They’d swallowed the distance between Isdet and Eichlandt in a matter of days, though it felt longer to Trisha. The tension, the knowledge that they’d been followed, and the constant risk of confrontation at every encounter and stop had made each day drag with the worry it could happen again.
The enormity of the task ahead crushed her. How could she possibly find her family in this land of rolling hills and silent forests? That field of reeds and stone circles where her mother had taken her?
Her fingers locked around the reins, shutting out her doubts. She’d prevail the same way she had since leaving her adoptive home. Had she realized seven years ago the enormity of her task, she may have given up. But she’d prove her self-appointed teacher wrong, refute those cruel words that had bitten into her soul, tearing away everything she’d ever known as a lie.
No, she wouldn’t dare dwell on the past. She’d left for good reason.
And now she was here, in Eichlandt, on the invitation of their Warlord. Oh, how times change.
Their route would take them through Graystein, the town Trisha had first heard about from the merchant woman at the inn six days ago. As the Warlord’s Bard, his people would welcome her. Yes, she could ask there.
Fields and the grazing sheep pastures spread around them; evergreens covered the rising swells of the land. A group of patrolling soldiers saluted them, bowing their heads. When their gazes landed on Trisha riding beside him, surprise twisted their expressions. An unspoken question shone in their eyes, as though her presence was a declaration spoken in a language she didn’t know.
She stole a look at Blainor. The wind tousled his dark, curly hair and flapped his cloak. His easy manner of enduring the hardships of the road—its simple meals, working alongside his men at their camping—had earned her grudging respect. Was this the true Warlord: a man dressed in simple wool and linen, sharing the road with his men, a stubble swathing his chin? A warrior commanding legions of men?
“We’ll stay overnight at Lichtal’s Keep,” Blainor said, eyes fastened on the road. “It won’t take long to reach Graystein.”
“He expects us, then, my lord?” Trisha asked.
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t informed of our crossing the border a day ago.” His arms tensed as he reined in Skarr. “Orin watches the southern line.”
She pinched her lips in thought. “So, he’s not only interested in trade.”
A slow smile spread across Blainor’s face. “Starling, you are a fast learner.”
Her insides fluttered in an odd way. “Not hard to realize. Your people seem to relish constant skirmishes. Kaiden was positively heartbroken when that group of soldiers just before the border decided not to engage with us.”
“What can I say?” Blainor shrugged. “There’s a reason I picked this group to escort me to Nortwurd.”
“You’ve yet to disclose why you went south.” She hadn’t given up her hopes of finding the reason.
“So curious.”
“You enjoy baiting me too much, Warlord.”
His next response came in the form of that infuriating smile. “You make it too easy, Starling.”
“Careful, my lord, or I will reconsider my agreement to follow you to Moorhafen. Chief Lichtal might be in need of a bard instead.”
The wind blew stronger, bringing an undertone ofwildflowers and peat. The trot of their horses thudded against the dirt road.
Faint lines of tension appeared around Blainor’s fading smirk. “Orin’s not in need of another bard.”
Trisha pressed further, delighted by the rare sight of something other than calm amusement. “You seem certain of it.”
Blainor scoffed, but his attention remained on the road. “Bran Jovell has been Orin’s minstrel for the past seven years. Orin never forgets to remind me of the fact.”
She tilted her head. “Can’t say I recognize the name.”
That seemed to lift his mood. He scratched his chin before stating, “Orin’s a proud man.” Finally, Blainor turned toward her, the faintest smirk still teasing his cheeks. “The same can be said of his bard.”
“Fear not for my sake. They’re far from the only proud men I’ve met.”
“That doesn’t exactly comfort me, Starling.”
By the time the afternoon light had stretched shadows tall, they reached Graystein—a town resting by the side of a sloping hill, dark granite winking beneath emerald grass. Watchtowers guarded low-built, thatch-roofed buildings, and there, the walled fortress at the root of the hill: Lichtal’s Keep. Cradled between the broken hill and the town, the bastioned keep soared beyond the settlement, guarding it from the uneven slope and whatever lay beyond.
As they rode through the town’s outskirts, the residents halted their tasks. Men pounded their chests, and laughing children scurried after their steeds. Their bright voices echoed over the ambient noise: the clop of hooves, gravel crunching, prattle of people.
