The rain had abated, but the guests lingered. Laughter, smoke, and odors of musty wool mingled with malt. Clusters of people sat at long tables, their conversation pervading the swirling fumes. Lanterns cast dim lights, and red fire in the hearth spewed more smoke to fill the low space.
It warmed her heart to see the inn more relaxed and to know her music had played a part in it. The room’s unspoken tension had dissipated enough for some to bridge the gap separating the two groups. One of Daworth’s soldiers was leaning against the wall and laughing at something a young woman was telling him.
Trisha reached to touch the worn leather of her lyre’s case when a tankard of foamy ale descended before her with a thud. Startled, she looked up. An older serving woman with rosy cheeks grinned.
“It’s on the house.” The server nodded toward the innkeeper at the end of the room.
“Thank you.” Trisha raised the drink in acknowledgment.
“Your music was beautiful,” the server said. A longing expression, tinged with rue, softened the weary lines of the woman’s face. Ignoring the impatient gestures from a nearby table, she lingered. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heardBallad of Frost and Marlandplayed like that.”
Glad the tankard hid her expression, Trisha swallowed to save her from having to answer.
“Nor have I,” said one of Trisha’s table companions, a merchant woman. Gray streaked her hair, tightly nestled in a bun. The style accentuated her sharp features, giving the woman an almost birdlike appearance, further emphasized by the brightness of her intelligent eyes. “Though it reminded me of another song I’ve heard,” she added after a lull, knitting her brows. “Five years or so ago, far south of Mearse.”
“I might’ve borrowed a tune from elsewhere,” Trisha admitted. “It happens.”
“Well, I don’t care where you’ve got it,” the server said with a chortle. “It was like magic!” Gratitude warmed her voice as she bent lower. “I’ll admit, before that, I feared we’d end the night with some fists flying.” She let out an exaggerated verbal shiver. “Call me soft, but I’d prefer not to witness violence—blood or worse. Nasty business.”
The words landed in Trisha’s stomach like rocks. A scene played behind her eyes. Unexpected and unwanted. Her music had fended off suffering today, but once it had been its cause. Never again. Trisha had sworn never to let anyone twist her art to violence. Almost unintentionally, she tossed a look toward the group of Eichlandtians and their leader. She hesitated, hoping she wasn’t stepping into something too fraught and delicate. “Because of them?”
The server’s mouth tightened as she nodded. “The moorland people,” she said with a faint jeer. “They come downsouth from time to time. And that lot… they’re soldiers. The worst of their kind, mind you.”
The merchant chuckled. She reached for a tankard, shaking her head. “Being a soldier doesn’t make one a raider,” the woman said. “Trust me, I’ve done my fair share of business in the north, in Graystein. They’re not so different.”
The server woman huffed, the burden of old prejudice ringing in the words. “Say what you like. My grandma grew up north of Isdet. She’s told me enough about their kind.” As though catching herself gossiping, she shook her head. With a swift apology, she spun around, hurrying off to tend to another table.
Trisha watched her retreat before her attention darted back to the merchant. “You said you’ve been in Eichlandt? Can you tell me more?” She angled her neck toward Daworth’s party.
“Thinking about visiting their rugged land?” The merchant’s bright eyes gleamed knowingly.
Her hand curled around the burnt clay mug. “I might’ve received an invitation.”
“If you’re going,” the woman said, cutting into her meal, “you’d be better off traveling with someone from their kin.” She chewed the piece and waved her knife. “They’re an… unusual people. Wary of outsiders. But they trust their own blood.”
“Unless there’s a dispute,” quipped a man in a yellow vest.
“True, that,” the merchant woman hummed in agreement. “But the clans haven’t fought in decades. Holden Dewingar saw to that when he took the title ‘Warlord of the Twelve, Master of the Moors.’ Dead for years, of course. It’s his son whom they fear nowadays.”
“Worse than his father.” A wiry man with narrow eyes seated next to the yellow-vested man piped up. He displayed acrooked smile. “Rumor has it he wrestled the title after Holden’s death. Fought every clan, he did.”
“One man against twelve?” Trisha shook her head, smiling cheekily. “Thatsounds unlikely.”
“True or not, you don’t want to catch the Warlord’s attention,” the merchant woman warned.
“Fine. Avoid the Warlord,” Trisha said, certain she’d never cross paths with this man anyway. “But I’ve heard about raids. It’s true, then?”
“Yes, but not the whole truth,” the woman said with emphasis. “They’re fierce people, quick to take the sword, but once you have their friendship, it lasts until death. Loyal and honorable.”
Trisha nodded. Each fact about Eichlandt and its people evoked more questions about the northern country. She pictured it in waiting, like a secret to be discovered. Could she truly afford to say ‘no’ to Lord Daworth?
“Twelve clans, then?” she probed more.
“Lichtal’s the southern one,” the merchant said, lips twisting as she poked at the slab of roast meat on her plate. “The northernmost—Blutmeer, I believe—stretches near Everfrost.” She fell silent, eyes dropped, as though imagining the place on her plate. It appeared its frigid presence could be felt even here inside a toasty roadside inn halfway between Isdet and Nortwurd.
“That far…” Her voice dropped, a fraction of some nameless unease tinting the words. She shivered, turning her face away. “Poor bastards. Nothing survives those frozen plains. Not for long anyway.”
Unease wound into a tight knot inside Trisha. “Everfrost,” she repeated. The word wormed under her skin, an echo of a buried memory. “What’s that?”
