Chapter 9 #2
Trisha tilted her head, trying to see if anything stood out in Reike against the other people she’d met since arriving in Eichlandt.
Light brown hair, defined lines. Much like others she’d met.
A stray thought emerged on how she might look in their eyes—a stranger or oddly the same? “What’s Halsdal like?”
“Cold, windy, and wet. It’s in the north, but it’s home.” A pensive tone laced Reike’s voice as she watched the fields spreading around them.
“Do all the Warlord’s shields come from other clans?” Trisha probed.
“Some.”
Trisha mulled over the shield’s cautious tone and tried to guess what had happened between Reike and Annath’s first man, if that had brought her to Moorhafen. “Do you know what Annath and Gend argue about?”
Reike shrugged. “Land is what I heard.” A pause, then quieter: “This time it might even be true.” Some nameless terror made her voice catch. Her gaze drew to the north. “Better to remain silent, lest you stir the thing you don’t want awakened.”
The soldier’s mouth was a tight line, holding whatever words she harbored locked inside.
Slender birches and alder flanked the path they were following, unseen birds whistling in the shrubbery. A patch of thistledrift reeds caught Trisha’s eye. “You must know Eichlandt well if you travel with the Warlord.”
A quick smile. “My mother’s from Graystein.”
Trisha turned sharply, Orin Lichtal’s shape flashing in her mind. “Is that normal?”
Reike shrugged. “Not terribly uncommon. My parents met in one of the raids.”
The blood raids. She still didn’t know how to feel about them—or that Blainor most likely would be riding among his people in the next one.
Oblivious to her thoughts, Reike continued, “One thing led to another, as these things often do. But my mother is a shield maiden, and she refused to be beholden to anyone. So, when I was born, she sent me away.”
Trisha jerked. “She just… gave you away?”
“To be raised by my father,” Reike said, picking her tooth. “Better that than to remain in Graystein, clanless.”
“That’s… Aren’t you bothered?” She cringed at her tone but couldn’t remain indifferent, not when Reike’s story touched the unhealed part in her.
The woman stared in the distance, expression thoughtful. “Could be worse. Lots of things happen outside of a child’s choosing. At some point, it becomes unwise to hang on to the past. Do so, and you lose what’s here now.”
Trisha’s heart stung. The casualness of her words… How could she be so calm? So at ease? Passive? Her abandonment was a gaping hole in her chest that still trickled blood. Each night, she woke up, haunted by the image of the stone circles, her mother’s hand pulling her forward.
She looked at the reins. The saddle rubbed, Dapple’s trot remaining steady, yet her world had gone off-kilter.
“And you,” Reike’s voice cut through the silence. “Are you just a wanderer, or do you carry any northern blood, yourself?”
Trisha kept her gaze fixed on the horizon. “I might, but I couldn’t tell you more than that.”
“Hm. So, that’s what brought you here?”
“Partially.” Trisha’s fingers flexed. “Also, the Warlord can be… persuasive.” She almost smiled as her thoughts drifted forward to the evening.
Would Gend Blutmeer, too, scorn her? Trisha frowned as she went over the songs.
She should find a musician to teach her the local tunes, or do what Kaiden suggested and find a journal from Blainor’s old bard.
“Aye.” Reike’s voice interrupted her musings, a quiet amusement edging her voice. “He’s not known to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Trisha snorted. “Don’t I know it.”
“You’re not just a simple bard strumming by the fire,” Reike said with a wry smile. “You should know the Warlord declined to appoint anyone to take over Lynjef’s mantle.”
“Not that I asked for it,” Trisha mumbled, fidgeting. “But better or worse, I’m here now.”
Reike grinned. “Best decide soon, then, whether Moorhafen could be a place for you. Once he’s set his sights, there’s no slipping away.”
The road swallowed them both, their horses’ hooves pounding the earth flat, daffodil seeds feathering in the breeze.
On a hillside, they slowed. Both mounts promptly started grazing.
“Look.” Reike pointed down. “The Rover Chief has come.”
Trisha squinted. Against the twinkling waves, two vessels with open sails sliced toward the harbor. On the topmast of the first ship flapped a navy blue banner.
“If we turn around, we’ll make it to the shore just as they disembark,” Reike said. “Would you like to meet Chief Blutmeer and my father?”
Trisha blinked. She hadn’t expected to be formally introduced to the Blutmeer chief so soon, but it seemed silly and irresponsible to decline. After all, she was to meet him anyway.
They turned around, following the road toward the harbor.
A smaller boat was just approaching the pier.
Oars dipping in the waves splashed, their hinges creaking.
A wild-haired man with a bushy beard sat in the middle.
Wearing a blue tunic embroidered with silver threads, he waved at the waiting people.
“Revel in us beauties! Pick your man and be quick about it; Midsummer is coming!”
Laughter and cheers followed as they docked.
Reike nudged with her head toward the man. “That’s Chief Blutmeer.” Her eyes crinkled with amusement. Chief Blutmeer was first to climb onto the pier, an older man with a scar-blinded eye behind him.
Gend strode toward Reike and Trisha, stopping before them. “Father’s blessing, Reike Stammek.” His eyes ran up and down the soldier’s frame. “When will I lure you back from the Warlord? I need more fighters for raids, you know.”
“Blessings, Chief Blutmeer,” Reike said. “I’m content where I am.” Her father pulled her into a bear hug. After getting released, she added, “Besides, it’s not more raiders you need but people with brains.”
Gend bore an unrepentant smile, turning toward Trisha. “And who are you?” A glimmer of interest shone in his hazel eyes. “I don’t recall your face.”
“Bard Trisha an Tilia,” she said with a bow. “I’m the Warlord’s new bard.” Trisha braced herself for a similar reaction to that of Annath.
Gend’s brows shot up. “You might wear Lynjef’s mantle, but I don’t see his pendant.”
Her fingers twitched against the urge to touch her neck. “I agreed to follow the Warlord. The title is from Graystein, and Chief Lichtal didn’t offer pendants.”
He chortled and clapped his hairy hands together. “Doesn’t surprise me; Orin won’t give things for free,” he said in a shrewd tone. “Well, I look forward to hearing you play, Trisha an Tilia. The Warlord doesn’t bring anything lightly from the south, you know.”
Surprise stole her response. By the time she recovered, Gend was already striding up the path, his men around him.
A crowd of curious onlookers trailed after the northern chief’s retinue.
She followed, but her mind kept returning to his words.
Who or what had Blainor brought from the south before her?