Page 39 of Silverbow
With one last look in the direction of Ryerson House, she mounted, sorrow tightening her throat. She willed it away and nudged Arawelo into the trees. She would cut east, skirt wide of the trouble behind her and that blasted tree.
Eastward they pressed all day, and Enya found herself reciting the list of supplies in her saddle bags like a prayer.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.
Whenever her mind drifted to what she didn’t have - a tent, dry kindling, papers, any idea where this cursed gift came from - she slammed the list back down like a wall, building it brick by brick around the things she needed to keep out.
The mountainous terrain was rough and rocky, and kept their pace to a walk. Even then, Arawelo stumbled as loose rocks slid from underfoot. Each time the mare lost her footing, Enya’s knuckles turned white on her reins, remembering the nightmare. But the aching crack across her brow was from a branch, and Arawelo did not fall. Still, Enya started scouting for a place to camp before theshadows grew too long and an unseen root or rock sent them sprawling. She would not risk Arawelo.
She put an arrow through another rabbit and chose a small hollow that was well sheltered by a patch of firs. She snapped sticks and piled old needles to build a little fire. The damp made it sputter and smoke, but Enya coaxed and coddled the little flame until it was enough to roast her meager meal and heat a pot of tea, blessedly warm after her cold nights in the cave. She regretfully stomped it out as soon as she finished cooking. It would shine like a beacon in the dark. A beacon she had no intention of letting burn.
With her back against a trunk and her still damp blanket wrapped around her, Enya listened to the night. She turned Liam’s horse head carving over in her hand as the chirps and hoots of Greenridge filled her ears. Each rustling of leaves still had her holding her breath, but she glanced to where Arawelo dozed. Surely the mare would give some warning if there was any real danger.
Wolves howled nearby, but she reminded herself it was not the wolves she feared. The crossbowman’s sickly smile floated behind her eyes. What would they do if they found her out here?A lantern with a spare cask of oil, flint and steel, her belt knife.She flexed her fingers around her belt knife and pressed her back into the rough bark.
Sleepless nights blurred into hard days as she pressed ever eastward, but she settled into a rhythm pounded out by hoofbeats over rock. It was a rhythm of riding, hunting, and fussing over Arawelo. As long as she kept moving, she did not have to look at the things that she swept into the dark recesses of her mind. The piles of things she tucked away seemed to be multiplying with every mile she crossed.
What waited in Windcross Wells? Why had he lied about the wielding gift? Where had the godsung gift come from? What other secrets had Ryerson House been keeping?There were other questions far less mysterious, but they plagued her anyway.Were they out searching for her? What will happen if I don’t make it to the wielder’s outpost? What will happen if I do?Those were questions best left unexamined.
The nights were torture. Without the anchor of her saddle or some task for her hands, Enya drifted. Doubt whispered she should turn back, but she shoved it behind the wall in her mind and let anger be the mortar between the stones.They lied. They were going to send me to the Vale. They were going to abandon Ryerson House. They were going to throw it all away because of me.
A spare bowstring, a waterskin, a tin cup and bowl, a small kettle.
She turned the horse head carving over in her hand.Liam.She wondered if he had gone to Valbelle. She knew the answer, even if she didn’t want to look at it too closely. It was easier to tell herself he was well on his way north.
A blanket roll, towel, three changes of clothes.The wolves howled, still closer.Bandages, a salve, a needle and thread, sewing scissors.
When Enya could hold sleep at bay no more, the dreams tortured her. Louissa Adler clasping a silver collar around her throat. Fleeing through the forest in the dark. The man with the eyepatch reaching for her. Thetwangof a crossbow. A bolt ripping through her chest.
She sat up, gasping. Arawelo raised her head to scan the night, but there was nothing there.
A brush, hoof pick, feed bag, a sack of oats.
By the third day from the cave, for that was how she counted time now, Enya’s eyes felt full of sand. The doubt seemed to lean heavily on her internal wall and she propped it up with anger and hatred. It was easy enough to find things to hate in Greenridge now. Everything was grating on her exhausted body and soul.
She hadn’t thought about the birds of Greenridge since the day Aric Penrose came courting her, but now she hated the trilling of birdsong in the trees. The girl who had told herself stories of the far off places they’d flown to had been a fool, and now she hated every last scream of their joyful songs.
She found it easier that way, to let the hatred fill the spaces left vacant by the things she packed away, let them take up residence where there should have been fear and doubt and regret.He lied to me. They tried to choose for me. He lied to me.So she found new things to hate, new things to feed to that internal flame, letting it swell with each passing mile.
She hated the squirrels that chittered, darting around overhead making her jump out of skin. She hated the owls that hooted their calls, dragging her from the little sleep she got. Greenridge Forest was a place Enya had always loved, and now, lost in the belly of it, she loathed it. Distantly, she supposed it was just one more thing to add to her list of things lost.A hair comb and a bit of soap.
On the fourth day, she ate a handful of berries she’d been sure were safe, and spent the fifth unable to climb into her saddle as she bent over a log expelling the contents of her stomach. She cursed herself for a stupid fool as her hands shook and her head felt like it might split down the middle. Berries, not brigands, wouldbe her end. She laughed mirthlessly at the thought, and it made her head throb again as she sagged into the dirt.
That day had been the worst, lying on the damp earth drenched in sweat as Arawelo nudged at her with her nose. Her mind clouded enough that she could not hold on to her list, but it did not cloud so much to make her unaware of the fire that surged through her veins. It burned through her like the forges of Simdeni’s hells, making the world shimmer in waves of heat. With her cheek pressed into the dirt, savoring the coolness of it, Enya stared at the horse head carving in her hand. She wondered where Liam was.
That night, her dreams had a strange iridescent quality to them. She was still in Greenridge, still beside the log, but where there should have been shadow, there was light. Where there should have been greens and browns, there were blues and purples. All manner of strange things crept into her dreams that night.
In the dream Greenridge, Enya lay peering up at a sliver of sky above, and every few heartbeats, a great winged creature the color of the sun flapped across the clear blue. She squinted at it, wondering what it was.A bird from the Summer Isles, perhaps.She once told herself stories about the birds who’d been to far flung places.
She turned her head to see a man squatting beside her. Something about him tugged at her memory, but holding onto thought in this strange dream was like trying to catch smoke. His brow creased as he looked down at her.
“Where are you?” He asked.
Enya blinked as he shifted in and out of focus, wondering if he was friend or foe.
“Where are you?” He asked again.
She supposed it didn’t matter either way. “I don’t know,” she rasped.
He gazed around at the forest as if the trees held some kind of answer.
