Chapter 8 #2
Byne sat between Kaiden’s lean form and Marleen, Kaiden’s young, pretty wife. Tonight, Blainor’s party also included an older man with a broken nose, and his dark-haired daughter. Trisha’s eyes crinkled as the woman leaned over to address Blainor, her cleavage cut daringly low.
Fjorten spat on the ground. “Thought it best if I keep my distance.” A wry smile showed, as though linked to a memory. “Annath’s nephew and I… don’t see eye to eye.”
The man with the red scar?
Fjorten went on, “Byne will manage the Wolfbachs better without me. She knows how to use a knife.” He paused, bearing a toothy grin. “Can’t say I’m surprised m’lord put an end to your solitary forays.”
Above their heads, the black-and-purple Dewingar banner hung alongside another, the gray wolf’s head against a blue background. They swayed faintly, the servants moving in and out through the doorway.
“I don’t need a guard,” Trisha muttered, annoyed at the warmth creeping up to her ears.
Being the Warlord’s Bard felt more like trouble than it was worth.
Blainor’s order to be leashed to an escort meant having an unwanted witness to her every move, and any idiot would see through her questions about a family with a missing daughter.
Fear clutched her heart. What if she’d arrived too late? Two decades was a long time.
Fjorten chuckled. “Don’t look so crestfallen. I’ll show you the barracks tomorrow and make the introductions. Wouldn’t dare keep you away from Dapple.”
“You?”
He pretended to be offended. “I am the Shield Master.”
She snorted, smoothing her vest. Thank the nameless gods that Aine hadn’t pulled the laces too tight. “And you’ll tell the Warlord, I assume?”
Upon a shake of his head, Fjorten’s gaze turned distant. “I’m in charge of every shield and soldier. Let me see who you choose, for my comfort.”
“So I’m not just some bard, even if you never call me by name.”
Fjorten stroked his beard. There was an expression in his eyes she couldn’t decipher, something close to guilt.
“Nothing to do with it. I know your name, just choose not to speak it.” She opened her mouth, but he cut over, “Come find me tomorrow morning at the barracks.” A slight nod to one of the guards in the shadows before his attention returned to her.
“You like your morning rides, don’t you? ”
“Usually.” Trisha wasn’t sure how to feel about her routines being clocked by Blainor’s men. “Won’t it interfere with your… scheduling?”
“I’ve enough shields to fill in for a few hours’ absence.” He waved her apology aside, attention moving somewhere over her shoulder. “Best I find Senneth before he finds me.”
Fjorten’s left her side, boots thumping against the wooden floor, fading as he walked into the swallowing crowd.
Trisha traced the carved morrowflowers on her lyre. The magic’s warm glow was a persistent itch, like water boiling under a lid, but Senneth had told her to wait for a signal from Blainor.
Across the age-darkened floorboards, servants carried roasted swan to their lord’s table, already laden with dishes of fish and vegetables, cheeses, and breads.
Although based on the harried expression on the cupbearer’s face, the guests seemed more thirsty than hungry.
The men emptied their goblets at an ever-increasing pace.
Annath’s crew’s rambunctious voices boomed in the hall.
No wonder, then. All these weeks, she’d never seen Blainor as tense as now beside the Wolfbach chief.
The streaks on Annath’s hair glistened almost the same color as his cloak.
A sour expression marred his face, the man’s posture radiating tension.
The voices grew louder. Each passing moment, her magic burned brighter, winding Trisha’s nerves tighter. Did he even want her to play? Blainor turned his head toward where she stood. He nodded. She almost scoffed. Was that a signal?
Trisha told herself to breathe; she had her lyre and her magic, yet words failed to pacify the churning storm within.
The Warlord’s Bard was expected to know the sagas.
She doubted Annath Wolfbach would pick a song such as Ergoth and His Five.
Not if he wanted to test her. And he would, if she could trust Bran Jovell’s words from Graystein.
Pressing the lyre to her chest, Trisha lifted her chin and walked across the floor—not in her usual spot by the hearth, but before the table.
She bowed. “Warlord.”
Annath pulled his lips back, ready to speak, but his adjutant leaned into his chair with a smug expression.
