Chapter 3 #3
This. This was what she loved—the beat of the land.
The turn of the seasons. How everything ebbed, pulling forward in time.
Always changing, never the same. This world, with or without her, would whisper differently, new.
The eternal twilight of the Undying Land with its cloying magic never changed.
Despite its dancing constellations and ever-verdant forests, it left her wanting.
Somehow, here—under the sun and rain, amidst the death and rot—she had found it; the music that spoke to her soul.
Nothing could surpass the quiet song the bones and flesh of this mortal world sang.
The honeysuckle scent of her magic filled the air, indulging. But following the tune she’d picked up on the ride, she forgot to fear what it meant.
The last note faded. Trisha grew aware of her body’s weight and the crisp wind.
A tint of gloomy dark had spread across the sky, sundown setting the treetops aglow.
Smoke from the fire mingled with the earth’s loamy, damp scent.
The rest of the group stood around her, their expressions vacillating between guarded awe and surprise.
The sated content in her bones told her the same as their reaction.
She smothered a curse. Lost in the road’s music, following its beat, she’d let her guard down. Echoes of eternal twilight of the Undying Lands must’ve seeped through her songs—the wild magic she’d never dared reveal.
Beneath the hanging arms of the thick spruce, the lichen-covered rocks loomed.
She exhaled, brushing the flowers that were carved into the lyre.
At least her unruly magic hadn’t reached beyond the clearing.
She could only dread the men’s reactions if a shimmering gateway of light had appeared there.
Across the fire, Daworth sat motionless. His attention burned. Surprise, yes. But also something contemplative, as if he were trying to place her in a story only he knew about.
“Not a ballad,” she mumbled, unable to bear the wordless weight around her.
Kaiden let out a dry chuckle. “No, not a ballad.”
“By Great Mother’s tits.” Fjorten slumped onto the ground beside her. “If you tell me there’s a song called ‘North Road,’ I’ll burn a goat on my ancestors’ shrine.”
“Just a tune,” Trisha said with a smile, relaxing a little. “But I was inspired by today’s travel.”
“Knew it.” Fjorten grimaced. “North Road—it hates me as much as my arse hates it.”
“That’s because ye’re getting old,” said another soldier, one built like an ox.
Fjorten gave a tired wave of his hand. “Piss off, Hurti. You’re older than me.”
Mouth full of crooked teeth, Hurti tugged at his long beard. “And d’ye hear me complainin’?”
Trisha’s music and the men’s voices filled the clearing, and she soon glanced to where Daworth sat.
Could he be telling the truth? If his people truly appreciated music, a bard like her could find a place there. She’d be free to search that rustling field of reeds from her dream…
Trisha’s fingers pushed against her lyre. She’d be a fool to trust Lord Daworth. No. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t to help her.
While she played, Fjorten grazed his arm, itching, revealing the black markings tattooed over his skin. Firelight lit up the ink. Trisha’s eyes lingered on them before she dared to press. “Fjorten?”
The soldier turned, distracted by the half-gnawed piece of jerky. His answer came through chewing. “Aye, Bard?”
“I do have a name, you know,” Trisha scoffed but forgave him easily enough. She hinted toward his arms while playing a song that another in their group, a younger man called Jurgen, had requested. “Can I ask what your tattoos mean?”
Daworth leaned against his strong arms, sleeves rolled up to expose their naked tattoolessness. The fire drew shifting shadows over his forehead and a few dark curls framing it. At her question, his head turned.
“These?” Fjorten stroked a swirling black mark on his forearm and grinned as if enjoying her curiosity. “These tell that I’m wed.” He took another bite of his jerky. “To my wife, Byne.”
“To whom else, ye daft?” Hurti guffawed.
A small chorus of chuckles erupted from the others. Fjorten ignored them.
Trisha tilted her head. Her gaze traced the other men, noting how each bore slightly different marks. “You get tattoos at your wedding?” she asked, then hunched, mortified at how incredulous she sounded.
Fjorten nodded.
Her eyes flicked toward Lord Daworth and his smooth, unmarked forearm. So, he wasn’t married, then? Not that it mattered. For all she cared, he could be wed or not to anyone, which made it all the more annoying that he noticed.
“Seems our southern songbird has more than a passing curiosity about our ways,” he obnoxiously called loud enough for all to hear.
Her face burned. “Curiosity isn’t a crime.”
“It seems to land songbirds in interesting topics.”
The nameless gods take this man.
“Pardon me for misunderstanding, my lord. I didn’t take you as someone interested in marriage vows.”
