Chapter 3
Shadows fled the rising sun as the muddy land drained last night’s showers. Dapple snorted, informing Trisha how little he appreciated his breakfast being cut short. Without answering, she prompted him to keep pace alongside Lord Daworth.
Two days’ ride to the walled city of Isdet on the shores of Neusilbersee. She dared not imagine the road past Isdet leading across the border to Eichlandt, her parents’ land. And Daworth’s.
The toggles of his tunic and the silver embroidery of his belt glistened in the light.
No clear sigils. No heraldic symbols. Only a purple trim on his fur-lined cloak.
The rest of the man’s retinue followed in their gambesons, carrying spears and shields.
The rhythmic trot of their horses drummed against the soggy soil.
Daworth was riding the bay stallion from last night.
His fiery beast, Skarr, seemed eager to move, steps jigging, whiffing, and fighting the bit.
For Trisha, Dapple’s worst feature was his irreverence, not his spite, and Trisha loved her horse fiercely for it. Watching Daworth guide his snorting, hot-blooded mount with firm hand, she decided Dapple deserved an extra treat. Or two.
Trisha was still unsure whether she appreciated or resented being this close to Daworth.
For now, he seemed content enough with silence, thank the nameless gods.
Trisha rolled her shoulders; the room’s earthen flooring she’d been graced with hadn’t made a very comfortable bed.
Hugging her damp cloak tighter, she stifled a yawn.
If only the peace would hold. The steady rhythm of the hooves, the saddle’s creak.
It was pleasant. And she needed a moment—
“Tell me, Bard an Tilia, what do you know of my land?”
Trisha held back a sigh, pausing to digest the question. Her momentary silence invited his full attention, and she scrambled for an answer. Trisha’s mind churned over the bits and pieces she’d gleaned last night. Hardly anything would make a cohesive answer without insulting him.
“Not much, my lord. Just gossip. Cautionary tales, some history. Barely enough for a stanza in a song.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, although it was difficult to say whether it was from amusement or irritation. Since he’d now made the opening move, she quizzed him a bit, just to see how he’d react. “You might be able to verify some?”
“Perhaps,” he said, reining in his stallion. “It would help to know the nature of this… gossip.”
Trisha bit her lip, blinking away the fog around her thoughts, much like the real one. Remnants of hazy mist tucked around the tree trunks, fading under the rising light. “Twelve clans, I heard,” she started with the least obtrusive topic, “that answer to one man—their warlord.”
A pang of emotion hit Daworth’s face, too transient to name. She fell silent, hesitant.
“True,” he murmured with a hint of a smile. “But certainly you learned more than that? It hardly qualifies as gossip.” He waited a breath. “That is, unless you’re concerned about offending me.”
Her face heated. Damn this man. If he wanted honesty, he’d have it. “Blood and raids, that’s what locals seemed to concern themselves with, my lord. That the people of Eichlandt, your people, descend here every spring sowing destruction.”
“A lie,” he said firmly. Then added, “Hardly every spring.”
Trisha drew a breath, but the glint in his eyes made her stop. Scents of wildflowers and young grass reached her nose.
She squinted. “Are you baiting me on purpose?”
Daworth leaned back in his saddle. “Depends. How easily do you bite?”
“So, not a lie.” She snorted.
“No, not a lie,” he admitted slowly. “But not nearly as often as the inn’s rumormongering must’ve made you believe.
” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’d expect that the sight of my merry men kindled old memories.
The spring raids are steeped in our history and survival.
I’d do poorly for my kind if I didn’t honor them. ”
Curiosity laced her lips. He seemed to read her expression, for a quick turn of his mouth followed, something darker than a smile. “Fighting is in our blood. Expected, even. No man, not even a lord, is exempt from that.”
An unbidden memory emerged. Warriors, riding to meet each other. The clash of steel, the dust, and the coppery stench of blood. Trisha’s knuckles blanched. “I’ve visited Mearse,” she said quietly, intentionally not meeting his eyes. “Their people are fierce, too.”
He didn’t ask more. Perhaps he already knew of their ways.
“People mentioned trading too.” She searched for the name the merchant woman had mentioned. “In Graystein?”
He nodded. “Chief Lichtal’s home. Graystein’s a good place for that. Only two days’ ride from the border. And Orin Lichtal’s sensible enough to know that sometimes power is better earned through coin than steel.”
“Taxing merchants fills the coffers quicker than a war?”
“Indeed,” Daworth confirmed with a smile. “Although I’d caution you against saying that to his face. He’s a proud man.”