“Bard an Tilia, meet Chief Wolfbach and his… nephew.” Blainor's voice was cool and stern. “To honor the bonds between Dewingars and Wolbachs, the right to the first song belongs to my guests.” He turned toward Annath, whose face hardened. “What's your request for my bard, Chief Wolfbach?”
Annath swiveled round his chair, face twisted into an ugly sneer. The dead wolf stared straight into Trisha’s eyes.
“The rumors were true. Ye chose an outsider to replace Lynjef?”
Trisha’s mouth clamped tight. She’d challenged Orin, and what had it brought?
“I did. Chief Lichtal agreed,” Blainor said, bringing the cup to his mouth. “Feel free to ask him at Summer Solstice.”
Annath’s pale eyes were as cold as his voice. “She’s frail. Won’t last past winter, m’lord.” An edgewise glance toward Blainor. “Ye seem to like collecting tokens from the south.”
Blainor didn’t skip a beat. “Indeed?” His word dropped like an icicle.
The servant pouring Kaiden’s drink froze, mead spilling over the rim.
Annath scoffed, stroking his gray-streaked beard. “Yer serious, then? Could have any Eichlandtian as yer minstrel, yet ye choose her.” He reached toward his goblet. “Didn’t take ye this soft.”
“My patience is running thin, Annath. Choose your song, or I choose for you.”
The other man shrugged, but a slight tension around his mouth revealed him. He leaned to his side. A few low-spoken words, his nephew nodding and whispering something back.
“Very well, m’lord,” Annath said, straightening. “Let yer bard show us her skills. I want her to sing Lament at the Vinthorn Pass.”
“How… traditional.” Blainor's voice was cold.
“That’s my choice,” Annath snapped. There was a gleeful glow in his eyes as he turned to Trisha. “Play it, southerner. If ye can.”
Trisha’s throat went tight, but she masked it well. She bowed. “As you wish, Chief Wolfbach.”
The Warlord’s hands rested flat on the table, pale ridge of scars running across his knuckles.
Did he organize these situations intentionally to test her?
And why? A moment of doubt. Each chord from her lyre, every single note he heard…
What did he expect to find in her songs?
Had he found it already, or was he still listening for it?
No matter. She wouldn’t dare let this brute of a man humiliate her.
A few steps backward, Trisha’s fingers slid for a better hold on the lyre’s arms. Beneath her skin, her magic swayed. Restless. Eager. And most of all, ready.
At the trace of its honeysuckle, her teeth set. Too late to regret. She plucked the first chord and let go.
Her magic, this eager beast, folded itself into her notes and carried them across the room. The strings spun of moonlight, and rays of the nameless gods hummed, the lyre vibrating in her hands. She summoned all her power, her control firm.
She wouldn’t make the same mistake as in Graystein.
Before her, Annath’s eyes turned glossy, grip loosening. The goblet clanked as it fell on the table. His second-in-command sat frozen, and the servants entirely paused. Even the air itself seemed to go still.
They were hers. To warp their perception. To suck them into her music. To command them however she wished. They’d never remember.
Then, that familiar wall. That damn wall. The echo of her chords reverberated in the air, bouncing back. Trisha’s lyre trembled in her rigid hands. Of course. It would be too much to ask if Blainor Dewingar succumbed to her songs even once.
He sat, back straight, proud. A single tap against the table, but no other movement. It was only her, her music, and him. The rest of the room remained frozen, locked in their places.
She lifted her face to meet him.
Watch me. See me.
A flicker of emotion. Fear? Hunger? Perhaps both. Her magic soared, sweeping away any thoughts of the man and leaving behind only her song.
She stitched her notes together like a seamstress, building them on the fragments of memories she’d gleaned: A jagged mountain range, the sharp peaks white.
Haggard-faced soldiers, bloodied, dwindling as their enemy prowled closer.
Silent and deadly like the mounting snow.
More ancient than the bones of this world.
When the final note faded, she remained standing. The magic purred, sated, withdrawing beneath her skin. Only a low simmer as it pulsed in her veins.
A moment passed. Another.
Annath, cloaked in his wolf cloak, blinked into awareness. His adjutant and others shifted in their seats. A cupbearer resumed pouring more ale.
“Well played, my bard,” Blainor said, chin tilted low. His gaze cut like a blade.
Annath’s jaw locked. Red anger ghosted his cheekbones, though he didn’t say a word.
The dead wolf watched on, listless-eyed.