Page 53 of Silverbow
The hand clutching the knife at her belt felt slick with sweat. Her free hand found Liam’s horse head carving. She did not look, would not look, until she crossed another block.A hunting knife, a spare bowstring.This time, her eyes met those of her pursuer and a slight smile twitched across his face. It was not the friendly sort.
My bow and quiver, my wits.A lot of good they did now, stowed in her room, and her wits seemed to have abandoned her.
She considered pointing the scar faced sailor out to the knot of crimson clad soldiers standing idly at the crossroads, but one peek under her hood would have her hauled off to the Master of Coin for whatever it was he wanted. For an instant, she wondered if that was so bad, considering the alternative involved a cudgel. She shivered despite the sweat that dampened her shirt now, but she passed them by. No, losing the man was the best thing for it, if she could manage. If she could not, it would be only an inevitable end. Rounding a corner, Enya broke into a run.
The high buildings and narrow streets of Trowbridge made for a twisting labyrinth. She darted through alleys lined with crates and barrels. She ducked beneath laundry strung between windows. Thrice she skittered out to cross the wider streets, not caring who she ruffled in her haste, but the third time brought her too close to a wagon driver. The lash of his whip caught her cheekbone and sent her staggering as warm, wet blood seeped out from beneath the hand she clapped over it.
“Watch it!” She bellowed. “You nearly took my eye out!”
She blinked in surprise at the red clad men who laughed. Enya backed away, stumbling into the alley between a tavern and a tannery. She leapt behind a stack of barrels, crouching low, trying to catch her breath. Her hand was sticky with the blood she tried to hold in, and tears welled, threatening to blind her. Whether from the panic or the pain, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t care. She let rage consume it all. She hated Trowbridge and the Trydent, hated the scar faced man and the wagon driver. She hated it all. She blinked the tears away, straining to listen over her own ragged breath.
When boots pounded into the alley, she didn’t dare exhale. “Which way?” Came a gruff man’s voice. There was no audible reply, but the boots passed by and were lost again to the street.
Slowly, cautiously, Enya sat forward and peered out between the barrels. The alley was empty. With one hand still clasped over her face, she straightened her hood and rose. With as much calm as she could will into herself, she strode back out into the street, trying to regain her bearings. The walls seemed to squeeze her chest, and she fought to draw breath.
She started to cross the street again, to inch back toward the Bobber, hunched over, trying to hide the mess of her face. When she dared to raise her eyes and peer out from the shadow of her hood, she saw a burly man raise a thick hand to point at her. Enya spun and sprinted again.
Twisting and turning she ran, boots and shouts dogging her heels as she wove back and forth in the maze of shops and houses. She ducked beneath a row of bedsheets billowing across an alley and threw herself into a shadowy alcove.
It seemed more boots had joined the pursuit when they thundered by, cursing at the linens that danced in the breeze. Enya held her breath as a sailor bumbled into one, ripping it from the line. Its owner poked her head from a window and shouted down at him, the man returned curses in kind, but he did not continue to where Enya pressed against rough brick, holding her sleeve to her face.
She waited for long agonizing minutes before she tiptoed back out the way she came. The streets were mostly deserted here, so she broke into a jog, seeking a crowd to melt into. She turned right and then left, and skittered to a stop.
A band of crimson coated men marched up the street, peering in wagons and carriage as they went. It seemed the chase had drawn notice, and even if they didn’t know what they sought, they were searching.Oh, light.
Enya studied the street, looking for an escape. A rough hand clamped over her mouth as a thick arm snaked around her waist, dragging her back into a narrow alley. She thrashed against it, kicking and flailing like a wild, wounded animal.
“Be quiet,” a rough voice hissed in her ear.
The crimson coats tipped crates on their sides and demanded goodwives empty their baskets in the street, inching ever closer. She sank her teeth into the fingers pressed against her lip and bit down until the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth.
“Stop it! I’m trying to help you, you little witch.” She twisted, feet and elbows flailing. “If you don’t stop it, I will.”
Enya screamed into the hand against her mouth and threw her head back, connecting with a hard jaw. Satisfaction flitted through her as she heard his teeth crack together, but the arms that bound her were like iron.
“I warned you,” he growled.
The arm snaking around her waist came across her chest, and a broad hand wrapped around her throat.No!She thrashed again as hard fingers dug into her pulse. Her heart throbbed and strained against them until her vision went black.
***
Enya drifted.
Black became white when her eyes fluttered open. She blinked up at a ceiling, the paint cracked and peeling. Her cheek throbbed and the metallic taste of blood still lingered on her tongue.
“Hello, Miss Ryerson.”
fifteen
Oryn
Oryn Brydove sat in the dimly lit common room of a shabby little inn in Windcross Wells. A man with a voice like a creaky carriage axle plucked at a dulcimer and the din of voices was not enough to drown it out. The serving maids were well past their prime and had little interest in serving, not that the food was so great that there was any rush to bring it to the table. The rooms were none too clean and the beds lumpy, but they were cheap, and the ale and dicing were good.
Oryn didn’t care about the dicing, but he was accustomed to inns like the Wagon’s Respite even if he preferred to be out under the open sky. It was difficult around a city as large as Windcross Wells. They’d have to go miles out of the way to find a suitable camp, and his companions liked dicing, so here they sat with their boots sticking to the floorboards and that awful racket.
With black clad wielders skulking about, he had to keep a damper held firmly in place over his gifts, but after so many years, the strange emptiness he felt in his chest was dull. Still, it made him feelexposed, even with the sword bearing the mark of a blademaster hanging at his hip. It made him grind his teeth.
Two of his companions had moved off to a corner table where dice rattled. Shabby as the Wagon’s Respite was, Oryn caught the flash of silver amongst the coppers being pushed around the table. Shouts and groans occasionally rose above what passed for music, indicating a particularly good or bad throw.
