Page 98 of Silverbow
Enya glared at him. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“And yet-”
“There was not one you liked?” Colm asked quickly.
Enya huffed and looked down at the carving she held. “I’m not sure there was one that liked me. They liked the herd. They liked the land.”
“To hold out for love is a luxury most houses cannot afford,” Oryn said coolly.
Enya snorted. “I’ll go poor and hungry before I am shackled to a man I do not like.”
As her words settled, she thought about the coin in her pocket and the invisible bond tethering her to Oryn Brydove, and realized she already was, at least in part.
twenty-four
Elling
Elling sat in the common room of a dusty little inn in a village called Midbury just on the border between the Thronelands and the Westerlands. He only knew the name because he had asked the innkeeper, a man who mopped his brow nervously with a kerchief any time one of the wielders looked his way. He’d almost fainted when Elling spoke to him. He would try not to address the man again if he could help it, for his sake.
He peered through the glass coated with a film of dust, watching the wagon carts and slow moving village folk bumble by. It was strange how time shaped things. Three years ago, he would have thought Midbury a sizable village, but he had traveled much of the Thronelands since he’d worn the collar and the name Recruit. The white badge high on his chest was that of a five pointed star, indicating his gift, or his curse as the recruits often called them where the Wielders could not hear.
He tugged at the high neck of his black coat. Summer hadn’t arrived yet, and already the thing was becoming miserable, not that it ever wasn’t miserable. As he fidgeted, he was careful not to touch the metallic ring above it. He had no intention of rolling around on the common room’s floor planks moaning in pain.
At least for now, they were marching north, escaping the humid press of Misthol, though Windcross Wells was hardly an improvement. It was in theWesterlands, that was true, but Elling had long since given up any hope of ever going home. Recruits were never sent too close to home.
He often found himself wishing for a post in the North, but shook the thought from his head. Summers in Misthol were insufferable, but freezing in a northern winter didn’t seem desirable either, even if fur lined cloaks were part of the uniform in the North. They were courtesy of the king, as was everything he wore, including the collar. He swallowed and tried not to think about it. Thinking about it did little good.
There had been curious news out of the Westerlands for weeks now, but he tried not to think on that either. He had once known the girl whose bounty papered every village and town in Estryia. He had once known Ryerson House, or at least its stables, like the back of his own hand. He tried not to dwell on any of it. He tried not to wonder if the trouble had spilled out to his family’s farm.
At least the Testing had already passed through and Ella’s name had not appeared on a wielder’s roll. For that, he could be grateful. It often happened with siblings, but she was older now than Elling had been when he was recruited. She would have only one Testing left. He dared hope Ella would escape his own dreadful fate.
He dared hope Enya Ryerson might escape hers too. What the High Lord wanted with her, he could not fathom. He could not imagine Renley Ryerson wrapped up in a plot with the puppet master. But if anyone could outrun a bounty, the girl he’d once known might have a chance, as long as she still had that mean mare of hers. He doubted there was a horse in Pallas Davolier’s own stable that could outrun Arawelo.
Jorah Berge slid into the empty chair across from him, a grin splitting his face. He wore the circle patch that marked those with gifts of earth. “There’s a gleeman in the tavern tonight.”
Elling looked up from the window, his jaw cracking with a yawn. Gleeman or no gleeman, he would bet his left boot it was a pretty barmaid that had Jorah grinning that way. Elling had spent enough nights in taverns and wine sinks with Jorah Berge to know he would not see his bed before midnight if he gave in. Jorah’s real talent was ensnaring them in some kind of trouble, but there was no badge for that particular gift.
Elling studied the grin again. He wouldeathis left boot if it wasn’t some doe eyed blonde. He yawned again and gave the earth wielder a level look. “Thepoint of the stopover is to rest, Jorah. I would like to spend our one night under a roof in a bed, I think.”
They were being pressed hard and had only stopped because Wielder Manov’s stallion had come up lame. Any of the recruit’s horses would have been left behind, but no one dared point that out to the wielder.
“A gleeman, Elling!” A gleeman would have been a grand thing when he still worked his father’s farm and mucked Lord Ryerson’s stables, but the world didn’t hold so much wonder any longer. “I heard he’s going to tell the Fifty-two Forgers. Come on, Elling, all the girls will be in a fine mood.”
“A fine mood our coats will ruin,” he huffed.
When they didn’t set men to mopping their brow, they set them hopping from foot to foot or struck them dumb. On their nights off, they often stole shirts and coats from clotheslines in Misthol and snuck out to melt into the crowd. It was strictly forbidden to put out their wielder blacks of course, but the officers looked the other way, even when those stolen commoner’s clothes were sent to the laundresses and did not return. Elling had gone queasy when he realized why no one seemed intent on putting a stop to it.
The gifts were passed through blood. The next generation of wielders would need to come from somewhere. It sickened him now to see his comrades carousing, even if it was the only way they could pretend to be normal for a night.
Jorah started laying out the reasons to go, but the pair of horses coming down the road caught his eye. Through the haze of the grime, a sleek black warhorse with a heavy shoulder that made Wielder Manov’s mount look like a shabby pony was heading south, ridden by a gray haired man. Silver hair, he realized with a start, on a broad shouldered man without a wrinkle on his face. He’d bet his right boot that man was a demi-elf.
At his side rode an equally fine red dun. Its rider was slight, or at least appeared slight on the massive horse. Her long dark hair hung over her shoulder in an intricate braid and a bow was slung around her back. He blinked as they passed by, his mouth suddenly gone dry.No, that could not be.His flights of fancy were taking him.
It was not only the sudden appearance of a girl he once knew that made his hands clench on the edge of the table. It was the faint wielding residues that hovered all around her. Elling’s particular talent was in reading those residues. He could see the remnants of all five gifts long after the wielding had stopped. He could usually puzzle out what had been done by a wielder even a week later. Itmade him valuable amongst Pallas’s black coats and his treatment was better than most.
He had never seen residues like the ones that clung to her. They were intricate, complex, woven of air, water, and spirit. He looked again at the silver haired demi-elf, but Elling could not sense a wielder’s spark in him.Curious.Surely an elf or a demi had been the wielder of those gifts, but relief seeped through him as he watched the pair disappear down the road. If he sensed a spark, he’d be compelled to report it.
Two men stopped in front of the inn and dismounted. An older man with a golden topknot and a younger with a laugh etched on his face tied their horses to the hitching post. It was the latter that drew his attention. Fresh residues of fire glowed orange around his fingertips as if sparks had just been leaping about and he felt the strangest flicker of a gift that was there one moment and gone the next. Elling felt the collar’s compulsion and pushed himself up from the table.
