“A haunted place,” answered the yellow-vested man.
His narrow-eyed companion nodded. “Meant for dead and ghosts.”
The hairs at the back of Trisha’s neck stood up; her fingers pressed more tightly around the clay cup. “Ghosts?”
The question seemed to pull the merchant out of her dejection. “Stories to frighten children. The same as my people tell about the fae and their vanished world.”
“Don’t call them demons,” the yellow-vested man spat. “They can hear you.” His companion drew a circle of protection over his chest.
“Humbug,” the woman scoffed. “None has seen one since they went away and took their cursed demonry along.” But the flicker in the woman’s eyes betrayed her. Some nameless knowledge she didn’t want to give voice to.
For a moment, no one spoke. Trisha didn’t mind the silence, her table companions’ words tolling like towerbells.Cursed demonry.An old scar on her shoulder ached with an echo of the frightened girl’s sobs before Trisha shoved the memory away. As long as she kept her magic a secret, they couldn’t guess. But the doubt lingered. No matter how friendly these people seemed, they might stone her to death if they ever learned the truth.
The surrounding noises seemed more chaotic. Then, with an almost practiced cheer, they changed the topic.
“The king’s soldiers cleared the road to Serath, you heard?”
“About time,” the narrow-eyed man scoffed. “The northbound route adds at least three days.”
The subjects changed to mundane ones: wares to be traded in Isdet, the summer festival farther south, and its fireworks.
Trisha’s breathing eased, her thoughts drifting to the moorlands and beyond. To the icebound land, Everfrost. The name struck something inside her, like notes of a half-remembered song. As she sipped, Trisha imagined windswept plainsand a glimmer of ice. Maybe, if she agreed to follow Lord Daworth, she’d have a chance to go that far.
Longing pierced her chest again. North. Finally, she’d find the answer to the question that haunted her sleep: Why had her parents abandoned her to the fae?
Against herself, Trisha’s gaze drifted back to the table wherehesat—magnetic, mysterious, and unnerving. Whatever Lord Daworth wanted from her, it wasn’t just her tunes.
Before she’d agree to follow him to Eichlandt, she needed to understand who he was and what he wanted. An odd mix of anticipation laced with fear made her throat dry.
The bitter ale filled her mouth, her mind set.
She would find out.
3
Shadows fledthe rising sun as the muddy land drained last night’s showers. Dapple snorted, informing Trisha how little he appreciated his breakfast being cut short. Without answering, she prompted him to keep pace alongside Lord Daworth.
Two days’ ride to the walled city of Isdet on the shores of Neusilbersee. She dared not imagine the road past Isdet leading across the border to Eichlandt, her parents’ land. And Daworth’s.
The toggles of his tunic and the silver embroidery of his belt glistened in the light. No clear sigils. No heraldic symbols. Only a purple trim on his fur-lined cloak. The rest of the man’s retinue followed in their gambesons, carrying spears and shields. The rhythmic trot of their horses drummed against the soggy soil. Daworth was riding the bay stallion from last night. His fiery beast, Skarr, seemed eager to move, steps jigging, whiffing, and fighting the bit.
For Trisha, Dapple’s worst feature was his irreverence, not his spite, and Trisha loved her horse fiercely for it. Watching Daworth guide his snorting, hot-blooded mountwith firm hand, she decided Dapple deserved an extra treat. Or two.
Trisha was still unsure whether she appreciated or resented being this close to Daworth. For now, he seemed content enough with silence, thank the nameless gods. Trisha rolled her shoulders; the room’s earthen flooring she’d been graced with hadn’t made a very comfortable bed. Hugging her damp cloak tighter, she stifled a yawn. If only the peace would hold. The steady rhythm of the hooves, the saddle’s creak. It was pleasant. And she needed a moment?—
“Tell me, Bard an Tilia, what do you know of my land?”
Trisha held back a sigh, pausing to digest the question. Her momentary silence invited his full attention, and she scrambled for an answer. Trisha’s mind churned over the bits and pieces she’d gleaned last night. Hardly anything would make a cohesive answer without insulting him.
“Not much, my lord. Just gossip. Cautionary tales, some history. Barely enough for a stanza in a song.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, although it was difficult to say whether it was from amusement or irritation. Since he’d now made the opening move, she quizzed him a bit, just to see how he’d react. “You might be able to verify some?”
“Perhaps,” he said, reining in his stallion. “It would help to know the nature of this… gossip.”
Trisha bit her lip, blinking away the fog around her thoughts, much like the real one. Remnants of hazy mist tucked around the tree trunks, fading under the rising light. “Twelve clans, I heard,” she started with the least obtrusive topic, “that answer to one man—their warlord.”
A pang of emotion hit Daworth’s face, too transient to name. She fell silent, hesitant.
