Page 149 of Silverbow
“Oryn!”
Every inch felt like a gods damned mile as a fresh wave of blood surged from the patch he’d just torn open.
“I’ve got you, Enya. Hold on.”
The moment the bolt was free, he dropped his healing wield into place, letting it knit as much of the tattered flesh as he could. She shuddered violently and fell back against Colm’s chest, still. He didn’t slam the damper back down this time. Instead, he watched the way Mosphaera and Sakaala took hold of his own wieldings to caress her. Nimala twined around her in a brilliant little blanket of moonflowers. He realized with a start that they matched his own vow mark. They had been trying to tell him all along.
Seemingly satisfied with his understanding, the gods let his wieldings fade with one last flourish. He stared at the rise and fall of her breath and listened to her battered heart beat.
Colm heaved a relieved sigh. Oryn stared at the bolt on the floor, nauseated by the stained length of wood and enraged that the cowards buried it in her back. He felt the weight of Colm’s stare as he cast the bolt onto the table. He clearedhis throat and got to his feet, retrieving the towel and bowl of water Colm had undoubtedly thought to gather while he waited for their arrival.
“What was it Hylee whispered to you?” He asked.
Oryn soaked the towel and wrung it out. That secret was his own. “Why is it you didn’t tell me she was Trakbatten?”
“Who we are has very little to do with our names,” he answered.
Perhaps that was true for most men. But it wasn’t when you were a Trakbatten. Or a Brydove.
“And it wasn’t my place to tell her,” he added.
Oryn could understand that, but he didn’t think learning it from Hylee Starseer was much better. “I can take it from here.”
Colm nodded at the clear dismissal. He reached up and pulled a pillow from the captain’s bed, carefully settling her back as he extricated himself from around her. Crimson smeared his shirt where it had leached from her own. He gave Oryn a knowing look as he slipped from the cabin.
He wouldn’t let her wake covered in blood and he wouldn’t let her soil the sick bed she would remain in until Tuminzar. He carefully unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall open to wipe away the blood. There was so much of it, he thought the scent might linger in his nose forever. As he wiped away the crimson, dunking and wringing the towel, the angry red scar marring her porcelain skin became more apparent. It was likely the relic would remain, even after Alloralla healed her.
“Forgive me, Silverbow,” he muttered. “Some people collect them.”
The water in the bowl was red by the time he turned her carefully to her uninjured shoulder. He drew his belt knife and cut away the ruined shirt. As it fell, air seemed to seize in Oryn’s lungs.
Black wings spread across her shoulders, their tips caressing her nape. Intricately worked scales twined around her spine with a massive spiked tail coiled at her waist. In its front claws, the black dragon inked upon her skin clutched the moon.
Holy gods.It was the biggest vow mark Oryn had ever seen. He’d wondered how exactly it was she had convinced Drulougan to give over the clutch he’d guarded for nearly three decades, and fresh horror washed over him. Enya Silverbow had very nearly met the gods with an unfulfilled vow.An unfulfilled vow to a dragon.
Oryn realized he was staring and wrung the towel again.
When he’d overcome his shock enough to see her tucked carefully between the sheets and piled every blanket he could find atop her unconscious form, Oryn trudged back out to the deck. It was the Bay of Mists and the mists needed watching as much as the girl.
Enya
She drifted through the strange shadow world Hylee had shown her. In some places, the edges were fuzzy and blurred no matter how many times she blinked. She let herself drift through the glimpses of memory and foretelling the witch had shown her.
Some, especially the ones she hated, were long drawn out scenes she wanted to escape. But many were just flashes. Flashes that shefelt, body and soul, even if she didn’t fully understand what she saw.
Marwar stomping in from the snow, a baby in his arms.
Oryn’s payment to the witch.
A cottage burning by the sea.
Renley Ryerson’s tears mixing with the rain as he dug the grave in the orchard.
A flash of blue scales.
“Goat’s milk,” a gray robed scribe said as he peered at a blonde haired babe.
Marwar full of so many arrows, he looked more a porcupine than a man.
