Chapter 5
For Trisha, no single thing marked their crossing of the border into Eichlandt: thick forests of tall birch and spruce changed into pastureland, and jagged hills that time had eroded into waves nudged a forgotten corner of her mind.
But her companions noticed. Their postures relaxed, slight smiles breaking through. Not even their Warlord, who carried himself like an unsheathed sword, could resist the land’s call.
Blainor leaned into his saddle, one hand hanging at his side, barely reining in his stallion, Skarr. The horse seemed to find enjoyment in its freedom and used this opportunity to torment Dapple, posturing and baring its teeth at Trisha’s gelding.
Dapple’s ears lay flat every time the bay horse veered too close.
“Unbearable beast,” Trisha muttered under her breath, “just like your rider.”
From his crooked smile, she guessed Blainor had heard the words.
Blowing a strand of hair from her eyes, she looked around. Her heartbeat was a restless drumming in her chest, a place where hope and fear tangled into a tight knot. At last.
They’d swallowed the distance between Isdet and Eichlandt in a matter of days, though it felt longer to Trisha. The tension, the knowledge that they’d been followed, and the constant risk of confrontation at every encounter and stop had made each day drag with the worry it could happen again.
The enormity of the task ahead crushed her. How could she possibly find her family in this land of rolling hills and silent forests? That field of reeds and stone circles where her mother had taken her?
Her fingers locked around the reins, shutting out her doubts.
She’d prevail the same way she had since leaving her adoptive home.
Had she realized seven years ago the enormity of her task, she may have given up.
But she’d prove her self-appointed teacher wrong, refute those cruel words that had bitten into her soul, tearing away everything she’d ever known as a lie.
No, she wouldn’t dare dwell on the past. She’d left for good reason.
And now she was here, in Eichlandt, on the invitation of their Warlord. Oh, how times change.
Their route would take them through Graystein, the town Trisha had first heard about from the merchant woman at the inn six days ago. As the Warlord’s Bard, his people would welcome her. Yes, she could ask there.
Fields and the grazing sheep pastures spread around them; evergreens covered the rising swells of the land.
A group of patrolling soldiers saluted them, bowing their heads.
When their gazes landed on Trisha riding beside him, surprise twisted their expressions.
An unspoken question shone in their eyes, as though her presence was a declaration spoken in a language she didn’t know.
She stole a look at Blainor. The wind tousled his dark, curly hair and flapped his cloak.
His easy manner of enduring the hardships of the road—its simple meals, working alongside his men at their camping—had earned her grudging respect.
Was this the true Warlord: a man dressed in simple wool and linen, sharing the road with his men, a stubble swathing his chin? A warrior commanding legions of men?
“We’ll stay overnight at Lichtal’s Keep,” Blainor said, eyes fastened on the road. “It won’t take long to reach Graystein.”
“He expects us, then, my lord?” Trisha asked.
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t informed of our crossing the border a day ago.” His arms tensed as he reined in Skarr. “Orin watches the southern line.”
She pinched her lips in thought. “So, he’s not only interested in trade.”
A slow smile spread across Blainor’s face. “Starling, you are a fast learner.”
Her insides fluttered in an odd way. “Not hard to realize. Your people seem to relish constant skirmishes. Kaiden was positively heartbroken when that group of soldiers just before the border decided not to engage with us.”
“What can I say?” Blainor shrugged. “There’s a reason I picked this group to escort me to Nortwurd.”
“You’ve yet to disclose why you went south.” She hadn’t given up her hopes of finding the reason.
“So curious.”
“You enjoy baiting me too much, Warlord.”
His next response came in the form of that infuriating smile. “You make it too easy, Starling.”
“Careful, my lord, or I will reconsider my agreement to follow you to Moorhafen. Chief Lichtal might be in need of a bard instead.”
The wind blew stronger, bringing an undertone of wildflowers and peat. The trot of their horses thudded against the dirt road.
Faint lines of tension appeared around Blainor’s fading smirk. “Orin’s not in need of another bard.”
Trisha pressed further, delighted by the rare sight of something other than calm amusement. “You seem certain of it.”
Blainor scoffed, but his attention remained on the road. “Bran Jovell has been Orin’s minstrel for the past seven years. Orin never forgets to remind me of the fact.”
She tilted her head. “Can’t say I recognize the name.”
That seemed to lift his mood. He scratched his chin before stating, “Orin’s a proud man.” Finally, Blainor turned toward her, the faintest smirk still teasing his cheeks. “The same can be said of his bard.”
