A heartbeat of temptation, to mount him and ride away, but it would be a slap in Bran Jovell’s face. Trisha already pushedher limits, sneaking away without Reike. Who knew what other northern traditions she might offend if she slighted Orin Lichtal’s bard? No, she’d be better off keeping her composure.
Having fastened the collar of his dark green tunic, Bran was now smoothing his wavy brown hair behind his ears.
“Must be nice to be back in Moorhafen,” Trisha said, voice light. “It was your home for a while, wasn’t it?
An annoyed twitch in the corner of his eyes, twinkling with disdain. “It does bring up memories. Not all pleasant, of course. My old master was… much loved.”
A stablehand brought him a sorrel horse. Then, he faced Trisha. “Shall we, Bard an Tilia?”
With a long-drawn exhale, she climbed into the saddle and guided Dapple down the road. If Blainor asked later, she wouldn’t be lying now; she really hadn’t ridden alone.
The early light coated the landscape in syrupy hues. Butterflies danced among wildflowers, their fragrance crowding her nose, and a cloud of mosquitoes hummed in the air. Trisha stole a glance at her unwanted traveling companion. Tall and wiry, even with his gaunt, bony features, Bran held a certain kind of charm for some. There was still a while to go until they hit town, so Trisha supposed she’d better break the ice to win back any ill feelings he may still have from catching her trying to go it alone.
“Can you tell me more about Bard Sostung?” Trisha asked over the soft rhythm of clopping hooves. “He was your teacher, wasn’t he, the Warlord’s previous bard?”
A lark trilled above, diving over the tall grass. Bran’s gaze followed as it vanished behind the western hills where the sea rumbled. Where the Opening waited. “Lynjef… Yes. He passed away seven years ago.” His jaw was tense, as though he was holding back an old pain.
“He couldn’t have been the Warlord’s Bard for long,” Trisha mused.
“Holden granted him with Vis’ sigil.”
“Vis?” Hadn’t Aine said his name just last night?
The man shook his head. With a sideways glance, he explained as though to a child, “The First Bard to whom Ergoth gave his sign.”
Trisha’s eyes narrowed. Gend, too, had mentioned a pendant, but Blainor hadn’t given any sigils—not in Normark, not in Graystein. Nothing to indicate the title meant more. She shifted in the saddle. If it really came to it, he wouldn’t stand in her way, would he?
Another thought snagged her attention. She turned. “Holden—the Warlord’s father?”
Bran smiled. “Holden the Furious. First to unite the clans in a century.”
A cloud passed the sun, wind tugging at her cloak. Again, Holden. Blainor’s father was like a perpetual shadow.
“Is…” She cursed her curiosity, but it was too late to hold it back. “Is the Warlord like his father?”
Bran kept his eyes on the road, his mare flicking away the buzz of flies with its tail. “Holden Dewingar cursed the day his son won his title,” he said curtly. “A word of warning, Bard an Tilia. You don’t want to bring his name up to the Warlord.”
She fell silent, fighting against unease. Once again, she found a wall standing in her way as she tried to pry into Blainor’s past. What sorrows did it hide? Grinding her teeth, she reminded herself that she wasn’t interested. Not in his offer to wait, not to find out if his word to send her into flames held true.
It was almost a relief when the drone of activity and life grew louder. A tang of smoke curled after the hammering of steel, the stench of dung and sweat replacingflower pollen. They rode into the waking town. Men and women strode down the streets, carrying baskets, hauling carts. A cadaver of a strange game hung on a hook near the butcher’s nook. Her eyes lingered on the shape, almost like a pig and not quite.
“What’s that?” Trisha pointed at the dead animal.
“Warghog,” Bran said. “Creature of the moors, rarely eaten.” A quick turn of his mouth suggested amusement. “Expect it on Midsummer. Its meat is said to carry the land’s strength and its… vitality.”
She nodded slowly. “I’m starting to think the Midsummer Feast’s something of a revel?”
“You could say that. People tend to get carried away. Many bear the birthdate nine months hence.”
Trisha puckered her mouth, desperately trying not to let her thoughts wander to a familiar pair of gray eyes.
Bran continued, “So, what are you interested in learning about Havbrun? The shrine?” He nodded toward the town’s center. “Not really anything interesting: old bones and stone. The coppice by the moor, tended by Karring Katla, is much more interesting.”
“Karring, who?”
“Katla. She’s ours,” Bran said, wrinkling his pointed nose. “A… witch, I’d guess you southerners would say.”
“Awitch?” she repeated, instantly wary. This Katla would surely sense the magic in her notes.
