Something in his voice and gaze made Trisha avert her face. Dapple’s hooves clopped against the cobbled stones as she stared yonder, censoring herself still.
A ghost of the tension abandoning him, he straightened. “Once we’ve arrived, I’ll tell Senneth to get you settled.”
“Senneth?” Curiosity pulled her back to him.
“My seneschal.” Blainor’s attention lay on the road, the people, and the carts weaving through their path. A clucking sound of chickens echoed from nearby, and a dog bayed. “Should you need anything, let him know.”
“You’re very generous, my lord.”
“You expected I’d allow my bard to sleep in the stables?” he huffed. “Well, that can be arranged, of course.”
Trisha frowned, sniffing at her sweaty and dirty clothes. “A room and a bed sound heavenly, not that I dislike hay.” She patted Dapple’s neck. “But I think my horse appreciates it more.”
A sideways glance and a subtle twitch of his mouth camebefore the busy road demanded his full attention, the laughter and quiet conversation of his men following as they wove through the town. Then they were beyond the town’s shadow, on a sandy track leading up the green hill to the granite fortress and its ringed walls.
She examined with unabashed interest Moorhafen’s thick embankment, the dark slits meant for archers, the battlement crowning the roofs and towers. Beyond the outer wall, two towers stood apart, and a third one, the highest, in the middle. Part of the main keep, she guessed.
The entire building exuded a cold and unyielding presence, the patches of moss on the stonework a testament to the centuries endured. Such preparations, Trisha supposed, were necessary in northern latitudes.
“The winters must be hard and long,” Trisha mused.
Blainor exhaled before answering, “They can get cold and definitely feel longer than they should.”
She tried to picture the landscape. “A lot of snow and ice, I assume?”
“Is there a reason for your intrigue with wintertime, Starling? Thinking about emigrating already?” Despite his light tone, an odd intimation drew her eyes away from the looming stone.
Blainor faced the road, leaning back in the saddle, but there was a slight tightness in his posture.
Her fingers wrapped around the reins. “No. This is just the northernmost I’ve ever been. The south gets snow. It merely never lasts.”
“Come winter, you’ll get your share of it. Though it’s not something I’d dwell on now, standing on the doorsteps of summer.”
They reached the moat and bridge leading through the raised portcullis. Hooves clipped against the wood, the murkywater below still. Soldiers guarding the entrance pounded their chests as they passed. A slight nod from Blainor. They had arrived.
He led them through the lower bailey, people curtsying and bowing as they noticed him. An occasional gesture when someone caught his eye. Their retinue passed through the inner gate into the courtyard, where a group of people waited before the heavy, double-sided doors fortified with iron bolts.
On the lowest step, at the very front, stood an elderly man with frosted hair that billowed in the brisk wind like strands of brushed linen. His features were sharp, his nose sharper still. The dark green tunic was immaculately fitted, his leather boots pristine, the silver brooch at his cloak polished to shine.
Blainor leaped from the saddle, leaving his stallion to the waiting stableboy’s hands. His fur-covered cloak flapped in the wind, revealing glimpses of the dark scabbard by his belt.
“Master Dewingar,” the man said in a slightly nasally tone. He bowed. “Welcome back.”
“Senneth.” Blainor acknowledged him, along with a performative look around. “I see you’ve kept the walls standing in my absence.”
Senneth’s mouth thinned with a barely veiled irritation; his pale eyes gleamed like ice. “Crushing stone is not a skillset in my repertoire, as my lord knows.”
“No, I suppose not,” Blainor said. “Anything worth mentioning?”
Senneth’s pale gaze swept over the Warlord’s escorts, lingering on Trisha. Wrinkles in his face seemed more pronounced as he turned toward Blainor. “Notwithstanding the news from Graystein, which you may be better able to verify, my lord, only the usual.”
“I can hardly wait,” muttered Blainor.
“It’s only Annath, my lord,” Senneth said. “Old grudges.They’ll settle once the word gets around that you’ve crossed the border.” He paused. “Besides, the summer’s solstice is just beyond a fortnight.”
“I’m aware. Orin didn’t forget to remind me. You can expect a raven from his chamberlain, no doubt containing a detailed list of every crown spent on me.” Blainor’s focus trailed from his seneschal to the other waiting people—a handful of adults, and further apart, a scattering of young ones. At the forefront stood a tall woman, dressed in an olive green gown. The veil attached to her light hair flitted in the wind. Quiet, she observed the assembling group beneath the cobbled steps, moving slowly down before stopping in mid-descent.
Blainor nodded, and the woman bowed, hands tucked into the folds of her flaring sleeves. “Warlord.” The tightness around her mouth suggested that smiles were not something that frequently visited her.
