Chapter 5 #3
“Oh?” By the reverent tone, Trisha guessed this Lynjef had been someone cherished. Across the room, Chief Lichtal’s bard met her stare. The man’s mouth twisted into a jeer, his gaunt chin raised in a gesture that spoke as loudly as the surrounding noise.
Trisha smiled in return, plucking a soft chord. Even if the room’s noise swallowed the sound, the lyre’s vibration soothed her nerves; the crisp strings on her fingertips comforted. Magic whispered.
Soon.
It didn’t take long before Chief Lichtal stood. Banging the table, he demanded the room’s attention.
“Time for music, and this time not only by our Minstrel Jovell. The Warlord’s brought with him a player—a southern bard.” He paused, adding. “We’ve agreed. The one to move the audience more shall earn the righteous title of the Warlord’s Bard.”
Surprised murmurs filled the smoke-infused space, Trisha’s table companions giving her shocked looks. Orin’s face tightened before he inclined toward Minstrel Jovell.
“First, Bran. Your turn.”
Trisha’s jaw set. Orin might think he was setting her at a disadvantage by having his own man play first, but it would serve her. She stroked the curvy frame of her lyre, readying her magic to read the room’s cues. Still. Damn Blainor. She’d need to succeed from her first note.
Minstrel Jovell rose, the lute firmly in his hands, walking in front of the high table and inclining his head in a curt bow. Trisha watched closely, picking up the signs and gestures, storing them in her mind, glad to know what to do when her turn came.
Bran raised his chin with a contemptuous glance in her vicinity. His voice was steady and calm. Melodic and low, he’d have a pleasing singing voice. Trisha’s grip on the lyre tightened.
“In honor of our Warlord and my chief, I’ll offer you Ballad of Ergoth and His Five.”
Approving jabbers filled the room, and then he played his lute.
From the very first note, it was clear Bran’s reputation was sound.
Worthy. The chords came sharp, demanding attention.
The rhythmic strumming evoked a sense of something fierce and relentless, sweeping the audience along.
His fingers danced over the lute’s strings, building further on the harmony, deepening the sounds.
When needed, he tapped the lute’s frame, producing sharp taps that imitated hoofbeats or a snapping wood.
Trisha’s brows raised. He was good, indeed. She felt almost sorry for the man.
His voice carried through the air, dipping low or creeping higher, never breaking.
And the way he modulated, pitching the song mid-trill, was when he truly gained Trisha’s respect.
Despite their mutual circumstance, no matter how sour the bard was, she’d gladly take some lessons in technique from him.
Focused on his technique and skill, it took Trisha a moment to realize how the mood had altered. The room had been rowdy and noisy, but now there was another undercurrent. Her table companions were softly tapping to the tune, humming the music, eyes gleaming, heads nodding.
Bran was taking them on a ride across the moors and through the battles. The lyrics spoke of the men’s unyielding strength, their will defeating the poorest of odds. Betrayal, blood, and war. Ergoth, it seemed, was a man whose name carried more than just history—a legend, the first Warlord.
His audience knew the story, knew the ballad. As the last notes droned into silence, the room erupted in deafening sounds—men and women standing, shouting, and banging at tables with zeal.
“Ergoth! Luthern, Fjern!” they chanted. “Ride on, even in the Netherworld!”
Bran stood in the middle of the chaos with a self-satisfied leer. He spread his hands and bowed deeply to the seated lords and ladies before him.
“To my lords—may your shield never shatter,” he said smoothly.
“Well played, Minstrel Jovell,” Blainor responded, raising his drink. “Our forefathers are as pleased as I am.”
“Indeed,” said Orin, nodding. “You did well, my minstrel.” Then, his face turned toward the table where Trisha was seated. “And your Bard an Tilia, Warlord?” His voice spiked just a notch, enough to carry over the worst of the noise. “Let us hear how a southern bard spins a tune.”
Despite expecting the call, Trisha’s throat went parched as the room’s attention shifted.
Resisting the impulse to smooth her hair or shirt, she rose without a word.
The stares prickled, her ire and anxiety rising with each stride.
A snare, and each struggle tangled her more tightly in it.
Worst of all, she still didn’t know what Blainor wanted.
To humiliate Orin or his bard? Very well, she’d prove herself to them.
Bran Jovell inclined his head, that leer lingering.
“Go ahead. Do your best, southerner,” he murmured under his breath, stepping aside.
