“Nay, suppose not.” Reike smiled, but her expression was more amused, as though she was saying it to appease her and not because she believed the lie.
“So, you’re a Blutmeer?” Trisha said.
Reike nodded. “My father is Chief Blutmeer’s first man.”
Trisha tilted her head, trying to see if anything stood out in Reike against the other people she’d met since arriving in Eichlandt. Light brown hair, defined lines. Much like others she’d met. A stray thought emerged on how she might look in their eyes—a stranger or oddly the same? “What’s Halsdal like?”
“Cold, windy, and wet. It’s in the north, but it’s home.” A pensive tone laced Reike’s voice as she watched the fields spreading around them.
“Do all the Warlord’s shields come from other clans?” Trisha probed.
“Some.”
Trisha mulled over the shield’s cautious tone and tried to guess what had happened between Reike and Annath’s first man, if that had brought her to Moorhafen. “Do you know what Annath and Gend argue about?”
Reike shrugged. “Land is what I heard.” A pause, then quieter: “This time it might even be true.” Some nameless terror made her voice catch. Her gaze drew to the north. “Better to remain silent, lest you stir the thing you don’t want awakened.”
The soldier’s mouth was a tight line, holding whatever words she harbored locked inside.
Slender birches and alder flanked thepath they were following, unseen birds whistling in the shrubbery. A patch of thistledrift reeds caught Trisha’s eye. “You must know Eichlandt well if you travel with the Warlord.”
A quick smile. “My mother’s from Graystein.”
Trisha turned sharply, Orin Lichtal’s shape flashing in her mind. “Is that normal?”
Reike shrugged. “Not terribly uncommon. My parents met in one of the raids.”
The blood raids. She still didn’t know how to feel about them—or that Blainor most likely would be riding among his people in the next one.
Oblivious to her thoughts, Reike continued, “One thing led to another, as these things often do. But my mother is a shield maiden, and she refused to be beholden to anyone. So, when I was born, she sent me away.”
Trisha jerked. “She just… gave you away?”
“To be raised by my father,” Reike said, picking her tooth. “Better that than to remain in Graystein, clanless.”
“That’s… Aren’t you bothered?” She cringed at her tone but couldn’t remain indifferent, not when Reike’s story touched the unhealed part in her.
The woman stared in the distance, expression thoughtful. “Could be worse. Lots of things happen outside of a child’s choosing. At some point, it becomes unwise to hang on to the past. Do so, and you lose what’s here now.”
Trisha’s heart stung. The casualness of her words… How could she be so calm? So at ease? Passive? Her abandonment was a gaping hole in her chest that still trickled blood. Each night, she woke up, haunted by the image of the stone circles, her mother’s hand pulling her forward.
She looked at the reins. The saddle rubbed, Dapple’s trot remaining steady, yet her world had gone off-kilter.
“And you,” Reike’s voice cut through the silence. “Are you just a wanderer, or do you carry any northern blood, yourself?”
Trisha kept her gaze fixed on the horizon. “I might, but I couldn’t tell you more than that.”
“Hm. So, that’s what brought you here?”
“Partially.” Trisha’s fingers flexed. “Also, the Warlord can be… persuasive.” She almost smiled as her thoughts drifted forward to the evening. Would Gend Blutmeer, too, scorn her? Trisha frowned as she went over the songs. She should find a musician to teach her the local tunes, or do what Kaiden suggested and find a journal from Blainor’s old bard.
“Aye.” Reike’s voice interrupted her musings, a quiet amusement edging her voice. “He’s not known to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Trisha snorted. “Don’t I know it.”
“You’re not just a simple bard strumming by the fire,” Reike said with a wry smile. “You should know the Warlord declined to appoint anyone to take over Lynjef’s mantle.”
“Not that I asked for it,” Trisha mumbled, fidgeting. “But better or worse, I’m here now.”
