Chapter 10
Trisha wanted to visit the town, but Gend’s arrival upended those plans. Besides, now that she had met both chiefs, she wanted to understand more about their argument.
As they reached the courtyard, the wild-haired northern chief waved at the onlookers, cloak beating his back. With a swagger, he sent a kiss toward a group of young women. Their bright laughter fueled his jaunt.
“Will you come too?” she asked Reike as they reached the stables. The Blutmeer chief’s shrinking shape strode toward the inner gates.
Reike tapped her chest where the six-spoked crest glinted. “The captain expects my report.”
Trisha pushed Dapple’s reins into the stablehand’s grip and, with quick goodbyes to Reike, hurried to catch up with Gend.
Senneth had informed her that as the Warlord’s Bard, she was to stand by their lord’s side.
And here she was, a step behind Gend, while Blainor, Fjorten, Byne, and everyone else stood on the opposite side of the vestibule.
Trying to slide through the walls inconspicuously near Fjorten and Byne, she stilled when Blainor’s gaze landed on her.
Gend’s boots thumped on the floor. Everything in his posture spoke loudly of his preference to swing a weapon in the open over the confines of the stone. He stopped before Blainor and bowed. “Warlord.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it in time.” Blainor’s voice was cool and controlled. He’d changed into a dark tunic, a fur-lined cloak clasped with a silver brooch. A sword hung at his belt.
“Didn’t really have an option, did I, Warlord?” Gend’s tone was wry. His eyes traced the room and the people assembled there, pausing on Annath. A sour expression twisted his face. “I have news.”
“More than what you’ve already told while my eyes weren’t looking?” Blainor said dryly. “We’ll talk more at the Assembly Hall.”
His cloak flapping, Blainor led Gend and Annath forward. Moorhafen’s soldiers marched in the middle, yet tension made the air crackle, the two clans exchanging scowls. As men and women started filing away, Trisha reached Byne and Fjorten. She ignored Senneth’s glare at her mended tunic.
“You must come, too, Bard an Tilia,” Byne said, gesturing her to follow.
Trisha settled in step with her and Fjorten. “What should I expect of their meeting?”
Byne smiled. “Fight, most likely.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you serious? Why would they fight? The Warlord invited them to talk.”
Fjorten chuckled. “A month in his company and you still have to ask.”
“You and the others didn’t solve arguments with swords when we were traveling,” Trisha said.
“We were on our best behavior,” Fjorten replied cheekily. “Couldn’t make you think poorly of us northern brutes, lest you’d run away.”
“Not from you.” Trisha rolled her eyes. “Your lord, perhaps.”
“Irreverent bard,” Fjorten said. “It’s a good thing he favors your music. Anyone else, he’d have hanged by their tongue.”
Trisha’s fingers twitched. Music? Unlikely, yet Fjorten was Blainor’s closest man. His words from last night resurfaced. Would he lie?
The Assembly Hall was a circular chamber on the ground floor, spreading like a sunflower; the hearth stood embedded in its center.
Senneth had shown it to her, explaining in his nasal tone where each of the chiefs was supposed to sit, pointing at the carvings on the twelve dark chairs surrounding the fireplace.
“Your place,” he’d told her while patting the backrest of a seat with the Dewingar’s spoked wheel, “is behind the Warlord’s seat.”
Today, she appreciated the knowledge, planting herself behind the correct chair. On the side of the dead hearth, Gend Blutmeer was talking with Reike’s father before moving left. Annath, in his heavy fur-cloak, was already proudly sauntering in the direction of his place on the right.
“Seems you have an uncanny ability to get caught up with my chiefs,” Blainor said in jest.
“It’s all because of you,” Trisha replied. “You insisted on a nursemaid.”
He tapped the armrest as the steps and voices echoed in the open space. “Stammek, I heard. Why her?”
The doors boomed shut, the draft stroking her nape.
“No reason. She seemed friendly.”
Blainor’s people shuffled and spoke in hushed tones. The expectant energy made her toes tense. Surely, Byne and Fjorten had teased her?
“Is that what you want to find in my land, a friend?” His words snared her attention. While Blainor’s tone sounded lazy on the surface, the look in his eyes balanced an impressive mix of aloof and keen.
“No, my lord.” Trisha cursed herself for it, but she couldn’t prevent an unfortunately familiar heat brewing under her collar. She didn’t want to imagine what kind of friendship Blainor meant.
“You should tell me if you ever feel lonely, Trisha.”
“I’m fine, my lord,” she said too quickly, pulse even quicker.
Blainor smirked, then turned to face the two seated men. “Gend and Annath. I’d rather see you next week with the others, but it seems my travels left you in a… situation. So, here we are.” He leaned back, the wood creaking softly as he clenched the chair’s armrest in a tight grip.
