Chapter 7
The bodice compressed Trisha’s chest, tightening around it with every inhale. She squirmed as she followed Aine down the flight of stairs and through the long corridors, tugging at the stiff leather trimming in an attempt to ease the tightness it forced upon her.
Her feet caught on the shifting woolen fabric. Curse the nameless gods. “Stupid, too-long dress.” She kicked at the hems of the skirt.
Aine had pressured her to wear it with something just shy of brute force.
The trim swept the hall’s stone floors, collecting dust and dirt.
Already, they were getting dark. Aine may have been a maid, but when it came to propriety, she acted like a warrior, deflecting every argument and opposition with a sternness that edged on violence.
So, here she was, walking to her official performance as the bard of Eichlandt’s Warlord.
She couldn’t breathe. And if she couldn’t breathe, how could she sing? The panicked thought ran through her mind before magic, as though sensing her agitation, tickled her skin. Its honey-like aura soothed her like the mother of a restless child. I’ll guide you.
Her unpredictable magic, if she didn’t control it, would expose all she kept hidden—the past, what her magic was capable of.
Trisha’s hands taughtened around the lyre in its case.
Never again. She reminded herself about Graystein: a room full of warriors ready to abduct her just because of her song.
The memory clung too close to her skin. She flicked a lock of hair from her face as though to swat that twilight evening away. One small victory—she’d left her hair open, despite Aine’s insistence.
“Only unmarried girls keep their hair open,” Aine had said.
“I’m unmarried.”
Aine raised a brow. “Girl, are you?”
Trisha would not give in. It was about keeping something of herself, even beneath this swaying woolen skirt and the vest that cinched her chest and hugged at the waist. The fabrics covered a lot, yet left her feeling exposed.
Scents reached her before anything else: the smoke teasing her nose, the smell of roasted meat and spices—rosemary, parsley, pepper. Faint laughs, the clink of cutlery and glassware followed. Growing and dimming shadows painted the granite as Aine led her through the open doorway.
Richly woven tapestries covered the walls; thick stone pillars carried the ceiling’s weight, the purpure Dewingar banner hanging proudly at the top. Long wooden tables lined the hall, and warm light spilled through the windows, glazing everything in a golden hue.
The maid glanced at her. She pressed a hand to Trisha’s shoulder. “When you wish to return, ask a servant to lead you to the eastern wing.”
Trisha nodded, observing the clusters of people before her.
Among the strangers were a few recognizable faces: Fjorten next to his wife, Kaiden with his long-braided hair, and Hurti’s brawny form.
A fraction of the weight she’d been carrying lifted.
Not friends, not really, but people she knew.
And perhaps, some she could hope to trust.
Aine lingered. “Good luck, Mistress an Tilia.” A shift in the air, and she was gone.
With a deep inhale, she clenched the lyre’s case against her chest and stepped forward.
It didn’t take long for Fjorten to notice her.
He’d changed and now wore a linen tunic, the purple and silver embroidery indicating his connection to the Dewingar clan.
“Got settled, I see?” he said with a wry grin, his gaze tracing her appearance.
“Enjoying being the Warlord’s Bard already? ”
“Don’t you dare.” Trisha resisted the desire to tug at her skirt. “Or I’ll make you wear this dress instead.”
“Won’t fit. So sorry.” Fjorten grinned, pressing his wife closer to his side. “Byne, this is the bard our warlord decided was good enough to replace Lynjef.”
Fjorten’s wife shook her head slightly, with a serious expression. “And the bard has no name, my dear husband?”
“Senneth’s influenced you poorly during my absence,” Fjorten said. “Tomorrow, I’ll pray for a cleansing at my ancestors’ shrine.” He fell silent, then added, “Or perhaps I should just kill that man.”
“Master Dewingar sees value in him,” Byne said, and although her expression remained composed, her lips softened. “Besides, it would hardly qualify as a just fight. He’s the same age as your father.”
“Age has never prevented my father from lifting a sword.”
Byne gave him a bemused look before turning toward Trisha. “Since my husband insists on ignoring my request, I’ll handle the introductions—Byne Tifbrunn, of Rydlegen, and now, through marriage, Dewingar’s.”
“Trisha an Tilia. No clan.”
“Welcome to Moorhafen, Bard an Tilia,” Byne said, leaving her husband’s side. “Come. I’ll show you where to play.”
“Thank you.” Trisha complied.
