The other riders sat most upright, and their expressions hardened. Daworth’s stallion whinnied and pawed the ground.
“That’s my lord’s seat,” Daworth confirmed. “I ride on his behalf, Captain.”
The woman’s gaze shifted to the rest of the party and landed on Trisha. “And you? You’re not from Eichlandt.”
“No, m’am. I’m a bard. Traveling to Isdet. Lord Daworth has offered me his protection.”
The woman hummed. “You’d do better to choose different companions. Some lords leave only smoke and ruin in their wake.” She turned back to Lord Daworth and returned the parchment. “Ride straight to the border. Do not stop.”
His smile was loaded with charm. “Have no fear, Captain. We won’t linger.”
The woman pursed her lips with a curt nod.
The stares of the king’s soldiers, their silence, and the way they kept their hands on their weapons prickled on Trisha’s neck.
“What was that about?” she asked with a hush as soon as the road behind them had swallowed the uniformed group.
“My people are not always welcome in Normark.” Displeasure tightened his features. He looked over her, eyes flicking to the lyre and back to her face. His tension melting, Daworth sank into his saddle. “They wanted to know why you’d follow me.”
She thought the words over. “Your lord in Moorhafen, who’s he?”
“Our leader.”
“You must enjoy his trust for him to send you to Normark,” she mused, watching him closely. “Baron von Dornhelm is the lord of these lands.”
The faintest smile. “And I’m not someone to be trusted, is that what you imply?”
“No, I don’t trust you.” The answer came out too blunt, but the long day was taking its toll.
The smile deepened. “Good.”
She yanked in a breath.By the nameless gods!
“Am I frustrating you, Trisha an Tilia?”
Trisha clenched her teeth. “Yes. You’re avoiding my questions.”
“We’ll camp soon enough. I promise not to run away,” Daworth said before his tone fell. “But don’t accuse me if you don’t like your answers.”
Scowling, she held back the urge to challenge him; he would only exasperate her. And worse, he’d do it on purpose.
True to his words—and to the relief of Trisha’s exhausted rear—Lord Daworth called the group to stop not long after. The horses snorted, and the men murmured. Pine and spruce towered, watchful, the forest floor snapping beneath their beasts’ hooves.
Sunlight streamed through the thick boughs, gleaming on lichen-covered rocks beyond.
The wind blew, rippling the grass. The spruces swayed, and the hum of insects filled the air. Turning her back to the low voices of Daworth’s men and quiet bray of their horses, Trisha strolled to one of the larger rocks. She reached out. It was cool and rough against her fingertips. Solid.
Here.
A warmth swelled as her magic rose. Deep within the stone’s heart, an answering hum resonated. Trisha’s throat tightened. A memory slipped through: of a cold night, the assault of rotting leaves on her senses, the loneliness of silent stars.
The temptation… With a mere strum of her lyre, she could open the gateway and step back into the life she’d left, unchanged and eternal.
Shaking her head, Trisha turned away. Best to ignore the stone circles for now. Not before she knew more about Daworth and his men.
The mundanity of sharing a camp with others brought solace: the companionship, the quiet jokes, the groans. Thoughwelcome, she couldn’t relax. Perhaps it was because of the silent stones she knew lay in waiting. Or the unexpected companionship. For years, she’d shared the road with Dapple, and now all the tasks seemed to carry an edge she didn’t know how to handle.
One of the soldiers—a tall, dark-haired man close in age to Fjorten—shooed Trisha away after her second attempt to set the campfire failed. “I’ve got this covered, bard,” he ordered, kneeling by the pine-covered ground, preparing the kindling. “You’re here on our… lord’s invitation.”
