Before being leashed to the Blainor’s assigned nursemaid, she wanted a word with the kitchen crew.
She couldn’t stop, not now. Each day in Moorhafen slowed her, mooring her to Blainor’s home. It was an unfamiliar feeling to stay in one place for this long. Unfamiliar but not unpleasant—Trisha didn’t want to consider what it meant. She hadn’t left the Undying Lands for nothing. Her tarry had nothing to do with a set of gray eyes. Couldn’t. Blainor was only toying with her, and as soon as she had some information, Trisha would leave.
Fiddling with a pouch of dried herbs at her belt, she asked, “Could I get some hot water?”
A ruddy-faced woman with an apron tied at the waist squinted and gave a curt nod. One of the kitchen maids hurried to a copper pot and ladled steaming water into a ceramic cup.
With a murmured thanks, Trisha measured chamomile,liquorice, and sage to her drink. Her gratitude was genuine when the maid brought her a jar of honey without asking.
Despite anxiety trembling in her heart, she pushed forward. “While in Graystein, I heard of a family that might’ve lost a daughter. Have you heard about them?”
The maid paused, hands wrapped around the honey jar. She shook her head. “Nay.”
Trisha wracked her brain as the earthy aroma of her infusion coated her tongue. She sidestepped to let a footman rush in. Flames glinted off copper pots and pans, a knife sliced through the air as someone chopped off fish heads, and another pulled intestines from a bloodied slab of meat. Notes of blood and flour, yeast and honey warred in the space. She observed it all, slightly nauseated, like an intruder in a kingdom that merely tolerated her.
From the side door, a dark shape appeared, framed by the bright sunlight. Kaiden. Upon seeing her in the corner, he nodded. “Hungry already?”
She pointed toward her cup. “My infusion helps with the voice.”
A wide smirk tugged at his mouth as he moved closer. “Ah, Lynjef too liked his ‘special’ brew.”
“Notthatkind of brew. Just herbs.”
“She asked about a family with a missing child,” said the maid who had brought Trisha’s water. Her mouth was round with amazement. “Have you heard of such a thing, Master Brawn?”
Kaiden spun round and faced Trisha. Surprise had widened his dark eyes. “A child?!”
“Someone mentioned it in passing,” Trisha mumbled. “I was thinking about… composing a song.”
With a huff, Kaiden tossed his braid over his shoulder. “Search Lynjef’s notes. He knew too many to name. You might find such a lament in them.”
Trisha’s nose wrinkled. She wasn’t searching for legends but a real place. Another thought shot through her. “How about maps? Are there any in Moorhafen?”
Kaiden snatched a loaf of rye bread from a passing servant, ignoring the thundering look he garnered from the head cook, and said, “If you want to see more of Eichlandt, talk to the Warlord. The best place to find them is Orin Lichtal’s library.” He bowed. “Don’t forget that the Shield Master is looking for you.”
Oh, yes—her nursemaid. She sighed. “I’ll go find Fjorten.”
Fjorten led Trisha through the lower bailey to the barracks, where low stone buildings with thatched roofs stood near a fencing yard. Maids and footmen carried baskets of food and trays of tools, the mouth-watering smell of baked bread drifting in the wind. A rooster crowed, falling into a confused quiet.
“Is Gend Blutmeer like Chief Wolfbach?” Trisha asked. Despite Annath’s obvious grudge against Blainor, he carried himself with similar confidence as Orin Lichtal. She had an inkling she’d find all Eichlandt’s clan chiefs carved of the same wood.
Fjorten huffed. “I’d hope not.” He looked at her. “Don’t go asking that from Gend. He’ll snap your neck.”
“Why?”
“Great Father knows. But a word of caution: keep out of Blutmeers and Wolfbachs’ arguments.”
They reached the brick-built barracks. Laughter and the murmur of conversation grew stronger as Fjorten pushed opena sturdy wooden door, revealing a dark room with multiple tables. The air stank of sweat, leather, and rust. Boots scraped against the floor, discussions dying as a mixed group of women and men—Moorhafen’s soldiers—snapped to attention.
An older man with a long, brown beard ambled over to meet them. Built like a bull, in the padded gambeson with purple stitches and the six-spoked Dewingar crest, his chest was as broad as his beard was long. He bowed when he reached the two. Trisha couldn’t look away from the space where his ear should have been.
“Shield Master Tifbrunn. Bard an Tilia.” His sights flicked toward her before returning to Fjorten. He gestured them to follow. “I did as you asked, Master Tifbrunn. They all know why they’re here.” He fell silent as they cleared a corner and arrived in an open space—a sparring room, by the looks of it. Weapons on the walls and black scuff marks on the floor spoke their silent language. At the center stood five people: two women and three men, all of them built of muscle and displaying the Dewingar sigil of six spokes on their tabards.
“Attention,” said the captain, loud enough to be yelling. “This is the Warlord’s Bard. She’ll be asking questions of you. Be clear. Be polite.” He turned toward her, face unreadable, and nodded. “Go ahead, Bard an Tilia.”
The first was an older man with a sun-weathered face. His broken nose told stories of many fights, as did the washed-out scars. Just a few words in, Trisha knew he wouldn’t be the right one. She moved to the next man. His smile was warm, but since more remained, she moved onward still.
The third Moorhafen’s shield was a woman with cropped brown hair and arms strong as oak branches. Everything—from the stocky shape of her body to the stubborn tilt of her chin and the thick neck that carried her suntanned face—made Trisha think of an ancient tree. Something that would weather a storm: unyielding, standing, breaking rather than bending. But beneath that gruff exterior, the woman’s brown, intelligent eyes held a comfort that tugged at Trisha’s heart, aching with the want to sink into her arms.
