Blade and Lyre (Everfrost Duology #1)

Chapter 1

Sweat ran down Trisha’s neck—tunic clinging to her chest. Her flask’s lukewarm water failed to expel the sun’s burn on her back. Relentless, it drove Trisha north.

The reins chafed under her grip. Dapple’s strides remained steady, the saddle rubbing against her thighs.

Among the fields of oat and rye, dark shapes coaxed life from grain to flour, flour to bread.

When a rough-hewn cart clanked past her, she nodded politely to the people who lived off the soil. Their roots grew in the ground.

But she couldn’t stop, following the road as if it were an endless song. At its end awaited a memory: a sway of tall reeds, a tight clasp on her hand. The shadow of long, dark hair unveiling a curve of the jaw, and words that reached her even through dreams.

Come, Trisha. It won’t be long.

Seven years of searching. Determined to find the field of reeds and the stone circle. Them. She could ask why they gave her up. Stubbornness had overtaken her fuel of hope. Yet hope, no matter how thin, was enough. So, she kept moving.

Memories of towns and villages had faded. Marble halls merged with wood-paneled rooms, old songs bled into one melody, but that image from childhood remained constant, a star guiding her path.

The forest thickened. Fields shrunk. Dust rose around Dapple’s hooves, soiling his ash-gray coat, until a drop of liquid drew Trisha’s gaze above. Dark clouds amassing there told her the same as the wind.

She could tolerate rain, but her lyre would not.

She needed the piece on its best behavior by Isdet.

Her fingers brushed the pocket where she’d tucked away her reference.

Should her instrument decide to turn temperamental, she’d be a laughingstock before the Warden of Marches. Best to find lodging first.

Dapple plodded onward, patient and hungry.

Smirking, Trisha patted his neck. “You can fill your belly as soon as we stop.” Dapple’s ears perked as he picked up the pace.

She wiped grime from her sharp face, pale skin freckled from years under the sun.

The length of her dark braid thudded against her bony back in the rhythm of Dapple’s bob.

Long before the road had whittled her thin, Trisha’s past had stripped her of softness; Trisha’s bones might shatter, but they would not yield.

The sky broke open, unleashing the rain.

Not quite a downpour yet, but soon. Water dribbled from her hood as she cradled the lyre in her lap.

The sight of a roadside inn with its battered sign behind the path’s curve washed away the strain from her shoulders.

Yellow light shone from the windows, inviting her forward.

She handed Dapple to a stablehand and escaped inside.

Thick smoke warred with the smells of hops and dank wool. Farmers in their simple linen, merchants wearing fine woolen tunics, and wandering travelers like herself sat in tense quiet.

Her relief vanishing, Trisha halted by the entrance.

On the far side of the room, a handful of men sat apart. Scarred, tattooed, and armed, they guarded their table as though it were a fortress. An air of violence clung to them like dried blood spilled to the ground. The other customers couldn’t help but cast dark glares in their direction.

With a sigh, Trisha dropped her hood. Just her luck.

A gruff, middle-aged man approached Trisha, wiping his hands on a stained apron. Deep lines carved into his tanned face, and his mustache drooped, as tired as his gaze.

He took in her travel-worn clothes, drenched cloak, and the raindrops on her forehead. The man waved a hand and shook his head. “It’s a full house. I’ve no spare beds.”

A place to sleep didn’t need to mean a bed. Trisha wouldn’t let him drive her back to the rain. Opening her lyre’s case, she tested the instrument’s wood. Still dry. Good.

“I could play.” Trisha nodded toward the table of tattooed men. Smoke brewed above their heads. “Might liven up the mood, and your customers seem like they’d welcome a distraction.” She plucked a string, bracing for the ripple of her magic’s warmth.

The pearly sound pulled in the innkeeper’s gaze, his posture slackening. “Truth be told, I don’t detest songs.” He shifted his weight. “Keeps tempers low and customers spending.”

Trisha nodded with a smile. “That it does.”

The innkeeper leaned forward. His voice dropped as he gave a discreet nod at the end table. “Thing is, we’ve warriors among us. Beyond the borderlands,” he added, “Eichlandt.”

A chill shot through Trisha. The vision she’d been chasing arose: the pale sky, a field of reeds, and a hand pulling her forward.

The soldiers sat with their drinks untouched. In padded gambesons, their posture screamed tension. The men’s hands never strayed far from their swords, while the others—the locals, she surmised—seemed almost eager to have them drawn out. Brewing signs pointed to a brawl later tonight.

