Chapter 9
Moorhafen’s low and spacious kitchen welcomed Trisha. She halted by the entrance, already perspiring from the lit stove. The maids chopping vegetables gave her curious glances.
Before being leashed to the Blainor’s assigned nursemaid, she wanted a word with the kitchen crew.
She couldn’t stop, not now. Each day in Moorhafen slowed her, mooring her to Blainor’s home.
It was an unfamiliar feeling to stay in one place for this long.
Unfamiliar but not unpleasant—Trisha didn’t want to consider what it meant.
She hadn’t left the Undying Lands for nothing.
Her tarry had nothing to do with a set of gray eyes.
Couldn’t. Blainor was only toying with her, and as soon as she had some information, Trisha would leave.
Fiddling with a pouch of dried herbs at her belt, she asked, “Could I get some hot water?”
A ruddy-faced woman with an apron tied at the waist squinted and gave a curt nod. One of the kitchen maids hurried to a copper pot and ladled steaming water into a ceramic cup.
With a murmured thanks, Trisha measured chamomile, liquorice, and sage to her drink. Her gratitude was genuine when the maid brought her a jar of honey without asking.
Despite anxiety trembling in her heart, she pushed forward. “While in Graystein, I heard of a family that might’ve lost a daughter. Have you heard about them?”
The maid paused, hands wrapped around the honey jar. She shook her head. “Nay.”
Trisha wracked her brain as the earthy aroma of her infusion coated her tongue.
She sidestepped to let a footman rush in.
Flames glinted off copper pots and pans, a knife sliced through the air as someone chopped off fish heads, and another pulled intestines from a bloodied slab of meat.
Notes of blood and flour, yeast and honey warred in the space.
She observed it all, slightly nauseated, like an intruder in a kingdom that merely tolerated her.
From the side door, a dark shape appeared, framed by the bright sunlight. Kaiden. Upon seeing her in the corner, he nodded. “Hungry already?”
She pointed toward her cup. “My infusion helps with the voice.”
A wide smirk tugged at his mouth as he moved closer. “Ah, Lynjef too liked his ‘special’ brew.”
“Not that kind of brew. Just herbs.”
“She asked about a family with a missing child,” said the maid who had brought Trisha’s water. Her mouth was round with amazement. “Have you heard of such a thing, Master Brawn?”
Kaiden spun round and faced Trisha. Surprise had widened his dark eyes. “A child?!”
“Someone mentioned it in passing,” Trisha mumbled. “I was thinking about… composing a song.”
With a huff, Kaiden tossed his braid over his shoulder. “Search Lynjef’s notes. He knew too many to name. You might find such a lament in them.”
Trisha’s nose wrinkled. She wasn’t searching for legends but a real place. Another thought shot through her. “How about maps? Are there any in Moorhafen?”
Kaiden snatched a loaf of rye bread from a passing servant, ignoring the thundering look he garnered from the head cook, and said, “If you want to see more of Eichlandt, talk to the Warlord. The best place to find them is Orin Lichtal’s library.
” He bowed. “Don’t forget that the Shield Master is looking for you. ”
Oh, yes—her nursemaid. She sighed. “I’ll go find Fjorten.”
Fjorten led Trisha through the lower bailey to the barracks, where low stone buildings with thatched roofs stood near a fencing yard.
Maids and footmen carried baskets of food and trays of tools, the mouth-watering smell of baked bread drifting in the wind.
A rooster crowed, falling into a confused quiet.
“Is Gend Blutmeer like Chief Wolfbach?” Trisha asked. Despite Annath’s obvious grudge against Blainor, he carried himself with similar confidence as Orin Lichtal. She had an inkling she’d find all Eichlandt’s clan chiefs carved of the same wood.
Fjorten huffed. “I’d hope not.” He looked at her. “Don’t go asking that from Gend. He’ll snap your neck.”
“Why?”
“Great Father knows. But a word of caution: keep out of Blutmeers and Wolfbachs’ arguments.”
They reached the brick-built barracks. Laughter and the murmur of conversation grew stronger as Fjorten pushed open a sturdy wooden door, revealing a dark room with multiple tables.
The air stank of sweat, leather, and rust. Boots scraped against the floor, discussions dying as a mixed group of women and men—Moorhafen’s soldiers—snapped to attention.
An older man with a long, brown beard ambled over to meet them.
Built like a bull, in the padded gambeson with purple stitches and the six-spoked Dewingar crest, his chest was as broad as his beard was long.
He bowed when he reached the two. Trisha couldn’t look away from the space where his ear should have been.
“Shield Master Tifbrunn. Bard an Tilia.” His sights flicked toward her before returning to Fjorten.
