Chapter 7 #2
Unsettled by what she didn’t understand, Trisha played once more.
The magic purred, eager to fly again, but she lacked the nerve to free it.
Keeping it tightly tethered under her will, she ignored its restless energy.
Her mind kept returning to Blainor and how the whole room had shied away from his display of sorrow.
What did it have to do with Lynjef, the bard who’d been Bran Jovell’s teacher?
The Warlord didn’t look at her again.
The servants had added wood to the fire three times, ambient noises dulling into a blur, when Trisha struck her last chord. She rested against the chair’s backrest, the lyre’s weight comforting in her lap.
Placing the instrument into its case, Trisha rose from the chair.
Byne’s words rang in her ears—an order she couldn’t avoid: she was expected at the Warlord’s table.
How had she been pulled into his orbit so easily?
Escaping it seemed almost impossible. And she was still no closer to understanding him or his reasons for bringing her to Moorhafen.
Blainor’s head tilted as she approached. “Starling…” He inclined toward the empty chair on his left.
Trisha pulled out the chair but refused to meet his eyes. The strange clothes constricted like chains. Next to her, Fjorten moved to give her space, turning toward a young woman Trisha had caught by Kaiden’s side—Marleen, she assumed, Kaiden’s new wife.
“I couldn’t help but notice your lack of the strange languages this time,” Blainor prodded.
“Surely you can’t expect me to always sing in foreign tongues.”
“I thought birds always did.”
“Often they flee to the trees.”
“Thinking about migrating already?” Blainor asked. “I thought we’d agreed to wait until winter.”
A servant stepped forward to pour her a cup. At his retreat, she took it, making its contents churn. Flowery honey and yeast drifted to her nose. On Blainor’s other side, Byne turned to speak with Senneth.
“Perhaps I’m not that interested in freezing weather,” Trisha offered. “By your own admission, come winter, birds are drawn to the south.”
His eyes narrowed before he placed his elbows on the table, abandoning the mock. “What is troubling you?” A quick nod toward the room. “I’ve kept my word. No shackles, just music.”
“And still no answers. Just evasions.”
He drew breath. “Ask, then, Trisha. What do you want to know? I’ve told you no lies.”
“What is your game? Bran Jovell’s teacher held my position. Why would you bait Bran, having refused him already?”
He looked up the cast-iron candelabras hanging from the ceiling. “You’ve met him. Do you seriously think I’d tolerate a man with his attitude?”
She gave him a long look. “Even so, you took a risk. He’s good.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, sipping his drink, “but I knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”
A shiver of pleasure went through her. “There must be plenty of talented musicians. What prevented you from nominating one?”
His people, seated along the long tables, talked and laughed before them. Candles threw a warm glow over their heads.
“When Lynjef died,” he paused, scoffing, “and it was of old age, Trisha, in case you’ve cooked up some morbid stories about his passing already…
” He continued, “I felt no need to find another one.” Something raw and jagged clouded his gaze, enough to tighten Trisha’s throat. “More importantly, he was… loved.”
Blainor’s voice broke off, as though admitting it would have cost him something. His fingers bent until he forced them to relax. “It wouldn’t have been right to replace that memory, not so soon.” Staring past the candles and the people, he fell silent, “Is that enough to satisfy your curiosity?”
She bit her lip, unable to forget the thickness in his voice. Did he mourn the old bard or someone else Lynjef reminded him of? “I guess so.”
“You guess? You’re a difficult bird to please, Starling.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, my lord. You haven’t really tried.”
A moment of silence before a slow smile spread across his lips. He reached for his drink, but his eyes were knowing; their brilliant shade sent her heart skittering.
The sweet mix of honey and mead’s zesty tang mingling over her tongue, Trisha’s ears perked up.
Next to her, Fjorten’s low, gravelly voice lit a sense of familiarity.
Settling more comfortably in her seat, she took another sip.
On Blainor’s other side, Byne was still exchanging quiet words with Senneth.
