Chapter 3 #2
They soon passed small merchant groups, farmers with their ox carts. Not long after, the road dipped, and a group of quiet and stern soldiers in Normark’s uniform came into view. They held their crossbows at the ready. Cold sweat broke out on Trisha’s neck at the very sight.
“Halt!” shouted the leader of the Normark’s party.
Daworth’s stallion snorted as the rest of his retinue slowed behind him. The leader, an older woman with a broken nose, rode to meet them, two soldiers following.
“State your business,” she said.
“Peace, Captain,” Daworth said smoothly, almost rehearsed. “I’m here by the invitation from Baron von Dornhelm.”
He fished out a rolled-up parchment from his saddlebag, and one of Normark’s soldiers, a younger man, fidgeted with his blade.
Trisha bit her lip. A clash between her companions and the king’s men was the last thing she desired.
The captain shot a warning glare at her adjutant before reluctantly accepting the parchment.
She read it in stern silence, never keeping Daworth out of view.
“Lord Daworth of Dewingar’s.” Her words held an odd undercurrent. Her eyes narrowed with something close to suspicion. “From Moorhafen?”
The other riders sat most upright, and their expressions hardened. Daworth’s stallion whinnied and pawed the ground.
“That’s my lord’s seat,” Daworth confirmed. “I ride on his behalf, Captain.”
The woman’s gaze shifted to the rest of the party and landed on Trisha. “And you? You’re not from Eichlandt.”
“No, m’am. I’m a bard. Traveling to Isdet. Lord Daworth has offered me his protection.”
The woman hummed. “You’d do better to choose different companions. Some lords leave only smoke and ruin in their wake.” She turned back to Lord Daworth and returned the parchment. “Ride straight to the border. Do not stop.”
His smile was loaded with charm. “Have no fear, Captain. We won’t linger.”
The woman pursed her lips with a curt nod.
The stares of the king’s soldiers, their silence, and the way they kept their hands on their weapons prickled on Trisha’s neck.
“What was that about?” she asked with a hush as soon as the road behind them had swallowed the uniformed group.
“My people are not always welcome in Normark.” Displeasure tightened his features. He looked over her, eyes flicking to the lyre and back to her face. His tension melting, Daworth sank into his saddle. “They wanted to know why you’d follow me.”
She thought the words over. “Your lord in Moorhafen, who’s he?”
“Our leader.”
“You must enjoy his trust for him to send you to Normark,” she mused, watching him closely. “Baron von Dornhelm is the lord of these lands.”
The faintest smile. “And I’m not someone to be trusted, is that what you imply?”
“No, I don’t trust you.” The answer came out too blunt, but the long day was taking its toll.
The smile deepened. “Good.”
She yanked in a breath. By the nameless gods!
“Am I frustrating you, Trisha an Tilia?”
Trisha clenched her teeth. “Yes. You’re avoiding my questions.”
“We’ll camp soon enough. I promise not to run away,” Daworth said before his tone fell. “But don’t accuse me if you don’t like your answers.”
Scowling, she held back the urge to challenge him; he would only exasperate her. And worse, he’d do it on purpose.
True to his words—and to the relief of Trisha’s exhausted rear—Lord Daworth called the group to stop not long after. The horses snorted, and the men murmured. Pine and spruce towered, watchful, the forest floor snapping beneath their beasts’ hooves.
Sunlight streamed through the thick boughs, gleaming on lichen-covered rocks beyond.
The wind blew, rippling the grass. The spruces swayed, and the hum of insects filled the air. Turning her back to the low voices of Daworth’s men and quiet bray of their horses, Trisha strolled to one of the larger rocks. She reached out. It was cool and rough against her fingertips. Solid.
Here.
A warmth swelled as her magic rose. Deep within the stone’s heart, an answering hum resonated. Trisha’s throat tightened. A memory slipped through: of a cold night, the assault of rotting leaves on her senses, the loneliness of silent stars.
The temptation… With a mere strum of her lyre, she could open the gateway and step back into the life she’d left, unchanged and eternal.
Shaking her head, Trisha turned away. Best to ignore the stone circles for now. Not before she knew more about Daworth and his men.
The mundanity of sharing a camp with others brought solace: the companionship, the quiet jokes, the groans.
Though welcome, she couldn’t relax. Perhaps it was because of the silent stones she knew lay in waiting.
Or the unexpected companionship. For years, she’d shared the road with Dapple, and now all the tasks seemed to carry an edge she didn’t know how to handle.
