1
Sweat randown Trisha’s neck—tunic clinging to her chest. Her flask’s lukewarm water failed to expel the sun’s burn on her back. Relentless, it drove Trisha north.
The reins chafed under her grip. Dapple’s strides remained steady, the saddle rubbing against her thighs. Among the fields of oat and rye, dark shapes coaxed life from grain to flour, flour to bread. When a rough-hewn cart clanked past her, she nodded politely to the people who lived off the soil. Their roots grew in the ground.
But she couldn’t stop, following the road as if it were an endless song. At its end awaited a memory: a sway of tall reeds, a tight clasp on her hand. The shadow of long, dark hair unveiling a curve of the jaw, and words that reached her even through dreams.
Come, Trisha. It won’t be long.
Seven years of searching. Determined to find the field of reeds and the stone circle.Them.She could ask why they gave her up. Stubbornness had overtaken her fuel of hope. Yet hope, no matter how thin, was enough. So, she kept moving.
Memories of towns and villages had faded. Marble halls merged with wood-paneled rooms, old songs bled into one melody, but that image from childhood remained constant, a star guiding her path.
The forest thickened. Fields shrunk. Dust rose around Dapple’s hooves, soiling his ash-gray coat, until a drop of liquid drew Trisha’s gaze above. Dark clouds amassing there told her the same as the wind.
She could tolerate rain, but her lyre would not. She needed the piece on its best behavior by Isdet. Her fingers brushed the pocket where she’d tucked away her reference. Should her instrument decide to turn temperamental, she’d be a laughingstock before the Warden of Marches. Best to find lodging first.
Dapple plodded onward, patient and hungry.
Smirking, Trisha patted his neck. “You can fill your belly as soon as we stop.” Dapple’s ears perked as he picked up the pace.
She wiped grime from her sharp face, pale skin freckled from years under the sun. The length of her dark braid thudded against her bony back in the rhythm of Dapple’s bob. Long before the road had whittled her thin, Trisha’s past had stripped her of softness; Trisha’s bones might shatter, but they would not yield.
The sky broke open, unleashing the rain. Not quite a downpour yet, but soon. Water dribbled from her hood as she cradled the lyre in her lap. The sight of a roadside inn with its battered sign behind the path’s curve washed away the strain from her shoulders. Yellow light shone from the windows, inviting her forward. She handed Dapple to a stablehand and escaped inside.
Thick smoke warred with the smells of hops and dank wool. Farmers in their simple linen, merchantswearing fine woolen tunics, and wandering travelers like herself sat in tense quiet.
Her relief vanishing, Trisha halted by the entrance.
On the far side of the room, a handful of men sat apart. Scarred, tattooed, and armed, they guarded their table as though it were a fortress. An air of violence clung to them like dried blood spilled to the ground. The other customers couldn’t help but cast dark glares in their direction.
With a sigh, Trisha dropped her hood. Just her luck.
A gruff, middle-aged man approached Trisha, wiping his hands on a stained apron. Deep lines carved into his tanned face, and his mustache drooped, as tired as his gaze.
He took in her travel-worn clothes, drenched cloak, and the raindrops on her forehead. The man waved a hand and shook his head. “It’s a full house. I’ve no spare beds.”
A place to sleep didn’t need to mean a bed. Trisha wouldn’t let him drive her back to the rain. Opening her lyre’s case, she tested the instrument’s wood. Still dry. Good.
“I could play.” Trisha nodded toward the table of tattooed men. Smoke brewed above their heads. “Might liven up the mood, and your customers seem like they’d welcome a distraction.” She plucked a string, bracing for the ripple of her magic’s warmth.
The pearly sound pulled in the innkeeper’s gaze, his posture slackening. “Truth be told, I don’t detest songs.” He shifted his weight. “Keeps tempers low and customers spending.”
Trisha nodded with a smile. “That it does.”
The innkeeper leaned forward. His voice dropped as he gave a discreet nod at the end table. “Thing is, we’ve warriors among us. Beyond the borderlands,” he added, “Eichlandt.”
A chill shot through Trisha. The vision she’d been chasingarose: the pale sky, a field of reeds, and a hand pulling her forward.
The soldiers sat with their drinks untouched. In padded gambesons, their posture screamed tension. The men’s hands never strayed far from their swords, while the others—the locals, she surmised—seemed almost eager to have them drawn out. Brewing signs pointed to a brawl later tonight.
“I’m not afraid of a few testy soldiers,” she said.
The innkeeper barked a dry laugh. “Not from around here, I see. These men aren’t with us for songs, just bloodied steel.”
Her chin raised. “They cry and laugh just the same when I play.”
The man studied her with a pause. “Playing for a bed, I assume?”
