“You must come, too, Bard an Tilia,” Byne said, gesturing her to follow.
Trisha settled in step with her and Fjorten. “What should I expect of their meeting?”
Byne smiled. “Fight, most likely.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you serious? Why would they fight? The Warlord invited them to talk.”
Fjorten chuckled. “A month in his company and you still have to ask.”
“You and the others didn’t solve arguments with swords when we were traveling,” Trisha said.
“We were on our best behavior,” Fjorten replied cheekily. “Couldn’t make you think poorly of us northern brutes, lest you’d run away.”
“Not from you.” Trisha rolled her eyes. “Your lord, perhaps.”
“Irreverent bard,” Fjorten said. “It’s a good thing he favors your music. Anyone else, he’d have hanged by their tongue.”
Trisha’s fingers twitched. Music? Unlikely, yet Fjorten was Blainor’s closest man. His words from last night resurfaced. Would he lie?
The Assembly Hall was a circular chamber on the ground floor, spreading like a sunflower; the hearth stood embedded in its center. Senneth had shown it to her, explaining in his nasal tone where each of the chiefs was supposed to sit, pointing at the carvings on the twelve dark chairs surrounding the fireplace.
“Your place,” he’d told her while patting the backrest of a seat with the Dewingar’s spoked wheel, “is behind the Warlord’s seat.”
Today, she appreciated the knowledge, planting herself behind the correct chair. On the side of the dead hearth, Gend Blutmeer was talking with Reike’s father before moving left. Annath, in his heavy fur-cloak, was already proudly sauntering in the direction of his place on the right.
“Seems you have an uncanny ability to get caught up with my chiefs,” Blainor said in jest.
“It’s all because of you,” Trisha replied. “You insisted on a nursemaid.”
He tapped the armrest as the steps and voices echoed in the open space. “Stammek, I heard. Why her?”
The doors boomed shut, the draft stroking her nape.
“No reason. She seemed friendly.”
Blainor’s people shuffled and spoke in hushed tones.The expectant energy made her toes tense. Surely, Byne and Fjorten had teased her?
“Is that what you want to find in my land, a friend?” His words snared her attention. While Blainor’s tone sounded lazy on the surface, the look in his eyes balanced an impressive mix of aloof and keen.
“No, my lord.” Trisha cursed herself for it, but she couldn’t prevent an unfortunately familiar heat brewing under her collar. She didn’t want to imagine what kind of friendship Blainor meant.
“You should tell me if you ever feel lonely, Trisha.”
“I’m fine, my lord,” she said too quickly, pulse even quicker.
Blainor smirked, then turned to face the two seated men. “Gend and Annath. I’d rather see you next week with the others, but it seems my travels left you in a… situation. So, here we are.” He leaned back, the wood creaking softly as he clenched the chair’s armrest in a tight grip.
Trisha’s heart was still beating. A warm sway of her magic whisked in her blood, but she stopped its current. Too close to the Warlord. He appeared impervious to her song, yet somehow always aware of what she hid. What did he suspect, and how?
Gend stroked his bearded face, nodding toward Annath on the other side. “It’s them Wolfsbachs, Warlord. Refusing to let the sheep graze.”
“Ye’d refuse, too, Gend,” Annath snarled. “Those pastures are mine—everything south of Ird is.”
“They used to be ours.”
Sunlight streamed in from the high windows, setting the gamboling dust aflame.
Annath’s graying beard swaying, he leaned forward. “Shut yer trap, Blutmeer. Ye’ve no idea what yer talkin’ about.”