He gestured them to follow. “I did as you asked, Master Tifbrunn. They all know why they’re here.
” He fell silent as they cleared a corner and arrived in an open space—a sparring room, by the looks of it.
Weapons on the walls and black scuff marks on the floor spoke their silent language.
At the center stood five people: two women and three men, all of them built of muscle and displaying the Dewingar sigil of six spokes on their tabards.
“Attention,” said the captain, loud enough to be yelling. “This is the Warlord’s Bard. She’ll be asking questions of you. Be clear. Be polite.” He turned toward her, face unreadable, and nodded. “Go ahead, Bard an Tilia.”
The first was an older man with a sun-weathered face. His broken nose told stories of many fights, as did the washed-out scars. Just a few words in, Trisha knew he wouldn’t be the right one. She moved to the next man. His smile was warm, but since more remained, she moved onward still.
The third Moorhafen’s shield was a woman with cropped brown hair and arms strong as oak branches.
Everything—from the stocky shape of her body to the stubborn tilt of her chin and the thick neck that carried her suntanned face—made Trisha think of an ancient tree.
Something that would weather a storm: unyielding, standing, breaking rather than bending.
But beneath that gruff exterior, the woman’s brown, intelligent eyes held a comfort that tugged at Trisha’s heart, aching with the want to sink into her arms.
“Reike,” she introduced herself in a low, rumbling voice.
Trisha nodded, moving forward, but even before she’d started questioning the next person, she’d already made her choice.
“Her.” She pointed toward Reike.
Surprise flew over Fjorten’s face. “Shield Stammek,” he said as the other guards started drifting away from the room. “Should go without saying what the Warlord expects.”
“Yes, Shield Master.” Reike nodded, turning. A network of lines crinkled around her eyes. “Very well, Bard. Very well. Let us see how it goes.”
Outside the barracks, Fjorten addressed Reike, “Your father should arrive soon.”
“Aye. I’m looking forward to learning the news from home.” The shield fell silent, adding, “I heard Chief Wolfbach is here… with his nephew.”
The hesitant undertone caught Trisha’s ears. “You know them?”
It was Fjorten who responded, “She gave Ernaut his scar.”
Annath’s adjutant? “Why?”
“Some men think all women want to be carried off to bed,” Reike said, teeth flashing. “Ernaut needed a bit of schooling.”
“Didn’t seem to teach him too well.” Fjorten watched as a group of young boys chased a squealing piglet.
“I wouldn’t say so.” Reike scratched behind her ear. “As far as I know, he’s not called up the carry-off again.”
A brisk wind flapped the deep violet flags and banners. Trisha asked, “Bride abduction?”
“Ergoth made it the law after he joined the clans,” Fjorten said.
Reike snorted. “Stupid law, if you ask me.”
“It’s an old one,” he admitted, “and you know how the Warlord feels about it.”
Fjorten looked at the gate leading to the inner courtyard. “Keep her safe. Come find me once you’re back, Shield Stammek.” With a clipped bow to Trisha, he marched away.
Dapple protested when he saw the lead, but Trisha laughed, pointing at the hay in his feed bowl. “No lies. You just want to eat.”
His ears lowered, and she kissed him on the muzzle before leading the horse back out to be saddled.
Reike was already waiting with a stocky brown mare, and Dapple’s countenance cheered. He let out a happy neigh. No mention of his tired legs. Eagerly, he prodded at her, telling her to hurry. Trisha smiled.
They rode under the portcullis, long stalks of thistledrift swaying next to the moat.
Reike waved a hand at her colleagues as they took the northbound route.
Trisha inhaled the sweet scent of wildflowers and salt in the wind.
Over their heads, sparrows flitted to catch insects.
Unexpectedly, Dapple decided to veer too close to Reike and nip at the mare’s hide.
“Will you stop?” she snapped at Dapple when he, once again, brushed too close to the mare. “If you won’t, you’ll ride with me only. And no treats, either.”
He wagged his ears.
“I mean it, Dapple.”
Reike gave Trisha a long, studying look. The quiet lasted until she commented, “He understands? Your speaking, that is.”
Trisha blushed. “Well, I tell myself he does.” She glared at her steed. “Although I’m starting to doubt his sense.”
Dapple nickered.
Reike wiped her chin, eyes thoughtful. “Seems he does. Didn’t know southern horses had that skill.”
“We’ve been together for years,” Trisha said. “Not unheard of for the rider and their horse to get close.”
“Nay, suppose not.” Reike smiled, but her expression was more amused, as though she was saying it to appease her and not because she believed the lie.
“So, you’re a Blutmeer?” Trisha said.
Reike nodded. “My father is Chief Blutmeer’s first man.”