A loud protest carried over from a nearby table, where the loser of a card game raised his voice to complain. His companions burst out laughing. Somewhere, a dog barked, but the prattle and rain leaking from outside swallowed its sound. A sudden draft swept through the grease-laced haze.
Trisha drew a breath, facing the lord from Eichland with conviction. Beneath her worry and annoyance whispered something even more threatening.
The candlelight danced on his cheeks and the strength of his jaw. His gray eyes glinted through the dark, discerning and hungry, like a blade ready to draw blood.
He studied her back—the few rain-curled strands by her collarbones, the damp clothes sticking to her figure. His stare burned her too close. Then, leaning back in his chair, he flicked his hand. Without a word, his men understood and obeyed. The bench groaned as the men moved to step away. Their swiftness confirmed what she’d guessed: this man expected utter loyalty and nothing else.
“Your ballad was…” His voice snagged back her attention. A wry half-smile crinkled his eyes, but their razor-sharp focus didn’t stray from her face. “Exceptional. Out of this world.”
She craned into a hasty bow. “You honor me, my lord.”
The mismatched voices, rain, and the clink of cups filled the silence. He rotated the drink in his gloved hands. “And your name, may I have it?”
The question made Trisha’s heart hum, yet names held power, and this man didn’t need more than he already had. But to refuse would make him think she was afraid.
Her chin lifted. “Trisha an Tilia.”
“Trisha an Tilia,” he repeated. Her name rolled off his tongue, dripping in poison. The man hunched forward. “Sit with me.”
Lips pressed, she stood straighter.
He smiled, and all sharpness grafted away. The fine network of lines in his countenance hinted at a buried humor, making her wonder how the man looked when he laughed. Or if he could. If Trisha had thought him handsome before, the smile made him devastatingly so. It wasn’t just a smile but a weapon.
“Only to talk.” He softened his tone to add, “I wish to learn more about you, Trisha an Tilia. You and your craft intrigue me.”
Talking with the man offered a chance to learn more about him and what made him impervious to her magic. How could he do it? Yet, this curiosity carried its own risk: the tingle of his lingering eyes, the way she’d shivered when he pronounced her name. His discerning stare might see too deep into her secrets.
As though sensing her hesitation, he arched a brow. Trisha’s mouth zipped. She wasn’t afraid of him.
“If it pleases you, my lord.”
Carefully, she sat on a wooden bench. Years of use hadpolished it bright and smooth, but it offered no comfort. Perhaps it was the lingering resentment or the discomfort itself that prompted her to push back. “I find myself at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”
He took a sip. “You may call me… Lord Daworth.”
She frowned, not missing the slight pause, the omission of a region or dominion. What kind of man chose to ride without a name? “And what do you call yourself, Lord Daworth?”
His fingers wrapped around the clay cup. “Lord Daworth will do, for now.”
Everything from his broad shoulders to the shape of his arms corroborated his prowess. But more than physical strength, it was the other power he controlled that curbed her desire to snap back. She didn’t forget the way he’d commanded a group of hardened warriors with but a gesture. “Very well,my lord. What is it you would like to know?”
Again, he made her wait. “Your song. Where did you learn it?”
A whiff of tobacco itched, but she resisted the impulse to twitch her nose. “Here and there. Everywhere.”
“Is that so?” His index finger drew a lazy circle over the table. “And where is this… ‘everywhere’ taking you? Where do you seek your next tune?”
She hated how intentional his questions sounded. Even more, she detested her lack of weapons against him. “I’m undecided. I follow the road and see where it leads me.”
“Truly? This road that you follow is taking you to Isdet.” His brow lifted. “But certainly you knew that.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. Where was he leading her with this bait of questioning? “My references speak on my behalf. Whether or not I present them to the Warden of Isdet is another matter.”
“I see,” he murmured. “And how about farther north? Eichlandt?”
The soft tapping of the rain seemed to grow harsher.
“Your land has… come up a few times.” She shifted her weight. “But I don’t know it. Nor its customs.”
