Chapter 8
Dapple’s hooves clopped against the rotting wood of the bridge crossing the moat, the stench of still and muddy water lingering even after she’d entered Moorhafen’s courtyard.
Her trusty steed carried Trisha through the lower bailey, passing stray livestock and the smithy.
After the barracks, by the stables, she slid off Dapple’s back and led him toward the post near its entrance.
Birds chirped, and Dapple’s dark tail swooshed to drive off the flies.
She grinned, patting him. “I’ll get a brush. You’ll get your breakfast after that.”
Dapple snorted as though to inform her what he thought of this order.
“If I must endure Aine’s ministrations and suffocating bodices, the least you can do is to go through a good grooming. We’re in this together.”
These morning rides allowed Trisha the freedom she’d lost in her past life. Aine might control Trisha’s outfit for official appearances, but outside the Warlord’s halls, she insisted on wearing tunics and pants. They were practical and, most importantly, hers.
Heading toward the stable doorway, she slipped a hand in her pocket and drew out a green culm. Hollow and sturdy stem, with feathery seed heads crowning its top, Trisha had recognized it instantly when passing the field of reeds beneath the shadow of an ancient hill.
Her memory—here, in Eichlandt.
Trisha couldn’t leave it standing there.
Instead, she’d hopped off the saddle. Walking across the rustling grass sea, she ran her hand across its surface.
A swirling maelstrom of fury and sorrow had raged within.
She wasn’t even sure what she felt, but it burned her throat.
In her memories, the stalks grew taller, a forest of grass swallowing her view of the sun and the sky, her mother’s dark shape pulling her forward. Had she truly been so small?
Trisha’s fingers lapped around the stem. She’d find them. Make them tell her why they’d abandoned her. Had there been something wrong with her? She’d tell them the truth. Make them regret.
And then behind her, a crunch of gravel under boots, a faint smell of evergreens and cedar drifting in the wind; she knew who stood there before he even spoke.
“Woolgathering, or just blocking my way because it suits?” the voice said.
She whirled around. Blainor, of course. She’d noticed him before, headed to the fencing yard at the same time she took Dapple out.
Curse him. Why did he have to seek her out now when a tangle of conflicting emotions churned inside her? When the past had slid through the crack and disturbed her world?
A loose shirt with an open neckline displayed silver-lined scars.
How many did he have beneath his clothes?
A faint grin sparked a blush from Trisha.
Blainor’s eyes then landed on the reed, his brow lifting.
She resisted the impulse to hide it behind her back.
Servants, soldiers, and the castle residents moved around them.
“Or entertaining a new profession?” he asked. “I’d caution you to rethink. Farming in the north is hard work, my southern bird. Stick to your music.”
“Just something I passed earlier today,” Trisha muttered. “It caught my interest.”
He moved closer, and a curious, masculine scent wafted to her nose.
She stifled the urge to lean closer and inhale.
Was it really too much to ask that he’d smell disgusting after fencing practice?
Tiny beads of sweat pearled on his forehead, and those stubborn curls of black hair were glued to his skin.
“Thistledrift. Rather commonplace,” he informed her. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short.”
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t recall seeing it elsewhere, and as you said, it seems to grow here in abundance.”
He observed Trisha for a second too long. “That, it certainly does. But if you fancy horticulture, there are other, more interesting plants to choose from. What in it caught your interest?”
For one frightful moment, all her mind could draw was blank. “Nothing, really.”
Blainor hummed with a sideways glance at Dapple and frowned. “You shouldn’t ride alone. The moors can be dangerous.”
“I’ve never needed a nursemaid before, and I don’t need one now.”
“Big words from a small bard,” he murmured. “Your bow hand may be steady, but there are other dangers lurking.”
“Such as yourself?” It was the sunlight that warmed her cheeks, nothing else.
“Inviting me to bite?” His smile was all teeth as he leaned in, voice dropping. “Be careful, or I just might.”
Unwanted heat panged her forehead from his sharp smell.
The tang of smoke from the smithy strengthened.
Drawing a shallow breath, Trisha forced herself to remain still.
Every nerve screamed at her to pull back, and yet all she wanted was to lean deeper into that heat.
“Hard to believe it could be any worse than your taunts.”
“Now, you truly are baiting me, Starling.” His eyes darkened, the edge of a dare in his stillness.