“Is that what brought you to Normark, my lord? Trade?”
Birdsong echoed above their heads. Their heated banter was almost enough to dry the moisture still hanging in the air. “Business, yes,” he said at last. “Of a kind that doesn’t concern songbirds.”
Did he think she was some harmless display artifact? “I’m not a magpie, distracted by shiny objects.”
“No. You sing better,” he said, smirking. “But everyone has their shiny objects, Bard an Tilia.”
“Do you intend to discover mine?” she challenged.
Sunlight licked his gray eyes. “How else am I to convince you to follow me to Eichlandt?”
“You could start by telling me why. You said your people value music, yes? Even your Warlord?”
An edgewise glance. “You find it surprising, I understand.”
The tips of her ears got hot. “I couldn’t find pleasure in playing at war, my lord.”
“Being the Warlord’s Bard is much more than ‘playing at war,’ Bard an Tilia,” Daworth chided.
“If a bard is so important, why doesn’t your lord have one?”
“Perhaps he hasn’t met anyone good enough.” A shrug followed, but it was all too casual. She wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or flattered.
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job at convincing me to follow.”
A flicker of a faint smile and his words: “I promise to do better next time.”
On their roadside break, the auburn-haired man of Lord Daworth’s company introduced himself as Fjorten Tifbrunn. “We carry the same blood, not that I look like m’lord.” His deep voice was rough like gravel. He’d stripped off his helmet, and the locks of his hair glistened bronze in the sunlight.
“Oh?” She lifted a brow, ceasing to brush Dapple, glancing toward the leader of the party.
Lord Daworth had rolled up his sleeves, baring his wide arms. Pale scars hinted at untold stories of pain, clashes, and skirmishes. Scars, but otherwise unmarred skin. No dark tattoos like everyone else. She frowned in puzzlement—an indication of what, exactly?
“So you’re family?” she asked.
“First cousins, from my mother’s side,” Fjorten confirmed, raking his fingers through his damp mane. “Though, truth be told, one could trace back lineage to everyone, if so needed.”
“Few leave Eichlandt, then?” Trisha mused with a smile.
Fjorten scratched his beard. “Sometimes, they do,” he said after a while, clearly unsure how to phrase his words. “Though not for long. Not often.”
“Like your lord?” Trisha suggested as she continued brushing Dapple.
“Testing your baits, are you?” Daworth’s rich voice cut through the air. He stepped closer, handing a flask of water to his soldier while casting an amused glance at Trisha.
“Only trying to understand my traveling companions.” She met his eyes without a flinch. “What you’ve shared of your country hasn’t exactly been praise.”
“Bard an Tilia has rather strong opinions on commerce versus pillaging,” Daworth explained.
Fjorten flashed a sly grin, tipping the flask to his mouth. “Nothing wrong with opinions.”
“Indeed. Everyone has one,” Daworth confirmed wryly before looking up at a few idle clouds. “We ride on,” he called out to his men.
Trisha rubbed her lower back. Daworth had kept a relentless pace, and it was starting to take its toll. She’d be sore by evening. More importantly, they’d reach Isdet by tomorrow. She needed to decide whether to stay there or accept his invitation to follow him to Eichlandt.
While mounting Dapple, quiet words reached her. Daworth stayed behind with Fjorten, engaged in conversation. Fjorten nodded with a grim expression. They moved to adjust their shields and sword mounts.
Chills traveled down her spine; their gesture was a promise of trouble. She kept her silence, even if curiosity made her steal sideways glances at the man. What warranted such preparations? What did they know?
“Let me hear it.” The lord’s voice startled her. He faced the path, a small curve dug at the corner of his mouth. “Whatever it is that’s itching you.”
Damn it. He was way too perceptive.
“Expecting trouble?” She nodded toward the weapons attached to his saddle and the hilt of his sword by his belt. If she weren’t mistaken, he had two small blades slyly tucked inside his boots as well. This man was no stranger to violence.
“I like to travel prepared,” he said slowly. “The road north is never easy.”
Her eyes narrowed before darting to the bow scabbard she kept by Dapple’s side. “Hard enough for me to be worried? Should I prepare too, then?”
A long silence followed, heavy with his thoughts and broken only by the steady beating of hooves.
“If something happens, do what you must.”
He urged his stallion to move. Trisha could sense the beast’s eagerness; its stamina seemed to match that of its rider.
In contrast, Dapple swished his tail when Trisha pressed her calves against his flanks.
Truly, Trisha? We’ve traveled the whole day—and where’s that carrot you promised?
Nonetheless, he obeyed and kept the pace.