Reike joined them, gleaming helmet held in her armpit, short-cropped curls framing her chiseled face. She saluted Fjorten. “Shield Master.” A quick shift. “Bard an Tilia.”
“Call me Trisha. Please,” she politely said, hating the condescending tone in Reike’s voice. “Are those the beasts of Everfrost?”
“Stoneclaws reside in the southern mountains of Everfrost,” Fjorten answered. “They’re vicious but few. So, no.”
“My father told me he needed five men to kill one,” Reike said.
“Aye. Holden kept one as a pet.” Fjorten’s tone was flat, but a quick emotion, like a painful memory, dulled his gaze.
Reike frowned. “Chief Blutmeer won’t take even their furs. He’d rather burn them.”
“So, why did the Warlord’s father have one?” Trisha asked. Stone slabs, gravel, and turf of grass around them, servants and soldiers walking across Moorhafen’s grounds. She tried to imagine where Blainor’s father could have held such a beast.
“Training.” Fjorten’s tone was final, his jaw locked. A shrug of his shoulders, but an echo of his memory shaded his expression. “Anyway, I must go.”
“I’ll get my steed,” Reike said, passing them to the stables.
Fjorten nodded at the shield. When the woman had left, his tawny eyes fixed on Trisha before dodging away. “Don’t stray far today, Bard.”
Trisha patted Dapple’s flank. “My horse is smarter than that. If he smells a wolf, he’ll gallop back.” Dapple nickered.
“Very well,” Fjorten said. “Raven Master is waiting for me. His birds must fly,” he said. Just before turning, the soldier paused. “Do return before it gets dark. Day dies fast with summer’s end. You’re not in the south anymore, Bard.”
His voice lingered. Not even Dapple’s unbridled happiness to ride alongside Reike’s mare lessened the aftertaste.
“Reike?” she said. “Are wolves common here?”
The soldier shook her head. “Not this far south.”
Thin coils of mist above tall grass dispersed as the breeze caressed Trisha’s face. Beneath Dapple’s hooves, the bedrock drummed. The rock’s heart sang; her magic pulsed to the land’s tempo—so distracting, she lost herself in it. When the surge of her inner power calmed and the hum of the world quieted, she blinked.
“What drove them here, the wolves?”
Reike’s gaze moved to the north, lines around her mouth more pronounced. “Lack of food from where they come. Herald of a harsh winter. That’s when the wolves move.”
The mist shone white, coating the land underneath, thick and heavy. Trisha blinked. Only morning fog, catching the first sunlight. Earth thudded against their horses’ hoofbeats. At their passing, tiny yellow flowers curtsied among the blades of grass.
Wasn’t Reike from Halsdal, from the seat of wild-haired Gend Blutmeer? It conjured a memory. The knife fight between Annath and Blainor—sunlight on blades, a movement too fast for the eye, and ragged breathing filling the Assembly Hall.
“Is the frost still there?” asked Trisha.
“Aye, still.”
Trisha pulled herself straight, unsure what to say. “But Annath has allowed the use of the pastures?”
“He’s a fool, but not that much,” Reike snorted. “Annath wouldn’t dare disobey the Warlord’s command, not after losing to him. The others, they’d force his hand. It’s the Jordrigt, after all. And all clans obey Ergoth’s Law.”
She should ask Blainor about Jordrigt. If she were to stay ashis bard, he should tell her more about his land and its rules. “Well, that’s good. Isn’t it?”
Reike’s expression softened, a glimmer of amusement grazing the corner of her mouth. “With the Wolfbachs, nothing is. But my father hasn’t complained… too much.”
The ground zoomed beneath Dapple as they headed toward the rising hills, over which the sun was inching higher. The moors swallowed them whole. When they slowed, Dapple’s flanks were dark with sweat, Trisha’s skin tingling under the day’s burn. She drew out her flask and wet her tongue. A dark raven circled up from the white-and-black slender birches. Drying off the water on her sleeve, she pointed. “What’s that?”
Reike, who had just attached her own flask to her belt, frowned. “That is Karring Katla’s coppice. She speaks on behalf of our ancestors.”
“A minstrel from Graystein told me she’s a witch.” Trisha watched the woods, thinking about the white-haired woman from Midsummer serving mead to the clan chiefs. And later, Katla’s reedy form atop a hill, dark robes floating about her like raven’s wings as she silently witnessed Trisha’s escape to the Undying Lands.
“She’s our karring,” Reike said. “There can be only one.”
