, Charlotte,” Crissa muttered.
Henry grinned and raised his glass in salute. In a match between Henry Thornson and Charlotte Penrose, Crissa didn’t know who she’d pity. The rest of Westforks, perhaps.
“You would have a soft spot for the horse lord’s daughter,” Charlotte sighed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crissa asked.
