“Big words from a small bard,” he murmured. “Your bow hand may be steady, but there are other dangers lurking.”
“Such as yourself?” It was the sunlight that warmed her cheeks, nothing else.
“Inviting me to bite?” His smile was all teeth as he leaned in, voice dropping. “Be careful, or I just might.”
Unwanted heat panged her forehead from his sharp smell. The tang of smoke from the smithy strengthened. Drawing a shallow breath, Trisha forced herself to remain still. Every nerve screamed at her to pull back, and yet all she wanted was to lean deeper into that heat. “Hard to believe it could be any worse than your taunts.”
“Now, you truly are baiting me, Starling.” His eyes darkened, the edge of a dare in his stillness.
A soft gust blew through the yard, disturbing flecks of sand, tugging at Trisha’s clothes. The rub of the fabric felt wrong, the milky sap of the crushed reed smearing her palm. She didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact.
A loud clop of hooves shattered the moment, followed by a man’s voice booming from the direction of the outer gate.
“Out o’ my way!My men ’n’ I are expected.”
A tremor of irritation twisted Blainor’s expression before he pulled himself upright. A nod to the two shields waiting in the distance. They straightened, hands on their swords. Then, the Warlord stood next to Trisha, facing his visitors with a cold expression.
An older man yanked his tan-colored horse to a halt. Over his shoulders rested the maw of a dead wolf, the gray pelted cloak flowing around his burly form. A younger fellow in plated armor rode beside him, with a dozen others following. Servants slowed, watching the group with an air close to wariness. Silence thickened before Blainor raised his voice.
“Chief Wolfsbach, you’re early.”
The wolf-cloaked man jerked his reins and shot a withering glare at the Warlord. There was tightness in his posture, his bearded face contorted into a frown. The wolf stared ahead with its vacant eyes.
Chief Wolfsbach’s second man mirrored his lord’s expression. An angry red scar cut his face from the corner of his eye to his mouth. The other riders amassed behind him, grains of sand rattling beneath their horses’ feet.
“Warlord,” Annath Wolfsbach said with a curt nod. He flung his gaze around the surroundings, pausing on the battlement where the guards kept watch with their crossbows, moving to her. He sat in the saddle as though waiting for a chance to draw steel. “Yer message said within ten days. I’m ‘ere now, ain’t I?”
“Must make you proud, knowing how to count. A rare skill among Wolfsbachs.”
Annath’s mouth thinned before he slid off the saddle and pushed the reins into his adjutant’s hands. He strode toward Blainor and Trisha, the gray pelt rippling behind him. “Still holdin’ to yer posh speech, Warlord. Much good it’ll do ye when wieldin’ a sword.”
“You need a reminder?” Blainor asked in a silky tone. He stepped to the other man’s path, cutting off Annath’s view of Trisha. “Or perhaps the years have dulled more than just your memory?”
Annath spat into the dirt and faced the Warlord, defiant. “Nay, Warlord. Still sharp. And if ye fear that, lemme know. After all, I’m ’ere.”
Over his shoulders, Annath’s men flashed wily smiles. Annath’s adjutant grinned, too. A restless murmur of the onlookers filled the courtyard.
“Unfortunately,” Blainor said. “Can’t be helped, can it, now? Seneschal Usmer will let the servants know to ready your rooms. Once Chief Blutmeer arrives, we’ll meet at the Assembly Hall.” His tone darkened. “I have some questions for Gend.” Then, moving toward Annath. “The stablehands will take care of your steed. Follow me.” He glanced at Trisha. “Fjorten will help you pick a guard. I don’t want you to ride alone anymore.”
Her fists squeezed tightly as Blainor pulled Chief Wolfsbach in his tow. Just who did he think he was to order her like that? She didn’t need a guard.
Mishmash of voices, clink of metal, and horses neighing; the servants flocked to the courtyard to take the mounts from Chief Wolfsbach’s men.
While passing her, the scar-faced adjutant slowed. Lips tilted, the man lowered his head but didn’t speak, striding after Blainor and Annath into the shadows of the keep.
Trisha’s fingers loosened. The crushed thistledrift reed drifted to the ground, but her hands remained clammy with its dried sap.
The long, northern day fought against the sundown, some light lingering. Despite the warmth, the walls of the old fortress exhaled, cold and damp. Trisha rolled her head. The dress Aine had picked for her was of fine wool, yet it failed to dispel the stone’s chill.
Or perhaps it was just the atmosphere tonight. The grand hall with its stone pillars and high ceiling looked the same—lit fires glinting off the dark stone, bright tunics, and rustling skirts. But people’s voices were muted, and more than once, someone sent a stray glance toward the high table where Blainor sat with Annath Wolfbach and his second-in-command.
Annath still sported his wolf-cloak, pale bone toggles gleaming in the light. His adjutant’s gaze swept around the Fir Hall, pausing ever so often on the soldiers wearing the Dewingar crest.
“Impressed by the view?”
Hand on her chest, Trisha glared at the red-haired man who had drawn next to her. Fjorten. “You’ve left your lord to fend for himself.” Her brow arched. “And your wife.”
Byne sat between Kaiden’s lean form and Marleen, Kaiden’s young, pretty wife. Tonight, Blainor’s party also included an older man with a broken nose, and his dark-haired daughter. Trisha’s eyes crinkled as the woman leaned over to address Blainor, her cleavage cut daringly low.