Trisha swallowed her scoff. Turning to face the high table, she pressed the lyre’s frame so hard her knuckles blanched.
Her eyes met Blainor’s, but she couldn’t read his expression; however, seated on his right, Fjorten, Hurti, and Kaiden gave her encouraging nods. Fjorten’s crooked smile reminded her of the song she’d played to the men at the campsite.
Magic burned against her skin, begging to be unleashed.
She swept into a bow—a deep dip with a flourish, a twist of her heel spinning her around as she did it. If they saw her as an outsider, she’d show just how much she was one.
A quiet murmur followed. Her magic whispered to her; she’d made them wary. Trisha hid her smile. Good. That’s what she wanted.
Her spin brought her back to her original position, to face the Lord of Lichtal’s Keep and the Warlord of the Twelve.
“My lords. This southern bard is grateful to play before you. Accept this ballad from the shores of sunlight.”
She prodded the lyre against her chest, her fingers hovering for just a moment.
Her magic strained, ready to leap the moment she allowed it.
Her eyes met Blainor’s again, the faintest smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
Trisha’s expression hardened before she unchained her inner beast and plucked the first note.
The cressets flared.
A pealing sound lingered in the smoky air until another joined it, so close in tune that they merged.
Then, a third. Her music became a cascade of sounds, delicate and sensuous, teasing and coy.
She’d pitched it lower than the original song, each chord finding a spot before being replaced by another.
She unleashed her magic to carry the notes to the furthest corners of the stone hall.
The sizzling torches swayed, shadows dancing on the walls, as though a gust of wind had entered.
A hint of fragrant jasmine, heavy and cloying, hung in the air.
Trisha started to sing, low and dulcet, to match the sultry sounds of her lyre.
“Southern bard,” they’d said. One to play mawkish ballads. Well, then. She’d prove them right.
It was a song of lovers. An unashamed ballad to the touch of skin, heat-dappled lust, and how it burned the heart. She sang of bodies pressed together, of the surging need to find completion and purpose. Not in battle but in oneness, in desire.
Her hands slid over the thin strings, cool under her touch, and the music demanded her surrender, too. Eyes closing, she fell into the heat of her lustful song, into the ache it summoned.
Burn for me, magic crooned. Want me. Desire me.
She almost did, then. Nearly let herself abandon the control and plunge into the flames of her song.
The chords waned; her voice thickened. The long strands of her mahogany hair tickled her neck like the hand of a lover.
The smoky figures moved in their embraces, and the heady scent of jasmine grew stronger.
Gasping, she flung her eyes open. Her pulse raced.
Soft sighs filled the silent hall. People sat statue-like, mesmerized by the visions and emotions her song teased. It wasn’t enough. Couldn’t satisfy her. She needed to reach deeper to make a true impact. To break their walls and show what they truly wanted. Prove herself.
The notes sank while her voice rose, trembling at the edges. A tremor went through the room, shapes of smoke writhing as in bliss. A fracture. At last. The audience yielded, their minds caught in the embrace of her voice.
Drawing out the last note, she plunked a final chord. The magic purred in her ears. A drop of sweat trickled down her brow, tickling as it fell.
Trisha looked around. Stillness. Absolute stillness. Smoke coiled, eating the traces of jasmine as the fading figures in embraces dissolved before her eyes. The lyre’s echo vanished. As it did, the atmosphere changed. Awe gave way to tense silence.
Trisha’s throat dried. Their fists clenched, faces in frowns, the people glared at each other. A shift of a hand, another one reaching toward their weapon. They watched each other as though waiting for a sign, and still, no one talked. Her eyes flew to the high table.
Blainor watched her. No anger in his gray eyes, only a hunger held tight.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He squeezed his cup, but the storm beneath his gaze betrayed him.
Next to him, Orin’s burly shape was half-risen.
Bent over the table, it seemed he was straining under a horrible burden.
His face snapped up, lust twisting his features as his scarred hand reached forward.
Trisha stumbled back. Damn her magic. She’d only wanted to light their fire.
And damn her too, for forgetting that once set free, she wouldn’t be the one controlling how it burned.
Her steps shattered the unnatural stillness.
The air changed as the others moved, too.
Steel hissed, bench legs scraped, when the men began to rise.
“That’s enough. Everyone.” Blainor’s words whipped through the air. He was standing, face hard.