“I’m not afraid of a few testy soldiers,” she said.

The innkeeper barked a dry laugh. “Not from around here, I see. These men aren’t with us for songs, just bloodied steel.”

Her chin raised. “They cry and laugh just the same when I play.”

The man studied her with a pause. “Playing for a bed, I assume?”

Trisha shrugged. “I need a place to sleep. But I’m not picky.”

The innkeeper rocked on his heels, hesitating. “You seem certain enough. Should prove amusing to see if their lord agrees. A daunting fellow, that one.”

Oh, she wasn’t afraid of some haughty noble. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll find out if they know how to sing along.”

“Or throw their ale,” he snorted.

Amusement lit Trisha’s green eyes. “I’m good at dodging.”

She wove through the tables in search of a spot near the fireplace, thanking a serving woman who brought her a stool.

Trisha’s fingers strummed a chord to warm herself.

A few heads by the nearest table turned before returning to their conversation.

Trisha’s jaw set. This lot of merchants, soldiers, and farmers could not be any harder to captivate than nobles in their hallowed halls.

If only her magic would obey. Untamed and barely listening to her at best, even she didn’t know what it could do.

Controlling her nerves, Trisha strummed the first chords.

Then another. And another. The bright, joyful melody of the sowing song made the smoky air spiral.

Faces of the black-capped men with weathered skin brightened, their fingers tapping clay mugs.

A fair number of patrons’ feet drummed the earthen floor in the song’s rhythm.

But no such luck with the northern men, nor with the pedlars.

A hum of magic burned in her bones. Ignoring it, she considered an alternative plan and pitched a harmony from the east. The march’s brisk tempo seemed to please the merchants and the northerners, yet it left the farmers cold.

Nothing worked. Not the marches, not the sweeping ballads of the west. As much as it pained her to admit, she had no other choice. With a sigh, she reached within, readying herself.

A touch, she thought. Just a nudge.

The power swelled, a sweet scent of honeysuckle crowding her nose. She almost gagged with its strength, her fingers stumbling over the strings. Just barely, she regained control, adjusting the song into a transposition she prayed others would think was intentional.

Trisha’s lyre trembled under her hands. The fire flared, blue and silver streaking its glow, and the shadows in the corners shrunk.

The spines straightened, the chatter ceasing.

Trisha’s shoulders fell. No matter her skill or understanding of the craft, the magic ruled supreme.

Oh, well. She did want their attention, after all.

A nigh-invisible shimmer cleared the smoke, and a warm breeze blew in from the land where fire didn’t burn, where songs made stone weep. The honeysuckle scent grew stronger. Sharp and pointed. Homesickness stabbed her

Yes, sang her magic. This is the right one.

Trisha didn’t care about the transition. Just plucked a chord and changed the song.

The unfurling notes laced the pungent aromas of hops and wool with the fragrant sweetness of morrowflowers.

The smooth wood under her fingers brought a rueful smile. Unique, her lyre was her most prized possession. Not the least because it was made to her specifications, and she had paid its price. Her lyre was created to hold her song and magic. It was one of the few items connecting her to her past.

The magic tugged at her once more like a child pulling on a parent’s coat. Sing, it demanded.

Trisha’s voice rose to tell the tale, even if no one here would understand the words or know her song. The smoke stirred further, and a cackle echoed. Beings of strange light winked in the dark shadows.

The entire room froze under her spell. Transfixed in their chairs, with tankards hovering in mid-air, her audience had abandoned their ability to breathe, unknowing.

Then a wall of resistance suddenly pushed back. Trisha shrugged to break the pressure, but it persevered: an itch of something outside her song. She looked up, searching the room to find the source of this disturbance. Her breath caught.

There, in the doorway: a man with dark, curly hair framing a finely shaped face, shadows etched around sharp lines.

Trisha’s fingers stumbled over the strings, her voice faltering.

Even the magic seemed to sense him. For a heartbeat, the images that never existed, treading through the room, flickered. Hastily, Trisha continued.

The man stood half-eclipsed in shadows, as though summoned by her song. His eyes pierced from the dark, bright and whetted. Like steel, they cut through the vapor-infused air and kept her as their captive.

She kept plucking at the lyre. Lyrics left her lips. And yet Trisha didn’t know if she now played for him or because of him.