Chapter 1 #2
When her last note faded, the silence in the room was unbreakable. Rain pattered against the windows, and the hearth’s fire crackled. Time asserted itself, shadows of her magic fading, and the audience breathed a sigh. They looked around in wonder, forgetting what never were.
With a tight smile, Trisha bowed. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and her skin crawled under the weight of gray eyes. Bewildered and embarrassed, she wanted to run away. How had this man resisted her song?
Magic, sated for now, retreated into her bones.
Trisha raised the lyre, beginning once more.
The music continued with a clear and pure timbre.
Laughter broke out. Mugs clinked. As though accepting that no more visions of the vanished land would follow, the ominous man left the doorway.
Trisha tracked his progress from the corner of her eyes.
Her brow lifted when he joined that group from Eichlandt.
At his arrival, they all stood with spear-like spines, hands pounding their chests. Her stomach dropped.
Just another lord, she assured herself. It didn’t matter that he’d resisted her magic. Nothing else made him different from all those she’d played for before.
The man rapped his knuckles against the stained table, but its sound was lost amidst the hum of the room.
Even in the midst of another tune, his presence persisted at the back of Trisha’s mind.
She fought against it, yet, time after time, her attention slid to the northern lord drumming the darkened wood as steadily as the rain struck the roof.
When their eyes finally met, a spark of something—perhaps a mix of understanding or recognition—passed between them. Its weight tingled along her neck. His mouth curved as he dipped his chin.
Trisha yanked her face away, finger slipping on the strings.
Curse the nameless gods! For the remaining time, she took care not to let her eyes wander again, but his gaze could still be felt.
Seated on the simple stool, Trisha remained aware of every slip and every mistake.
The man’s attention was like a brush of steel against her delicate nerves.
When she struck the final chord, the downpour had weakened into a shower. Smoke in the room lingered low, gray fumes spiraling below the dark rafters.
With softly murmured ‘thank yous’, Trisha accepted tokens of gratitude and wove her way toward the entrance. Away from the northern lord’s line of sight.
The innkeeper beamed, waving at her. The tension lifted her shoulders; she wouldn’t have to brave the night in the rain. Whether she slept on the floor by the fire or in the barn, she’d have a place for tonight.
That left her with an indulgence to savor: a moment of her own time. Food and drink seemed most pressing, but she should tend to Dapple first, ensuring that her horse was well cared for. But before Trisha could move, a faint cough echoed from behind her.
A man with a thick red-brown beard and patted gambeson made a clipped bow. “Bard, my lord would like a word.”
She crossed her arms. “Oh, he does now?”
The soldier’s mouth flattened. “To thank you for your performance.”
Out of the corner of her eye, his lord reclined in his seat, but the angle of his shoulders and the way he held his drink betrayed him. This wasn’t a courtesy call but an order masked as one.
“I’m grateful,” she said. A small, resentful part of her demanded she defy him. “But surely that’s unnecessary. You’ve delivered his recognition, and I’m confident your lord has better ways to pass his time.”
Red fire twinkled in the soldier’s tawny eyes. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and Trisha caught silver memories of scars on his skin and a whirling tattoo. He had the build to intimidate, but he gracefully chose diplomacy instead.
“I must insist, bard. His words were clear.” He paused, then added, “My lord isn’t easily denied.”
Trisha’s voice was cold. “Indeed?”
The northern lord turned his head, meeting her sight. The air between them taughtened, and a soft touch of… unknown skimmed across her mind. She shivered, unable to ward off the feeling of being exposed. The man raised his drink.
Go on. Refuse me now, the gesture said. But we’ll talk before the night is done.
Face heating, she tore her gaze away.
“Your lord is a gracious man,” she said tightly. “I’d be delighted.”
A quiet breath left the soldier. “Thank you, bard.”
Gritting her teeth, she banished the thoughts of escape.
She could face him. She could. She would.
Even when her nerves refused to trust the words, Trisha kept repeating them. With her shoulders pulled straight, she didn’t dodge or look away.