While threading through the crowd, Byne continued, “After your music, you’re to join our table.” She pointed toward the long table on the dais.
Blainor sat there in an attire of purple and soft white. He wore no crown over his dark curls, not that he needed one to command the space. Tension wound in Trisha’s chest as she turned away.
“Is that a custom?” Trisha asked, unwilling to fold into Blainor’s expectations without a challenge. “For the bard to join the lord’s side?”
Byne watched her, face unreadable, before speaking. “Custom is what the Warlord decides, and the Warlord chose his bard.”
A memory rose from the roadside inn of Blainor’s men obeying a mere flick of his hand. He wouldn’t expect such blind obedience from her, would he?
“Here we are.” Byne stopped, gesturing toward a straight-backed chair near the fireplace. “A servant will bring you food and drink soon.” She lingered, then noted, “I look forward to hearing the music of the southern lands, Bard an Tilia. Until later.” With a sway of her dress, she vanished.
Trisha sat, drawing out her lyre. The touch of its smooth wood roused her magic, and the kindling presence grew warmer.
Free me, it whispered, and we’ll break their minds.
Tuning the instrument, Trisha observed the room and its people. Music of the southern lands, Byne had said. Was it a warning? Or a challenge? Suspicious gazes of Blainor’s court, their discreet murmur grated on her nerves. If they knew she was one of them, would they regard her in a different way?
She fidgeted to ease the bodice’s compression, a distraction she’d be better off without.
The snapping fire coaxed her back; the magic hummed in her ears.
Its restless energy had itched her skin ever since their arrival.
She tested the lyre’s pitch, and a few people closest to her turned, their conversations quickly ceasing.
Beyond them all, by the high table, sat Blainor. Clean-shaven, now stripped of the journey’s filth, he, too, was watching. Why couldn’t she read his mind? It stood like a wall, closed off, and still he saw through hers.
A Warlord’s Bard, he’d declared. How naive she’d been, imagining she knew what she agreed to. Why hadn’t he told her about his previous bard? Lynjef, who taught Bran, whom people talked with such reverence. She steeled herself. He wanted another proof? Very well. She’d prove that she belonged.
With a pluck, Trisha released the first sounds. Music swept through the room, pure and clear, like a birdsong at dawn. It warbled high before dropping, the pitch contorting in mid-plunge to a heartbreaking chime.
Yes, give it a voice. Your sorrow. Your loss, the magic cooed.
Trisha’s fingers danced over the strings, pressing and releasing, switching the timbre even as the sounds broke free.
She created the harmony that had so unsettled her in Graystein: the moorscry.
Her eyes closed, the notes pulling her into the twilight-filled grief, just a breath away from remembering.
A firm press of the hand led her away into that strange, cruel place where nothing ever changed.
The audience had faded into ghosts. Mute, they listened as she held them—a southern bard, a curiosity, playing a song of the moors as though born under these northern stars. Bitterness caught her tongue. This place could’ve been her home.
The music surged, anger and sorrow waging war within. Her parents had given her away like a mere trinket. This is what you made of me. This is who I became.
She played as if they stood among the crowd.
When the last note dissolved into nothingness, the silence was absolute. She released a breath, straightening, mind still tangled with the things too early lost, mourning what she’d never known.
The people nearest to her clung to their drinks, a blur of emotions on their faces, eyes shining with wordless pain. A song heralding death and loss, she’d spun it into an elegy.
An older man with a broken nose wiped away a shedded tear, leaning into his companion’s arm, his daughter with ink-black hair. Next to them, the shoulders of another woman in a dark mourning gown shook.
Trisha exhaled. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to belong.
Beyond the row of thick pillars on the raised dais, Blainor was leaning back in his chair, but the angle of his shoulders was too tense, his jaw too taut.
A shadow of the wound she’d glimpsed at their arrival, when Fjorten’s sons had run to their father, clouded his face.
He carried some heavy and unbearable pain he’d rather not remember.
A few seats away sat Fjorten. Sentiments wavered across his face—softening in sorrow, even compassion, before tension replaced them. The others seemed to sense the mood, uneasy gestures and glances aimed at Blainor’s table.
He exhaled with a ragged breath before lifting a goblet to his mouth.
The room hummed as life returned, tentative voices rising, people moving.
Blainor’s eyes met hers, and he gave a subtle nod. Senneth exchanged meaningful looks with Byne.