One of the soldiers—a tall, dark-haired man close in age to Fjorten—shooed Trisha away after her second attempt to set the campfire failed. “I’ve got this covered, bard,” he ordered, kneeling by the pine-covered ground, preparing the kindling. “You’re here on our… lord’s invitation.”
“I didn’t ask for special treatment. You could just ignore whatever his invitation entails.”
He barked a dry laugh, shaking his head as though her words were a punch line.
“Kaiden,” Fjorten said, slapping the man on the shoulder. “Stop torturing our bard.” He flashed another of those toothy smiles at her.
Kaiden snorted. “Doing nothing of the sort, Fjorten. She blames us for obeying Master Daworth’s command.”
“Southern ignorance, I reckon,” said Fjorten.
“This ignorant southern bard can hear you.”
“Then,” Fjorten said, turning, “you’d do best to sit down and play something. If you can hear us, the same goes both ways.” He looked around the thin coppice.
“No ballads,” Kaiden said firmly, striking the flint. The kindling caught its spark. “Not those mawkish southern ones.”
“Your lord insists you adore them, though.” Trisha beamed, unable to resist the opportunity to needle. “He told me so yesterday.”
“Not exactly the words I used.”
The low-spoken words came too close, shooting cold tremors down her neck. Of course, he’d be behind her. This lord had the most uncanny timing to appear when she least expected. Trisha turned, willing her heartbeat to steady. She tapped her chin as though recalling something.
“Apologies, my lord. I forgot. Forbidden love, you said.” She paused. “A fine choice. Though perhaps somewhat… melodramatic. A reflection on your personality, perhaps?”
Kaiden sputtered, and Trisha resisted the temptation of an indulgent grin. Pushing Daworth was reckless, but she couldn’t help herself. Nothing fazed him. No matter what she threw at him, his irksome calmness remained intact.
“I didn’t realize our little chat left such a lasting impact.” His voice dropped as he leaned in. “I’m all ears to learn what else I left simmering behind.” He smiled—laced with something exciting and razor-sharp that made Trisha’s heart skip a beat. “You could tell me all that back in Eichlandt.”
Trisha’s breath hitched before she controlled the reaction, furious at herself. She threw him a dark look. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
A stunned silence. Fjorten’s and Kaiden’s movements broke the bold awkwardness, but the men continued to set up camp regardless. A fire crackled in the space between them, the tang of smoke spreading through the air.
“Of course not,” he said as though offended by her suggestion. “I will persuade you to follow. Don’t deny you’re not tempted.”
She glared at him. “Persuasion is different from control. No one likes being told what to think. At least I don’t.”
“I’ve noticed.” Moving to sit by the fire, he settled himself more comfortably. “But while you think, I find merit in Fjorten’s words.” He smiled then—not genuine, not really, but inviting. “Blunt as he may be, music does brighten up a campsite. Especially music as lively as yours.”
“A glowing endorsement. No wonder your Warlord is still lacking a bard.”
Relenting, she moved closer. Trisha’s fingers were restless to test the strings, to tease out her memory of the fog lingering between the trees, that stillness humming somewhere deep in her blood. The quiet yearning of the ground begged to be heard.
Accepting a place near the lord was out of the question. Instead, she chose a spot that left space between them. Not directly across from him either. That would land her squarely in his line of sight—an equally dangerous place to be.
His crazymaking smirk told her he’d noticed her deliberate choice.
She opened the lyre case and stroked the instrument, admiring the delicate polish of its warm wood and the fine, silver-sheened strings. Eyes half-closed, she cradled the lyre in her lap, adjusting the tune as she went and listening to the drum under her skin.
“Your instrument,” Daworth interrupted her meditation. “I don’t believe I’ve seen anything like it.”
“I’d be surprised if you had,” Trisha muttered, half-gone in the road’s song. “I commissioned it. There’s only one.”
Ah, there. The second string and a pressure point to raise its pitch. A strum, and the music she’d listened to came to life—a low, rhythmic one. She gave it the rhythm she’d picked up from the endless trot. Next came a cascading harmony, like the wind skimming her cheeks.
Her magic heard the music too. But its push was tender, reaching inward instead of out. And she let it, savoring the heat of its sway like a river that carried her. Its power fed into the music, helping her sense the sedate shift of the earth, the deep pulse of roots below.
Trisha lost all sense of time. The soldiers around her, the watchful attention of the man across.
The only thing that existed was the weight of her lyre, the press of its strings against the skin.
Her fingers followed the song breathing around her—the slow throb of the trees’ hearts, water seeping through gravel, the mumble of the stones.