Beyond the crowded tables and the low-burning fires, those steel-gray eyes waited, ready to ensnare her the moment she stumbled.
The table waited half-hidden in shadows.
A candlelit lantern sat at its center, too weak to drive away the darkness.
At her approach, the men fell silent, though not out of shyness.
Their attention needled, but Trisha refused to falter, following her escort.
When they reached the table, the escort bowed, but she kept her back straight and her eyes locked with their lord’s.
Brash perhaps, but she refused to be intimidated.
More importantly, she was never his to command.
And by his narrowed gaze, the man both understood and disliked the message.
The silence stretched until, at last, she swept into a bow. “My lord.”
A moment passed. And another, drawing out the wait. Still, she held a confident posture. He tapped the rim of his glass. A faint creak of wood followed as he moved in his seat.
“You may rise, bard.”
The rich, low voice skittered down the skin of her back. Trisha’s hands clenched as she fought against an unwanted shiver.
A loud protest carried over from a nearby table, where the loser of a card game raised his voice to complain. His companions burst out laughing. Somewhere, a dog barked, but the prattle and rain leaking from outside swallowed its sound. A sudden draft swept through the grease-laced haze.
Trisha drew a breath, facing the lord from Eichland with conviction. Beneath her worry and annoyance whispered something even more threatening.
The candlelight danced on his cheeks and the strength of his jaw. His gray eyes glinted through the dark, discerning and hungry, like a blade ready to draw blood.
He studied her back—the few rain-curled strands by her collarbones, the damp clothes sticking to her figure.
His stare burned her too close. Then, leaning back in his chair, he flicked his hand.
Without a word, his men understood and obeyed.
The bench groaned as the men moved to step away.
Their swiftness confirmed what she’d guessed: this man expected utter loyalty and nothing else.
“Your ballad was…” His voice snagged back her attention. A wry half-smile crinkled his eyes, but their razor-sharp focus didn’t stray from her face. “Exceptional. Out of this world.”
She craned into a hasty bow. “You honor me, my lord.”
The mismatched voices, rain, and the clink of cups filled the silence. He rotated the drink in his gloved hands. “And your name, may I have it?”
The question made Trisha’s heart hum, yet names held power, and this man didn’t need more than he already had. But to refuse would make him think she was afraid.
Her chin lifted. “Trisha an Tilia.”
“Trisha an Tilia,” he repeated. Her name rolled off his tongue, dripping in poison. The man hunched forward. “Sit with me.”
Lips pressed, she stood straighter.
He smiled, and all sharpness grafted away.
The fine network of lines in his countenance hinted at a buried humor, making her wonder how the man looked when he laughed.
Or if he could. If Trisha had thought him handsome before, the smile made him devastatingly so. It wasn’t just a smile but a weapon.
“Only to talk.” He softened his tone to add, “I wish to learn more about you, Trisha an Tilia. You and your craft intrigue me.”
Talking with the man offered a chance to learn more about him and what made him impervious to her magic.
How could he do it? Yet, this curiosity carried its own risk: the tingle of his lingering eyes, the way she’d shivered when he pronounced her name.
His discerning stare might see too deep into her secrets.
As though sensing her hesitation, he arched a brow. Trisha’s mouth zipped. She wasn’t afraid of him.
“If it pleases you, my lord.”
Carefully, she sat on a wooden bench. Years of use had polished it bright and smooth, but it offered no comfort. Perhaps it was the lingering resentment or the discomfort itself that prompted her to push back. “I find myself at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”
He took a sip. “You may call me… Lord Daworth.”
She frowned, not missing the slight pause, the omission of a region or dominion. What kind of man chose to ride without a name? “And what do you call yourself, Lord Daworth?”
His fingers wrapped around the clay cup. “Lord Daworth will do, for now.”
Everything from his broad shoulders to the shape of his arms corroborated his prowess.
But more than physical strength, it was the other power he controlled that curbed her desire to snap back.
She didn’t forget the way he’d commanded a group of hardened warriors with but a gesture.
“Very well, my lord. What is it you would like to know?”
