Chapter 3 #4
His gravity served as a fresh reminder about the king’s soldiers, the afternoon’s fraughtness, and the casual way he’d prepared for trouble. “What are you expecting to happen?” Trisha asked. “If you suspect danger, I deserve to know.”
Around them, shadows thickened, and the cracks and snaps of unseen animals sounded louder.
“I suspect danger every day,” he said. “But here, I know it’s certain.” Daworth looked into the blackness between the trees. “I’d be a fool not to.”
“But why?”
His smile was more felt than seen, the heaviness in him yielding to sudden amusement. “Curious and sings in too many tongues. You’ll be my Starling.”
Trisha’s jaw locked. “I’d rather not, my lord. I quite like my own name.” Before he could evade yet another question, she added, “The merchant mentioned ghosts. Was she right?” Against herself, she sought the trees where evening had hidden the ancient stones.
“Right,” he said. “Who decrees what’s correct? The historians? Sagas told by a fire?” he paused. “Demons, ghosts, fae in their vanished, mystical land—they are myths our bards sing.”
“So, she was lying?” She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved. Daworth appeared to see more than he let on. She didn’t forget how he’d witnessed her playing at the inn, and yet he now dismissed what others feared. Could she believe him?
The wind eased, the smoke’s tang growing stronger.
“Myth is but a truth too old to be remembered,” he said quietly. “And perhaps for all, it’d be better if it remained so.”
“You make no sense,” she spat. “Why are you certain of danger here? Did something happen with the Baron?”
“Nothing happened,” said Lord Daworth, his voice turning sour. “But that gives me every reason to expect something will.” He hesitated. “Fly back to the light. But for the rest of the night, keep your voice low.”
Daworth passed her toward the forest. With each step, the shadows seemed to sway, gathering closer to him. The farther he walked, the more completely they draped him. Until, at last, he was gone and only darkness remained in his wake.
Trisha returned to the campsite, unsettled by their conversation, by the way the air had seemed to stir and shadows had pooled at his feet. A trick of the light, she told herself, yet the vision of him vanishing into the dark refused to leave.
Some nodded to greet her arrival, some continued their tasks and prepared for rest. Even so, the somber mood lingered.
Fjorten was giving quiet orders, setting the watch rotation.
As he spoke, his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword and remained there.
So, he knew of whatever trouble Lord Daworth expected to find them.
The others accepted his words without dispute, confirming her suspicion that he was one of Daworth’s most trusted men.
“Why did your lord leave the campsite?” Trisha asked once he was finished.
Fjorten tugged at his beard. “Scouting.”
“And that’s a duty of his? Seems rather bold to venture into a dark forest alone.”
“M’lord is skilled,” Fjorten said slowly. “I’d be more worried for those he finds.” He grinned. “I hope he comes to fetch us to help finish the job.”
She tilted her head. “What makes him expect trouble? And why?”
“He has his reasons. M’lord is a private man. I’d be too, if I—” He cut himself short.
That little tell, of the man stopping himself, caught her interest. But she didn’t press for more answers; it told her enough for now. She opted to set her bedcover instead. Around her, others performed similar tasks, the fire’s glow dwindling to near embers.
As she lay on the ground, the gentle wind kissed her hair, and an occasional horse’s neigh reached her ears. Trisha stared into the sky. She pondered the mysterious lord who had invited her to join him on his ride. The secrets he kept close to his chest, the way he watched her.
Who was he? Not a mere lord, of course, but a man who roused her magic, vanished into shadows, and saw too much. Just before sleep claimed Trisha, it occurred to her that she’d asked none of the right questions.
The lumpy ground was uncomfortable, her sleep fitful.
Craggy pebbles poked into Trisha through thin wool.
At each toss and turn, they hummed with the same song as the weathered stones beyond the clearing, their low pulse seeping through the forest’s floor.
The music took her back to a memory, but not the one she expected: the field of reeds, a pale sky, and the whip of her mother’s dress against her face.
Trisha found herself staring into a pair of glowing eyes, black-slitted against yellow.
Moonbeams and the dancing lights caught on the white scales.
“Trisha… Found your home in the mortal world, have you? Hmm?”
Far in the distance, Rilka’s voice, like distant glass bells.
Trisha wanted to call out for her, but fear devoured her entirely.
The serpentine body slithered closer. How?
She’d left him and the Undying Lands. Their king had decreed that no fae should step beyond the portal’s light.
This had to be a dream, and yet the fragrant magic of jasmine and honeysuckle coated her tongue.
A wide smile exposed curved fangs, sharper than knives. “Tsk, tsk. And such hopes I had for you. Maybe I was wrong?”
Anger blazed. How dare he taunt her? And still Trisha’s mouth refused to work.