Trisha’s heart was still beating. A warm sway of her magic whisked in her blood, but she stopped its current. Too close to the Warlord. He appeared impervious to her song, yet somehow always aware of what she hid. What did he suspect, and how?
Gend stroked his bearded face, nodding toward Annath on the other side. “It’s them Wolfsbachs, Warlord. Refusing to let the sheep graze.”
“Ye’d refuse, too, Gend,” Annath snarled. “Those pastures are mine—everything south of Ird is.”
“They used to be ours.”
Sunlight streamed in from the high windows, setting the gamboling dust aflame.
Annath’s graying beard swaying, he leaned forward. “Shut yer trap, Blutmeer. Ye’ve no idea what yer talkin’ about.”
Blainor cut in, “It’s true. Wolfsbachs claim the pastures south of the River Ird. Why press your luck, Gend? After all, you have the low-lying lands west of Windheim.”
The leather of Gend’s gloves creaked, his damp hand clenched. “Not thawed yet. Annath knows.” He faced the Warlord, a defiant tilt of his head. “He disputes my right to the Jordrigt.”
Blainor went still. “Not thawed?”
“Nay,” Gend said, holding his gaze. “The frost’s still there.” Unspoken terror crossed his face, and the light in his brown eyes dimmed. “Not only that. Snow lingers on the southernmost peaks of Everfrost.”
Nervous whispers broke through as people leaned back, drawing a sign of protection—a circle before their chests.
Trisha couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward. Everfrost.
“I see,” Blainor said at last, silencing the others. “Annath, you know the law.”
“Everfrost?” Annath sneered. “Just ‘nother Blutmeer lie. Do ye think I’ve forgotten what happened at Shawdell? Ye refused my nephew’s claim to yer cousin.”
His second-in-command scowled.
“In Great Father’s name!” Gend grumbled. “Stammek’s a woman of her own mind. No chief can force another’s hand, not if they refuse. Ernaut had it coming.” The glare he shot toward Annath’s adjutant brimmed with contempt.
“This isn’t a place or time to talk about ill-gone courting,” Blainor said, voice cold. “If Gend’s information holds, you’re defying Ergoth’s Jordrigt, Annath. No clan refuses the right to pasture when nature forces their hand.”
“Nature?” Annath huffed. “Gend’s wrappin’ it in the law, but I see through him. Blutmeer’s just milkin’ ye, Warlord. Playin’ on the past.”
Blainor’s spine stiffened, but it was Gend who fired up next.
“You dare?” The northern chief stood, intimidating. “I told you, come and witness it yourself. No sheep or cow can graze in frosted land. You know, like everyone else here, what it means.”
An uneasy quiet landed before Blainor shattered it. “Listen. We’ll discuss Everfrost during summer’s solstice; today, we’ll focus on the pastures and respecting the law laid down by our forefathers.”
“Holden, ye mean?” Annath taunted. “Much ye respected yer sire-stag.”
Blainor’s fingers flexed. “That’s quite enough.”
“Enough? Rich, comin’ from ye,” Annath said. “The Wolfbachs haven’t forgotten, nay. Ye left, Warlord.” He spat to the ground, a string of saliva dribbling off his chin. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what ye stole.”
Blainor slowly leaned forward with a deadly sense of calculation. “You accepted the challenge. You lost.” The bite in his words made Trisha recoil, her motion drawing Annath’s attention.
The Wolfbach chief’s eyes narrowed, ugly disdain shining through. “And yer… bard,” Annath sneered. “Didn’t think ye this sentimental. Draggin’ southern playthin’ to keep you—”
Thud.
Trisha didn’t even see the movement. One moment Blainor was seated; the next, he stood. A dagger quivered in the chair’s dark wood, a mere whisper from Annath’s hair.
“Fifteen years, and still it torments you. Your loss,” Blainor said. “Very well, then. You want a challenge? You’ll get it. Now. Today.” The lack of emotion made his words all the more chilling.
The proximity of the knife had rattled Annath just enough; his bluster cracked, tough facade faded, and a shadow of fear flickered in his eyes. A slow, vicious grin spread over his lips. “Aye,” he grunted. “But I get to choose the weapons.”
“Then choose,” Blainor drawled. “Let’s settle this for good.”
Annath rose and yanked out the dagger dug into his chair. The sharp edge caught the sunlight, mirroring the feral look in his eyes, and then he spoke: “Knives.” He flicked Blainor’s dagger again, as though taunting the Warlord.
“How fitting, Annath. Agreed.” Trisha could hear the grim smile in Blainor’s voice. He spun around, reaching out his hand. “Hurti.”
For a moment, Trisha’s eyes met his. She swallowed, the memory of the fight on the road coming back to life.
The cold, focused force of a killer stood before her.
Not Blainor with his teasing remarks, not the commander requiring unyielding loyalty.
This was a man ready to deliver death or embrace it himself.