Page 19 of Silverbow
Only one remained in Estryia, and distantly, Liam wondered if dragons ever got lonely.
As if suddenly realizing that particular tale did little to raise spirits, Lord Ryerson thumbed through the pages again, picking out another.
“‘Most fearsome of the nine is the Sreskrik Clan, sometimes called the Clan of Queens.’”
Liam smiled. The Sreskriks were widely considered the greatest of the dragon clans. It was the Sreskrik Clan that most often bonded with the royal Trakbatten line. Queen Maia, the last Queen of Estryia, the queen who fled, had been bonded to a blue called Preya the Protector. Of course a dragon, Sreskrik or otherwise, hadn’t been seen in the Westerlands over twenty years, and most of the stable boys believed the dragons were as made up as snowbeasts.
five
Enya
The dark clouds that swirled over Greenridge suited the mood in Ryerson House. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, filling the silence in the stable. Enya paused her mucking to pick at the callus on her hand.
“It’ll be today,” she said flatly.
Liam glanced up but never stopped his shoveling. “If the rain doesn’t send them running for cover.”
“It’ll be today.”
She didn’t know if she believed it, but she hoped saying it would make it true. She hadn’t slept in days, food tasted like ash in her mouth, and whenever she paused for more than a moment, she thought of Elling and his mother. The waiting would drive her mad. Still, when Marwar gave the dreaded call from the gate that afternoon, her stomach dropped to the floor.
“Approach!”
Liam stilled mid scoop, every bit of color draining from his face. Slowly, he put down his pitchfork and wiped his palms on his britches.
Heart thudding in her ears, Enya slipped her hand into his and gave it a tight squeeze. His hand was clammy, and she wondered if hers felt the same. She wondered if it was any comfort at all or just confirmation that they should be afraid.
Liam didn’t let go as they crossed to where her father leaned on the porch railing, even as his gaze dropped to their clasped hands. If he thought anything of it, he made no comment, only offering an attempt at a reassuring smile that fell dreadfully flat.
It was the crimson lion Enya saw first, snapping atop a bannerman’s pole that rose over the stone wall. Pallas Davolier’s house sigil roared its fury on a snow white field. Below it, wind rippled the black cloaks worn by hard faced men, and women, she realized as they neared. The scribes rode in the back, their garb naming them too. But it was the two riderless horses that turned Enya’s stomach, a stark reminder they might not leave empty handed.
“Go sit,” her father said.
His voice was calm, but Enya saw his hand drift toward the sword he usually wore at his hip. Finding no hilt to rest it on, it curled into a fist at his side. The Testing tended to set people on edge. Rather than risk running afoul of the king’s men, it was generally considered best to put weapons away before the wielders arrived. Steel would be of little use against the wielding gifts anyway, but his hand betrayed his brave face.
Liam gave her hand a tight squeeze and she let him tug her along on leaden feet. She perched nervously on the edge of the sofa. Liam settled next to her with only a hair’s breadth between their thighs.
The endless wait seemed to stretch and stretch, filled with nothing but her racing thoughts and roiling insides.Five generations. I can hear it. She was striking true long before she ever held the rod.
Twice more. Just twice more.Enya didn’t put much stock in the gods, but she squeezed her eyes shut and sent up a silent prayer for salvation.
Mistress Alys darted in and set a tea tray on the table with a clatter that ripped Enya from her newfound devotion. She stared at it with contempt. The woman always insisted on offering refreshment as if the wielders were guests instead of intruders.
Nervously patting her bun, Mistress Alys took up a post by the wall, and finally folded twitching hands over her apron. Griff stood beside his wife, stooping in his old age, his cap crumpled between his own hands.
Enya was suddenly glad to be sitting. She felt as if her bones had turned to stone, too dense and heavy. She could no longer move under the crushing weight of them. She could no longer move at all, even if her tumbling, traitorous thoughts were screaming at her to run.
Beside her, Liam was having no such trouble. He was bouncing his knee with such force, the teacups rattled on their tray. Enya wanted to snap at him to stop, but she couldn’t. She thought if she opened her mouth, she might vomit.
Boots thudded across the porch and straight into the drawing room, heedless of the prints they left on Mistress Alys’s spotless floor.And the woman offers them tea.It was easier to stare at the boots than raise her eyes to look up at the faces that filed in. They were polished to such a shine, Enya vaguely thought what a shame it would be to sick up all over them.
With monumental effort, she raised her chin. Black cloaks billowed from their shoulders like death banners. From boot to collar, the only break in the shadows was the small white patch sewn on the breast indicating each gift - a five pointed star for spirit, a circle for earth, two parallel lines for air, a triangle for fire, and teardrop for water.
The men wore snugly fitted coats that buttoned almost to their chins. The women, the first two female Testers Enya had ever seen, wore high necked dresses with skirts divided for riding. If she’d ever harbored any thought that a woman might make a less terrifying Tester, one look at them sent it eddying from her head.
A hawk-nosed woman in her middle years with a double white bar on her breast dropped into one of the high backed armchairs as if she owned the house. The smile she flashed toward Liam and Enya was predatory at best, ravenous at worst. Beside her, Liam’s knee finally stopped bouncing.
A pair of scribes crept in as if trying to pass unnoticed. A bald man carrying a scroll with all the reverence of a holy object was followed by a young apprentice juggling a stool, lap board, and writing box. Their gray uniforms were cut similarly, but the color seemed an echo of their diluted stations. With practiced efficiency, the stool was placed in the corner for the scribe to perch atop and his apprentice readied a quill.