Kaiden started, sitting firm.
“Depends,” Daworth said with a lazy smile. “Are you proposing?”
“Not interested.” Without giving him a chance for a comeuppance, she addressed the others. “Do only men get tattooed?”
“Both, of course,” Kaiden said. “It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”
“But… but, it’s so permanent.” Trisha scrambled for understanding, confounded by the custom they spoke of so easily.
“Why else would people tie the knot?” Fjorten snorted. “Should I pledge myself on a whim? Or expect the same from Byne?”
“Yet, what if…” she began carefully, then trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“What?” Fjorten asked. “She’d grow tired of me, is that it? What if she no longer cares for my face and decides to favor another?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “You said it yourself; it’s a commitment.”
“I’d kill that poor bastard!” Fjorten laughed at her startled expression. “Nay. If Byne decided she no longer wanted to share my bed, it’d be her decision. She’d be free to choose to carry another’s mark.” He nodded toward Kaiden. “Or two.”
“And what if…” Trisha struggled to formulate her words. “One doesn’t want to share?”
“Are you the jealous type?” Fjorten joked.
Trisha’s skin prickled under the weight of gray eyes following the conversation. Picking another note, she modulated her voice to casual, her expression carefully neutral. “Not a topic I’d lose sleep over. The road doesn’t make an attractive matrimonial bed.”
The few closest to them chuckled.
“Nay,” Fjorten agreed with a grin. “Reckon it doesn’t.” He glanced at his lord. “You’ve traveled a lot, then?”
“Some,” Trisha replied with a shrug. “Enough not to get easily lost.”
“So, you’ve been to the north before?”
“Once,” she said, sighing. If she’d only known then the answers lay in Eichlandt… “Seven years ago. I didn’t linger long at the time. Had other places to see.”
“Can’t say I fault you for that,” Kaiden commented while he stretched his arms overhead. “Heard winters are milder in the south.”
“Maybe, but it still snows.” Trisha struck the last chords, letting them fade. Resting the lyre in her lap, she stroked its frame. The talk of winter and snow snatched her memory back to the merchant woman and her companions. Hadn’t they said Eichlandt stretched to the glaciers?
“Yesterday, at the inn, someone mentioned a place near your country. Everfrost.”
A sudden hush fell over the campsite. No one seemed willing to speak or even move. It was as if they’d all turned to statues of ice, so still each man had become. A scorched log collapsed, sending a burst of wispy sparks into the air.
Fjorten blinked, opening his mouth. “That’s—”
“The plateaus,” Lord Daworth’s voice cut through, interrupting him mid-speech. “They lie north. A very inhospitable place for curious songbirds.”
He straightened from his languid position, words holding a tone that was difficult to parse. The men, however, seemed to understand its meaning. Fjorten flinched, and others turned their faces away, as if compelled. The conversation resumed, but it was quieter now, more cautious.
Her brows furrowed, Trisha settled the lyre back into its case. Questions churned inside her. Whatever ghosts the merchants had swatted aside were more than stories meant to frighten children.
Slowly, she stood, wiping off grass and sand. A few curious glances followed her as she left the campfire. The shadows stretched across the ground, the quiet rustle heralding the awakening of nocturnal animals. The fragrance of resin and pine needles gave way to the musky smell of the horses.
Dapple tossed his head in greeting. Where’s my treat? His warm muzzle pushed her shoulder, and Trisha laughed.
“You’re no more horse than you are a bee,” she teased, extracting a few lumps of sugar from her purse.
He tucked them into his mouth. She stroked his head.
“Now, be a good boy and behave.” Beyond, the tethered horses moved restlessly, their stoic eyes gleaming in the deepening dusk.
“Rest well.” She patted him one more time.
“But be warned, if today’s any indication, tomorrow’s going to be another long ride. ”
A long, resigned puff followed Trisha as she turned.
The campfire burned between the torsos of her companions; its warm light scattering across the murky ground. Trisha stopped as a shape broke away from the main group, moving toward her in long, steady strides—Daworth. Sighing, she waited.
He reached Trisha, this tall figure draped in shadows, eyes catching the muted light of the dimming evening.
“My lord?” she said, finally.
He didn’t speak, but his attention was like a gentle touch. Trisha’s magic whisked inside her, warming her skin before it settled. A branch snapped under his foot.
“You’d best choose a place near the fire.” An undercurrent of his voice was chilling. “Don’t stray far from others. Don’t leave the campsite.” He drew a deep inhale, releasing it. “Not if you don’t want to vanish entirely.”