Again, he made her wait. “Your song. Where did you learn it?”
A whiff of tobacco itched, but she resisted the impulse to twitch her nose. “Here and there. Everywhere.”
“Is that so?” His index finger drew a lazy circle over the table. “And where is this… ‘everywhere’ taking you? Where do you seek your next tune?”
She hated how intentional his questions sounded. Even more, she detested her lack of weapons against him. “I’m undecided. I follow the road and see where it leads me.”
“Truly? This road that you follow is taking you to Isdet.” His brow lifted. “But certainly you knew that.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. Where was he leading her with this bait of questioning? “My references speak on my behalf. Whether or not I present them to the Warden of Isdet is another matter.”
“I see,” he murmured. “And how about farther north? Eichlandt?”
The soft tapping of the rain seemed to grow harsher.
“Your land has… come up a few times.” She shifted her weight. “But I don’t know it. Nor its customs.”
His mouth curved. And damn it, she couldn’t ignore how her pulse spiked.
Lord Daworth swirled his drink again. “Wouldn’t that be reason enough for a visit, to find out?”
An ache stirred in her chest. To find that place from her dream, the stone circles and reeds against a pale sky. Trisha’s fingers balled into fists. She would be stupid enough to trust this lord. Around them, his soldiers stood, silent shadows guarding them from just out of reach.
“I’m not sure, my lord,” she said bluntly. “You don’t strike me as someone for ballads of forbidden love.”
Daworth tilted his head, silence holding. She resisted the impulse to lick her lip as shadows pooled around his eyes.
“You may be surprised,” he said in a velvety voice.
Her fingertips pressed against her thighs.
He leaned back, tone cool, as if nothing had sparked between them mere seconds ago.
“I’ll be leaving at first light. Traveling with me would offer you much protection and knowledge. A rare combination, wouldn’t you agree?”
“That is very… generous of you,” she muttered.
“I’m a generous man.”
A steadying breath to buy her time. He already knew that they were traveling in the same direction. “I’m heading north, but I’m unsure how far.”
“Then join me for as long as the road takes us.”
She didn’t know him, nor his motives. “And what do you expect of me, my lord?”
“Whatever you may have heard of my people, we don’t ravage every village,” he said. “But my people appreciate music, Bard an Tilia. And perhaps I can convince you to follow me a little farther. To Eichlandt.”
Isdet wasn’t far. She could learn more in two days. “We shall see.”
He lifted the cup to meet his lips. “First light, Bard an Tilia. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Trisha blinked before her feet obeyed the command. Slowly, she stood. She had wanted to avoid further questions, but still, the dismissal stung. She pushed the feeling away. This was better. Safer.
Trisha cleared her throat. “Until tomorrow, my lord.” She inclined her head and turned.
His gaze heated her nape, but she didn’t dare look back. Only when the smoke had swallowed the table did she let herself breathe. Trisha pressed a palm to her forehead. She was a fool. One day, curiosity would be her ruination.
One of the inn’s guests left a trace of ale, garlic, and onion in his wake, and Trisha’s stomach grumbled.
She’d abandoned Dapple in a hurry. Bracing herself against the elements, she stepped outside to find the stables where the horses neighed in their cramped stalls.
The humid air reeked of dung and wet fur and leather.
Dapple greeted her with a loving snort and nudged at her, eager for sweets.
“We’ll leave early. Behave, and they might have treats to share,” she murmured, stroking his muzzle.
Across the aisle, a bay stallion kicked violently, eyes wide, baring its teeth. Trisha shuddered.
Was it too late to back out? Had she made a mistake by agreeing to ride with Lord Daworth? If that even was his real name. He’d been too deliberate, and the way he’d resisted her song.
Turning back to Dapple, she whispered, “We’ll go no further than Isdet. Promise.” Two or three days’ ride.
And perhaps…
She refused to finish that thought. Over her head, the clouds were clearing away, the night sky’s pinholes glimpsing beneath them—silent and quiet, a mere impression from the place of her childhood. Cooling her lungs, she let in a big breath of damp air before spinning around to march back inside.