Page 93 of Silverbow
“Dandelion in the Wind.” She dropped back and dodged his strike.
“Under the Archway.” She ducked the swing that came lazily her way.
“Flamefall’s Faint.” Oryn realized as soon as he’d called it that she hadn’t known that name.
Aiden’s stick landed against her half-healed ribs with a sharp crack that lit her face in surprise.
“First lesson,” he growled. “Don’t rely on me to save your ass.”
Bade chuckled from his place by the fire. He was fairly certain he’d taught the same lesson early in his own instruction with a far bloodier outcome.
If looks could kill, Oryn would have collapsed into the dirt when those emerald eyes flashed at him. But they didn’t and she brought her stick back up waving Aiden on, so he kept calling forms until he saw her arm start to shudder and called for them to stop.
Enya
Enya’s arm ached and her ribs smarted where Aiden’s stick had landed not once, but three times before they were done. She blushed, frustrated, when Oryn called her a slow learner, and he did not offer to heal the welts that rose on her side. He said they would help her remember to guard her left. Perhaps they would, but they throbbed in the saddle.
Oryn was a merciless tutor, nothing like Marwar at all. Or perhaps, Aiden was a merciless sparring partner, nothing like Liam at all. Still, Enya looked forward to her lessons. Every morning before breakfast, she stood in balance forms until she shook, and every evening when they made camp, she sparred. With each passing day, Aiden let his stick fall a little harder, and before long, Enya nursed welts everywhere but her face.
She eagerly cast her stick aside one evening when Colm patted the dirt at his side. She sat cross-legged, peering up at him. “Have you found them?”
He gave a slow nod. “I found the dreams of Griff and Alys Ashill. And I found the dreams of your stablemaster and his son.”
Enya’s heart skipped two beats.
“I cannot find Neigel Marwar’s dream.”
“What does that mean?” She asked breathlessly.
“It could mean he is not dreaming. It could mean I simply cannot find him. Or it could mean, he is no longer able to dream.”
Enya swallowed the jagged knot of emotion in her throat. “The dead do not dream?”
“Their dreams are beyond our reach,” he said solemnly. “But your father remains among the living.”
Enya tried to blink away the pressure that built behind her eyes. “Thank you.”
Colm gave her knee a squeeze that reminded her of Griff and she wiped away the tear that slid down her cheek.
She was secretly glad for the reprieve the next time they rode into a village and stopped at an inn, even if she would have go without the dream ward. It was a middling place, not as hard as the Spoke, not as soft as the Goat, but the food smelled like something from Mistress Alys’s kitchen and the bath soothed her welts and aching muscles.
Merchants clustered around tables, complaining about the price of everything from grain to silk. Their guards sat on long benches, mingling with knights that wore house sigils Enya did not recognize. There was to be a great tourney in the capitol for Sun Day, she overheard, with ten thousand gold marks the prize. She laughed at the sum. It seemed she was worth exactly as much as a joust. She supposed she should be flattered.
The serving woman brought platters laden with roast beef and the first pea shoots and radishes of the season. It was good, better than their usual camp fare of unseasoned meat roasted on a spit, though she didn’t much like peas or radishes and Aiden reached across with a grin to take what she didn’t finish off her plate.
A knot of men erupting in a roar of laughter snagged her gaze. A burly man in their midst was spinning a rancorous tale. He wore a coat and cloak that had the rumpled look of hard travel and sun reddened his ruddy cheeks. Enya let out an involuntary squeak when the man across from him shifted and she found herself looking squarely at Sir Westerton. She sucked in a breath and lowered her face to her plate. Around her, the demi-elves went unnaturally still.
“Ansel?”
“Oryn,” she breathed so quietly only they could hear. “That man knows my face.”
“Which one?”
“With the knights. Center on the far bench. Green tunic,” she said tightly. “I think he’s seen me.”
She could feel Oryn staring at the man, and the others stole casual glances around the room between bites. “Friend or foe?” He asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “Foe, probably.”
