“True,” he murmured with a hint of a smile. “But certainly you learned more than that? It hardly qualifies as gossip.”He waited a breath. “That is, unless you’re concerned about offending me.”
Her face heated. Damn this man. If he wanted honesty, he’d have it. “Blood and raids, that’s what locals seemed to concern themselves with, my lord. That the people of Eichlandt,your people, descend here every spring sowing destruction.”
“A lie,” he said firmly. Then added, “Hardlyeveryspring.”
Trisha drew a breath, but the glint in his eyes made her stop. Scents of wildflowers and young grass reached her nose.
She squinted. “Are you baiting me on purpose?”
Daworth leaned back in his saddle. “Depends. How easily do you bite?”
“So, not a lie.” She snorted.
“No, not a lie,” he admitted slowly. “But not nearly as often as the inn’s rumormongering must’ve made you believe.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’d expect that the sight of my merry men kindled old memories. The spring raids are steeped in our history and survival. I’d do poorly for my kind if I didn’t honor them.”
Curiosity laced her lips. He seemed to read her expression, for a quick turn of his mouth followed, something darker than a smile. “Fighting is in our blood. Expected, even. No man, not even a lord, is exempt from that.”
An unbidden memory emerged. Warriors, riding to meet each other. The clash of steel, the dust, and the coppery stench of blood. Trisha’s knuckles blanched. “I’ve visited Mearse,” she said quietly, intentionally not meeting his eyes. “Their people are fierce, too.”
He didn’t ask more. Perhaps he already knew of their ways.
“People mentioned trading too.” She searched for the name the merchant woman had mentioned. “In Graystein?”
He nodded. “Chief Lichtal’s home. Graystein’s a good placefor that. Only two days’ ride from the border. And Orin Lichtal’s sensible enough to know that sometimes power is better earned through coin than steel.”
“Taxing merchants fills the coffers quicker than a war?”
“Indeed,” Daworth confirmed with a smile. “Although I’d caution you against saying that to his face. He’s a proud man.”
“Is that what brought you to Normark, my lord? Trade?”
Birdsong echoed above their heads. Their heated banter was almost enough to dry the moisture still hanging in the air. “Business, yes,” he said at last. “Of a kind that doesn’t concern songbirds.”
Did he think she was some harmless display artifact? “I’m not a magpie, distracted by shiny objects.”
“No. You sing better,” he said, smirking. “But everyone has their shiny objects, Bard an Tilia.”
“Do you intend to discover mine?” she challenged.
Sunlight licked his gray eyes. “How else am I to convince you to follow me to Eichlandt?”
“You could start by telling me why. You said your people value music, yes? Even your Warlord?”
An edgewise glance. “You find it surprising, I understand.”
The tips of her ears got hot. “I couldn’t find pleasure in playing at war, my lord.”
“Being the Warlord’s Bard is much more than ‘playing at war,’ Bard an Tilia,” Daworth chided.
“If a bard is so important, why doesn’t your lord have one?”
“Perhaps he hasn’t met anyone good enough.” A shrug followed, but it was all too casual. She wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or flattered.
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job at convincing me to follow.”
A flicker of a faint smile and his words: “I promise to do better nexttime.”
On their roadside break, the auburn-haired man of Lord Daworth’s company introduced himself as Fjorten Tifbrunn. “We carry the same blood, not that I look like m’lord.” His deep voice was rough like gravel. He’d stripped off his helmet, and the locks of his hair glistened bronze in the sunlight.
