She nodded toward the rooftops and the plumes of smoke. “And what’s the town called?”
“Havbrun. We’ll ride through it to get home.”
She looked down at her hands. Home. What a foreign concept. She’d had none, not since the day she decided to find her parents. If she could even call it such. Firmly,she pushed the yearning away. “And your family, they’re waiting for you here?”
Fjorten slapped his forearm where he carried his marriage tattoo. “Aye, my spear-spined woman.” He nodded toward Blainor. “Sits at m’lord’s council. Steers him where others fail.”
“Counseling him sounds risky,” Trisha muttered. “She must have nerves like steel to tolerate the suffering.”
He shook his head with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. “Do all southern bards have such sharp tongues?”
Trisha opened her mouth, but Blainor’s voice cut through the slow thud of the hoofbeats. “You have a bard’s voice, Trisha an Tilia. It carries quite well.”
Bristling at his tone, she abandoned further attempts to antagonize him. He seemed to draw a line when it came to having his authority challenged too directly in front of his men, and there was a difference between being brave and being foolhardy. “Do you have children?” she asked Fjorten instead.
“Aye,” he said, raising three fingers. “Boys, all. With their sole purpose in life to whiten my hair.”
“Not too bad boys, then.” She chuckled, nodding toward his rich auburn head, seemingly untouched by worry and age.
A smile lit his face. “Not bad, no. Just mischievous, like all children are.” He fell silent, posture softening as he sighed, “I’ll be glad to see them, at the end of the day.”
Trisha’s throat tightened. Again, that same memory: a tug of a hand, pulling her forward.Come, Trisha.
She looked down, asking herself the same questions again. Was there something wrong with her? Was that why her parents had abandoned her?
The magic stirred within Trisha.You are perfect, it whispered.My bright-voiced tool.
Eyes closed, she guided its glow through her veins. Dapple’s powerful muscles shifted beneath her, steady and stable. Gravel rattled underneath the hooves, the insect din crowding the mild summer day. Her magic and lyre, Dapple, and the road—all she’d had. And now, perhaps something more. Moorhafen, the seat of Eichlandt’s Warlord, where she was to take her place as the Warlord’s Bard.
She’d find her family. At last, she’d get her answers.
It must have been twenty years since they gave her away. Would they still remember her? Her breath staggered, fear clenching her stomach.
What if they wouldn’t welcome her? What if they wouldn’t answer?
The low-built houses and roads of dirt and cobbled stones weaving through the town formed a compelling mishmash in which to lose oneself. The people stopped their tasks—carrying hay, fixing roofs. Fragments of children’s high-pitched voices reverberated:Skate fast, Lotte. Ski fast, Klaes. The first snow is falling, and the ghosts are coming…
Skarr’s hooves drowned their song. He tossed his head and lifted his legs as if to announce the Warlord’s arrival.
Her sweet Dapple, having tolerated the beast’s antics for almost a fortnight, had his comeuppance. He subtly veered into the stallion’s way, moving just a touch closer to Skarr, and by doing so, brought Trisha into uncomfortable proximity with the Warlord.
“I’m starting to regret that I didn’t hold to my promise back at Isdet,” Blainor murmured after another almost-clash with Dapple. “Your irreverent horse is testing my patience.”
Her nostrils flaring, she yanked the reins. “Dapple’s a gentle soul, while yours is a sordid beast!”
He scoffed.
“I’d never forgive you if you harmed him,” Trisha hissed, green eyes narrowed into slits.
Blainor tilted his head. Then, a slight smile. “Seems I’ve found another bait.”
She fell silent, unable to decide whether to believe him or not.
“Starling… Have I made such a poor impression of myself that you’d entertain such a thought?” He glanced at her ash-gray gelding. “As spirited as your horse may be, it’s hardly enough for punishment.”
The words sat on her tongue, but her silence held.
A quick shift of his expression, subtle and difficult to parse. Blainor drew a deep breath. “I promise, Trisha. I won’t harm your horse.”