A soft gust blew through the yard, disturbing flecks of sand, tugging at Trisha’s clothes. The rub of the fabric felt wrong, the milky sap of the crushed reed smearing her palm. She didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact.
A loud clop of hooves shattered the moment, followed by a man’s voice booming from the direction of the outer gate.
“Out o’ my way! My men ’n’ I are expected.”
A tremor of irritation twisted Blainor’s expression before he pulled himself upright. A nod to the two shields waiting in the distance. They straightened, hands on their swords. Then, the Warlord stood next to Trisha, facing his visitors with a cold expression.
An older man yanked his tan-colored horse to a halt.
Over his shoulders rested the maw of a dead wolf, the gray pelted cloak flowing around his burly form.
A younger fellow in plated armor rode beside him, with a dozen others following.
Servants slowed, watching the group with an air close to wariness.
Silence thickened before Blainor raised his voice.
“Chief Wolfsbach, you’re early.”
The wolf-cloaked man jerked his reins and shot a withering glare at the Warlord. There was tightness in his posture, his bearded face contorted into a frown. The wolf stared ahead with its vacant eyes.
Chief Wolfsbach’s second man mirrored his lord’s expression. An angry red scar cut his face from the corner of his eye to his mouth. The other riders amassed behind him, grains of sand rattling beneath their horses’ feet.
“Warlord,” Annath Wolfsbach said with a curt nod.
He flung his gaze around the surroundings, pausing on the battlement where the guards kept watch with their crossbows, moving to her.
He sat in the saddle as though waiting for a chance to draw steel.
“Yer message said within ten days. I’m ‘ere now, ain’t I? ”
“Must make you proud, knowing how to count. A rare skill among Wolfsbachs.”
Annath’s mouth thinned before he slid off the saddle and pushed the reins into his adjutant’s hands. He strode toward Blainor and Trisha, the gray pelt rippling behind him. “Still holdin’ to yer posh speech, Warlord. Much good it’ll do ye when wieldin’ a sword.”
“You need a reminder?” Blainor asked in a silky tone. He stepped to the other man’s path, cutting off Annath’s view of Trisha. “Or perhaps the years have dulled more than just your memory?”
Annath spat into the dirt and faced the Warlord, defiant. “Nay, Warlord. Still sharp. And if ye fear that, lemme know. After all, I’m ’ere.”
Over his shoulders, Annath’s men flashed wily smiles. Annath’s adjutant grinned, too. A restless murmur of the onlookers filled the courtyard.
“Unfortunately,” Blainor said. “Can’t be helped, can it, now?
Seneschal Usmer will let the servants know to ready your rooms. Once Chief Blutmeer arrives, we’ll meet at the Assembly Hall.
” His tone darkened. “I have some questions for Gend.” Then, moving toward Annath.
“The stablehands will take care of your steed. Follow me.” He glanced at Trisha.
“Fjorten will help you pick a guard. I don’t want you to ride alone anymore. ”
Her fists squeezed tightly as Blainor pulled Chief Wolfsbach in his tow. Just who did he think he was to order her like that? She didn’t need a guard.
Mishmash of voices, clink of metal, and horses neighing; the servants flocked to the courtyard to take the mounts from Chief Wolfsbach’s men.
While passing her, the scar-faced adjutant slowed. Lips tilted, the man lowered his head but didn’t speak, striding after Blainor and Annath into the shadows of the keep.
Trisha’s fingers loosened. The crushed thistledrift reed drifted to the ground, but her hands remained clammy with its dried sap.
The long, northern day fought against the sundown, some light lingering. Despite the warmth, the walls of the old fortress exhaled, cold and damp. Trisha rolled her head. The dress Aine had picked for her was of fine wool, yet it failed to dispel the stone’s chill.
Or perhaps it was just the atmosphere tonight.
The grand hall with its stone pillars and high ceiling looked the same—lit fires glinting off the dark stone, bright tunics, and rustling skirts.
But people’s voices were muted, and more than once, someone sent a stray glance toward the high table where Blainor sat with Annath Wolfbach and his second-in-command.
Annath still sported his wolf-cloak, pale bone toggles gleaming in the light. His adjutant’s gaze swept around the Fir Hall, pausing ever so often on the soldiers wearing the Dewingar crest.
“Impressed by the view?”
Hand on her chest, Trisha glared at the red-haired man who had drawn next to her. Fjorten. “You’ve left your lord to fend for himself.” Her brow arched. “And your wife.”