“Oh?” She lifted a brow, ceasing to brush Dapple, glancing toward the leader of the party.
Lord Daworth had rolled up his sleeves, baring his wide arms. Pale scars hinted at untold stories of pain, clashes, and skirmishes. Scars, but otherwise unmarred skin. No dark tattoos like everyone else. She frowned in puzzlement—an indication of what, exactly?
“So you’re family?” she asked.
“First cousins, from my mother’s side,” Fjorten confirmed, raking his fingers through his damp mane. “Though, truth be told, one could trace back lineage to everyone, if so needed.”
“Few leave Eichlandt, then?” Trisha mused with a smile.
Fjorten scratched his beard. “Sometimes, they do,” he said after a while, clearly unsure how to phrase his words. “Though not for long. Not often.”
“Like your lord?” Trisha suggested as she continued brushing Dapple.
“Testing your baits, are you?” Daworth’s rich voice cut through the air. He stepped closer, handing a flask of water to his soldier while casting an amused glance at Trisha.
“Only trying to understand my traveling companions.” She met his eyes without a flinch. “What you’ve shared of your country hasn’t exactly been praise.”
“Bard an Tilia has rather strong opinions on commerce versus pillaging,” Daworth explained.
Fjorten flashed a sly grin, tipping the flask to his mouth. “Nothing wrong with opinions.”
“Indeed. Everyone has one,” Daworthconfirmed wryly before looking up at a few idle clouds. “We ride on,” he called out to his men.
Trisha rubbed her lower back. Daworth had kept a relentless pace, and it was starting to take its toll. She’d be sore by evening. More importantly, they’d reach Isdet by tomorrow. She needed to decide whether to stay there or accept his invitation to follow him to Eichlandt.
While mounting Dapple, quiet words reached her. Daworth stayed behind with Fjorten, engaged in conversation. Fjorten nodded with a grim expression. They moved to adjust their shields and sword mounts.
Chills traveled down her spine; their gesture was a promise of trouble. She kept her silence, even if curiosity made her steal sideways glances at the man. What warranted such preparations? What did they know?
“Let me hear it.” The lord’s voice startled her. He faced the path, a small curve dug at the corner of his mouth. “Whatever it is that’s itching you.”
Damn it. He was way too perceptive.
“Expecting trouble?” She nodded toward the weapons attached to his saddle and the hilt of his sword by his belt. If she weren’t mistaken, he had two small blades slyly tucked inside his boots as well. This man was no stranger to violence.
“I like to travel prepared,” he said slowly. “The road north is never easy.”
Her eyes narrowed before darting to the bow scabbard she kept by Dapple’s side. “Hard enough for me to be worried? Should I prepare too, then?”
A long silence followed, heavy with his thoughts and broken only by the steady beating of hooves.
“If something happens, do what you must.”
He urged his stallion to move. Trisha could sense the beast’s eagerness; its stamina seemed to match that of its rider.In contrast, Dapple swished his tail when Trisha pressed her calves against his flanks.Truly, Trisha? We’ve traveled the whole day—and where’s that carrot you promised?Nonetheless, he obeyed and kept the pace.
They soon passed small merchant groups, farmers with their ox carts. Not long after, the road dipped, and a group of quiet and stern soldiers in Normark’s uniform came into view. They held their crossbows at the ready. Cold sweat broke out on Trisha’s neck at the very sight.
“Halt!” shouted the leader of the Normark’s party.
Daworth’s stallion snorted as the rest of his retinue slowed behind him. The leader, an older woman with a broken nose, rode to meet them, two soldiers following.
“State your business,” she said.
“Peace, Captain,” Daworth said smoothly, almost rehearsed. “I’m here by the invitation from Baron von Dornhelm.”
He fished out a rolled-up parchment from his saddlebag, and one of Normark’s soldiers, a younger man, fidgeted with his blade. Trisha bit her lip. A clash between her companions and the king’s men was the last thing she desired. The captain shot a warning glare at her adjutant before reluctantly accepting the parchment. She read it in stern silence, never keeping Daworth out of view.
“Lord Daworth of Dewingar’s.” Her words held an odd undercurrent. Her eyes narrowed with something close to suspicion. “From Moorhafen?”
