Reike grinned. “Best decide soon, then, whether Moorhafen could be a place for you. Once he’s set his sights, there’s no slipping away.”
The road swallowed them both, their horses’ hooves pounding the earth flat, daffodil seeds feathering in the breeze.
On a hillside, they slowed. Both mounts promptly started grazing.
“Look.” Reike pointed down. “The Rover Chief has come.”
Trisha squinted. Against the twinkling waves, two vessels with open sails sliced toward the harbor. On the topmast of the first ship flapped a navy blue banner.
“If we turn around, we’ll make it to the shore just as theydisembark,” Reike said. “Would you like to meet Chief Blutmeer and my father?”
Trisha blinked. She hadn’t expected to be formally introduced to the Blutmeer chief so soon, but it seemed silly and irresponsible to decline. After all, she was to meet him anyway.
They turned around, following the road toward the harbor. A smaller boat was just approaching the pier. Oars dipping in the waves splashed, their hinges creaking. A wild-haired man with a bushy beard sat in the middle. Wearing a blue tunic embroidered with silver threads, he waved at the waiting people.
“Revel in us beauties! Pick your man and be quick about it; Midsummer is coming!”
Laughter and cheers followed as they docked.
Reike nudged with her head toward the man. “That’s Chief Blutmeer.” Her eyes crinkled with amusement. Chief Blutmeer was first to climb onto the pier, an older man with a scar-blinded eye behind him.
Gend strode toward Reike and Trisha, stopping before them. “Father’s blessing, Reike Stammek.” His eyes ran up and down the soldier’s frame. “When will I lure you back from the Warlord? I need more fighters for raids, you know.”
“Blessings, Chief Blutmeer,” Reike said. “I’m content where I am.” Her father pulled her into a bear hug. After getting released, she added, “Besides, it’s not more raiders you need but people with brains.”
Gend bore an unrepentant smile, turning toward Trisha. “And who are you?” A glimmer of interest shone in his hazel eyes. “I don’t recall your face.”
“Bard Trisha an Tilia,” she said with a bow. “I’m the Warlord’s new bard.” Trisha braced herself for a similar reaction to that of Annath.
Gend’s brows shot up. “You might wear Lynjef’s mantle, but I don’t see his pendant.”
Her fingers twitched against the urge to touch her neck. “I agreed to follow the Warlord. The title is from Graystein, and Chief Lichtal didn’t offer pendants.”
He chortled and clapped his hairy hands together. “Doesn’t surprise me; Orin won’t give things for free,” he said in a shrewd tone. “Well, I look forward to hearing you play, Trisha an Tilia. The Warlord doesn’t bring anything lightly from the south, you know.”
Surprise stole her response. By the time she recovered, Gend was already striding up the path, his men around him. A crowd of curious onlookers trailed after the northern chief’s retinue. She followed, but her mind kept returning to his words. Who or what had Blainor brought from the south before her?
10
Trisha wantedto visit the town, but Gend’s arrival upended those plans. Besides, now that she had met both chiefs, she wanted to understand more about their argument.
As they reached the courtyard, the wild-haired northern chief waved at the onlookers, cloak beating his back. With a swagger, he sent a kiss toward a group of young women. Their bright laughter fueled his jaunt.
“Will you come too?” she asked Reike as they reached the stables. The Blutmeer chief’s shrinking shape strode toward the inner gates.
Reike tapped her chest where the six-spoked crest glinted. “The captain expects my report.”
Trisha pushed Dapple’s reins into the stablehand’s grip and, with quick goodbyes to Reike, hurried to catch up with Gend. Senneth had informed her that as the Warlord’s Bard, she was to stand by their lord’s side. And here she was, a step behind Gend, while Blainor, Fjorten, Byne, and everyone else stood on the opposite side of the vestibule. Trying to slidethrough the walls inconspicuously near Fjorten and Byne, she stilled when Blainor’s gaze landed on her.
Gend’s boots thumped on the floor. Everything in his posture spoke loudly of his preference to swing a weapon in the open over the confines of the stone. He stopped before Blainor and bowed. “Warlord.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it in time.” Blainor’s voice was cool and controlled. He’d changed into a dark tunic, a fur-lined cloak clasped with a silver brooch. A sword hung at his belt.
“Didn’t really have an option, did I, Warlord?” Gend’s tone was wry. His eyes traced the room and the people assembled there, pausing on Annath. A sour expression twisted his face. “I have news.”
“More than what you’ve already told while my eyes weren’t looking?” Blainor said dryly. “We’ll talk more at the Assembly Hall.”
His cloak flapping, Blainor led Gend and Annath forward. Moorhafen’s soldiers marched in the middle, yet tension made the air crackle, the two clans exchanging scowls. As men and women started filing away, Trisha reached Byne and Fjorten. She ignored Senneth’s glare at her mended tunic.