The seneschal shook his head, expression pinched.
Byne pressed further until turning toward the Warlord. “My lord, did you consider the situation at Halsdal?”
Blainor rubbed his nose, then sniffed. “Forefathers’ bones, woman. I’ve been back less than a day; Blutmeer can wait until morning.”
“You must send a raven,” Byne said. “It’s a four-day ride. If you want to avoid bloodshed during the summer’s assembly, you’ll want Gend here before its start.”
“Remind me again of the reason for auxiliary command?” Blainor’s eyes darted between Byne and Senneth. “You had full authority to handle things.”
“Annath,” Byne offered the name as if it explained everything. Trisha’s face tilted. Hadn’t Senneth mentioned that name at their arrival?
Blainor’s expression darkened. “So, what did Gend Blutmeer do to earn Annath’s ire?”
“Nepotism, though he didn’t use that word.”
“No. I’d be surprised if he even knew what it meant. But why accuse Gend? Annath doesn’t have relations in Halsdal.” He grinned like a wolf. “Unless he’s sneaked into Blutmeer’s stronghold to spread his seed, and Gend’s finally caught on to that.”
“If I may, my lord,” Senneth said, “Chief Wolfsbach accuses you of allowing Blutmeers to use their pastures.”
Blainor’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what Gend’s been telling him? That fool.”
“It’s… unclear,” Byne said. “Apparently, they’ve met. It didn’t go well.”
“I see.” Blainor drummed the table and shook his head.
“I should thank the ancestors. Orin didn’t mention anything; Annath hasn’t contacted the other clans.
” He pressed his lips together. “First thing in the morning, send a messenger to both. They’re to present themselves to me in ten days.
” A morbid resolve settled on his brow. “The snakes may slither, but even they must still when I chop off their heads.”
His attention trailed to Trisha, who was listening to the exchange with uneasy interest. “Does this shock the Warlord’s Bard?”
She didn’t know any of the names tossed around, but she understood enough. “Is the Warlord asking for advice?” Trisha raised a brow. “It seems my lord has it all figured out—yield or gibbet.”
“Exactly, Starling. We’ll make a Northerner out of you yet.”
“With a wolfskin and a battle axe strapped to my back? No, thank you.”
His gaze flicked down, as though noticing her appearance only now. “As delightful as such a sight might be, this time I’m inclined to agree,” Blainor murmured.
Annoyingly, heat crawled up her cheeks. Reminding herself not to let him distract her, she said, quickly, “Perhaps I could accept the battle axe after all. It would protect me better than a locked door. Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
“Are you planning to repeat your song from Graystein?” Blainor’s sharp voice commanded others’ attention. “Some cling to the ancient traditions more than others. I’d advise against testing your limits.”
“Wisely said, m’lord.” Fjorten’s words garnered an affirmative nod from Kaiden.
“A song isn’t an invitation,” Trisha insisted.
“Go ahead, then,” Blainor snorted, exchanging a look with his cousin. “Not that I need an excuse to hammer sense into Gend and Annath.”
Trisha’s mouth flattened.
“Or would you rather I let them? Since I promise you, the northern clans still believe in the custom of the carry-off brides.”
She shook her head, unable to hide the disgust in her voice. “Even if it was your bard?”
The servant passing the table made the candles’ flame whip. Blainor’s voice was low when he noted, “Especially her.”
A chill shot through Trisha. Had she made a mistake?
She recalled Blainor’s reaction to her song, how grief had aged his face.
Trisha’s fingers tightened around her drink as she pushed the thought away, reminding herself that she didn’t care.
She wasn’t seeking a lover, least of all in a man she didn’t trust. As soon as she could, she’d leave to search for her parents.
Trisha took another sip of her mead, telling herself that nothing could prevent her.
Not grief. Not longing. Not even Eichlandt’s Warlord.
Uncertainty gnawed at her insides. Trisha wasn’t sure she could believe her own words.