“Fear not for my sake. They’re far from the only proud men I’ve met.”
“That doesn’t exactly comfort me, Starling.”
By the time the afternoon light had stretched shadows tall, they reached Graystein—a town resting by the side of a sloping hill, dark granite winking beneath emerald grass.
Watchtowers guarded low-built, thatch-roofed buildings, and there, the walled fortress at the root of the hill: Lichtal’s Keep.
Cradled between the broken hill and the town, the bastioned keep soared beyond the settlement, guarding it from the uneven slope and whatever lay beyond.
As they rode through the town’s outskirts, the residents halted their tasks. Men pounded their chests, and laughing children scurried after their steeds. Their bright voices echoed over the ambient noise: the clop of hooves, gravel crunching, prattle of people.
“It’s Kaiden Brawn. And Hurti!”
“Show us your sword, Warlord!”
“Did you really kill a ghost? Was it bigger than a barn?”
Jaw tightening, Blainor trained his eyes ahead.
A chorus of disappointed cries gave way to loud cheers. Trisha swung around in her saddle and caught a glint of steel as it sliced through the air. Then, Kaiden’s hand—moving fast. He caught the thrown dagger by its blade, flicking the sharp weapon, and tossed it back to Fjorten.
“You’re soft, Shield Master. Kids don’t need cheap thrills. They know what awaits after summer.”
With a shrug, Fjorten stuck the belt-knife back in its sheath. “Better leave them with other memories to talk about.” He waved at the children before facing the road. As his gaze fell on Trisha, worry darkened his brows.
Biting her lip, she focused on guiding Dapple, but couldn’t banish the gnawing unease.
Walls of weathered wood and stone flanked the busy path where women in their brightly colored dresses curtsied, and the men in their dark felt hats stopped to bow. Their eyes, following the Warlord, paused on Trisha beside him, and a glimmer of surprise widened their stares. Her skin crawled.
Trisha tried to parse Blainor’s mood. Perhaps she could ask him about their reaction, help decipher what it meant.
She pressed her heels down in the stirrups, sitting straighter.
Blainor would just spin into one of his endless evasions.
He seemed to find far too much enjoyment in provoking her.
A curious reaction for a man who enjoyed absolute obedience from his men.
The band trod through the open gates, entering the bailey where a group of people were already waiting. The wind swirled the dry earth, dust clouding beneath their horses’ hooves.
At the forefront stood a tall, sturdy man, dressed in a dark jacket and tan breeches.
Sunlight gleamed on his auburn hair, frosted with age.
His face bore wrinkles of hardships endured, and a trimmed beard covered his chin.
The way he carried himself suggested that this was a man who found great pleasure in challenges—and enjoyed overcoming them even more.
Blainor dismounted, boots hitting the ground with a loud thud and puff of dust. Only then did Chief Lichtal speak.
“Warlord,” he said in a deep voice, stepping forward. “Welcome to Lichtal’s Keep.”
Blainor clasped his hands on the chief’s arms. “It’s good to see you, Orin.”
Chief Lichtal dipped his chin, and Blainor released him.
“You were gone longer than I anticipated,” Orin said. “I hope for good news.”
“You hope in vain. King Leopold’s distrust is stronger than his sense.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Orin said, adding more slowly, “Have you considered that we don’t need him? It’s been quiet for years.”
Blainor scoffed. “You sound like Naddod.”
“Chief Falkvinds knows just like I do that trouble is bad for trade. Naddod needs his men at home, not patrolling the borders of Everfrost.”
The brazen comment startled Trisha. Blainor responded, his voice like steel. “Advising me again, Orin?”
“Of course not, Warlord.” Orin bowed. “But Naddod’s opinion is gaining traction. The others need more if you’re to convince them in Midsummer.”
“Perhaps a promise of a raid will do just that.”
An eager twinkle brightened Orin’s eyes. “A raid, my lord?”
“King Leopold set an ambush on our way back. I lost one good man; Ilker Steiken’s now with his ancestors,” Blainor said. “Come spring, we shall ride and make the king pay.”
Trisha bit her lip to keep her silence, but she swore to herself she wouldn’t forget. She wouldn’t be marching with him to war. Not now or spring.
“Indeed, my lord. We’ll raise mead for Ilker Steiken tonight and avenge him in the springtide.” Orin gestured to the waiting servants to take their horses. “Edith’s lit the fires already—we’ll feast for him and your return.”
“That would please him and his family.”