Wicked delight shone in the gleaming eyes, the hissing voice like wind tearing through leaves. “All right, then. If you insist. Snow and ice, child, I already told you. Just don’t forget this, for eternity is a long time…”
Stirring movement and hushed voices from the camp broke through Trisha’s slumber. A moment of disorientation followed before the details crept back into her mind—the meeting with Lord Daworth, the long road, the campsite. Silent stars winked overhead, smoke drifting in the wind.
Leaning on her elbows, she quickly sat up. Clouded figures conversed in low tones only a pace apart: Fjorten, Kaiden, and Daworth. So, their lord had returned from his scouting.
“—twenty, maybe more. Light-footed,” he was saying. “They’ll be here soon.”
Shaking off the remnants of her nightmare, Trisha clambered to her feet. Her muscles screamed in protest, and she grimaced, rubbing her thighs as she made her way to the men.
“You’re awake. Good,” Daworth said.
She asked, “Who’s coming?”
“Brigands. Or soldiers dressed as such, I should say.”
Terror swallowed her fatigue. “Why?”
Daworth glanced at his two men. Fjorten crossed his arms, and Kaiden’s silence felt just as expectant.
She ground her teeth. “My lord, I’d really like to understand what I’ve entangled myself in here.”
“Let’s just say that Normark’s lords don’t have much love for me. Perhaps they’re justified. Great Father only knows how much I’ve scorched their land. We’ve been followed since the afternoon.”
She rubbed her forehead. “And it didn’t occur to you to tell me sooner?”
“It was irrelevant when it was clear they weren’t about to engage.
That’s not the case anymore.” A heartbeat of quiet.
“Listen, if you survive this encounter, it might be better for you not to remain in the sight of the king or his vassals. Actually, avoid Normark completely. Killing a king’s soldier is a capital offense. ”
She blew an irate puff. “I’ve not killed anyone.”
“You’ve been seen traveling with me. That’s reason enough.”
She simply blinked in utter silence. Executed—for riding next to him? Just how much blood had this man shed?
He sighed, nodding to the other men. Voiceless, they stepped back, leaving her to face him in private.
“Trisha an Tilia,” he said, turning to her, “I’ve offered you my protection on the road north. I’m now extending it further. Come with me to Eichlandt. Stay until the storm’s blown over. Play at my court. You’ll be honored and treated well.”
“That’s very generous of you, but I follow the road. I plan to stop at Isdet.”
“You should not. The Warden of Marches and I… are not on the best of terms. She won’t be welcoming you. Not after tonight.”
A suspicion she’d nurtured in silence turned into certainty. “There’s no lord waiting for you in Moorhafen, is there?”
That seemed to amuse him; she could hear it in his voice. “No,” he said. “There’s not.”
The understanding landed in her stomach like a block of ice. The words of the merchant woman echoed in her mind: Avoid the Warlord’s attention. She wanted to groan. It seemed she’d failed at that. “It’s you. You’re their Warlord. Holden’s son.”
He stilled—whether from surprise, annoyance, or some other emotion he didn’t allow himself to show. But the slight adjustment in his posture, the way the rhythm of his breathing changed, revealed him all the same.
“Perceptive of you, Starling,” he said slowly. “Although, much like you, I too prefer my own name and not my father’s.”
Another shift, the starlight and the sickle moon shining on his face. His expression sent a fire through her. “Blainor.” His words were a quiet stroke of breath. “Not Holden.”
The faint hoot of an owl and the song of crickets echoed in the air.
“That’s my name: Blainor Dewingar,” he continued, louder. “And yes, I’m the Warlord of the Twelve, Master of the Moors.”
She crossed her arms, fixing him a steady look. “Your evasion makes me trust you even less, Warlord. You could have told me earlier. Again.”
“Not truly. Not at the inn. Too many ears, too many mouths. And… there is a price on my head. Suspended for now, or so the Baron’s liege wanted me to believe.”
“Your business with the Baron—it wasn’t for trade.”
“So curious,” he murmured. “I can see how it’s killing you. The not knowing.”
She clenched her teeth. “Does it excite you watching me guess?”
“Another answer you’ll have to live without, I fear.”
He drew a deep breath as though savoring the night’s brisk air, the forest’s piney aroma. “The soldiers will be here soon. You’d do well to keep quiet and out of sight. Your music may mesmerize men, but it’s a double-edged sword, and I do prefer my blades sharp.”
For a moment, she thought to turn on her heels. Almost decided to pack her belongings and do exactly what he’d warned her about: vanish. Just mount Dapple and ride off into the night. Ultimately, sense called her back.
If Lord Daworth—Blainor, the Warlord—wasn’t lying, a number of hostile soldiers lay in wait.
She could only imagine what they’d think, seeing her emerge from the campsite, riding her distinct ash-gray Mearsen horse.
A horse that had been witnessed alongside the ruler of Eichlandt, a man with a bounty on his head and a hefty blood toll in his past.
How neatly he’d cornered her. She was stuck. For now, she reminded herself. Only for tonight.
Afterward, she’d weigh whether to accept his offer, though its logic was undeniable.
Damn him, still. Her reference might as well be ash.