“So unfair. I’m not a cripple,” Dietric said, glaring at his arm as though it were its own fault it was wrapped in a sling.
Mouth full, Trisha watched them bicker, waiting for them to notice her by the dark pillar.
“Then, how did your practice with Shield Fritlingen go?”
“One little accident, and suddenly I cannot even step outside Moorhafen,” Dietric grumbled. “Why can’t I go to Havbrun with my friends?”
“Didn’t you listen? I won’t have my son outside, as long as wolves prowl these grounds.”
Trisha swallowed the bread with the rush of melancholy. Firmly, she banished the thought. She had Tilia. Steady, immortal. Tilia’s love should be enough.
Dietric snorted. “I thought the Warlord and his shields got them already.”
“What you think is irrelevant.”
Dietric’s jaw clenched, his chin jutting forward. He spun around. A flurry of hurried steps grew fainter.
“If my men catch you sneaking out today, I swear arrow-fetching will be the least of your laments,” Fjorten shouted after him. “And don’t forget: your mother expects to see you in attendance tomorrow!”
Dietric waved but didn’t look back, disappearing from sight.
Fjorten exhaled, shaking his head. Surprise washed over his face as his eyes landed on Trisha. “You were silent. Did something happen to your bardic voice?” Fjorten’s gaze hovered over Trisha’s travel-worn tunics and boots, his forehead creasing. “Planning to go somewhere, are we?”
“Just to stretch Dapple’s legs. I’ve not ridden since my arrival. He needs the exercise.”
A wry smile as he joined her at the trestles, softly chuckling. “And did he tell you that?” A pause. “If you want, I could… join you?”
Trisha leaned back. Blainor’s closest man shouldn’t have time for idle rides. “That’s quite all right. I’ll ask for Reike if she’s still available.”
“How many times did you evade her again?”
Trisha looked down. “I won’t do that anymore.”
A creak of rope and a clatter of chain filled the space, the servants pulling up a heavy iron hoop. “I’ll come see you leave. If something happened, my cousin would flay me alive.”
“You’re joking,” Trisha exclaimed.
He gave her a pointed look. “Were you here after Midsummer?”
Trisha didn’t have an answer. Together they left the grand hall, its tall pillars and dark stone. The purpure banners with their black wheels hung still.
Dapple neighed from his stall when he saw them approach. He was even happier to chomp on the bread Trisha offered.
“Was that why you were out with Blai—the Warlord?” Trisha almost bit her tongue, pretending she was inspecting the buckles of Dapple’s saddle. “Hunting wolves?”
“Aye,” Fjorten answered after a moment. A black-and-brown dog ran to him, ears perked up, tongue lolling out. He bent to scratch its neck. “A pack was seen near the northeastern shore.”
“So close?”
“They don’t stray here often. Not without a reason.”
She resumed saddling Dapple. “Do you know why?”
“Know? Who knows what animals think? The others have also reported trouble.” He fell silent. “Gend said that his people have sighted Stoneclaws.”
“Stoneclaws?” Trisha asked.
Another voice answered. “Beasts of the northern mountains.”
