Chapter 11
Annath survived. Trisha didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried when Fjorten shared the news with her during the intermission.
“Takes more than a knife wound to get rid of that bastard.” Fjorten scratched his neck. “Pity, really.”
Trisha’s brows knitted together. “But wouldn’t killing him… bring down his clan’s fury?”
The glow of the setting sun radiated over the stone floor and pillars, the laden trays of roasted game and whole birds suffusing the smoke-infused air.
Beneath the Dewingar banner and wrought-iron candelabras sat Blainor with Gend at the high table.
The wild-maned Chief Blutmeer had his head close to the Warlord.
They must be talking about Everfrost. Or whatever it was that Blainor had brought from the south.
If she drifted closer, she might be able to catch a word…
Fjorten’s dry laugh broke her ruminations. “Annath’s son is of age. Bet he’s ready to ride the men on his father’s behalf.”
“Can’t but notice that Hjorsen’s not here,” Kaiden muttered. “Instead, Annath dragged Ernaut with him again. What a spiteful man.”
“Aye,” Fjorten agreed, frowning. “He won’t make a good chief.”
“But the scar suits him,” Kaiden said. “A pity Stammek didn’t take his eye.”
Chuckling, Fjorten gestured to a nearby servant. “She may have a chance yet. Ernaut strikes me as a man who doesn’t forget humiliation.”
She couldn’t hold her curiosity. “What did Annath mean at the Assembly Hall when the Warlord cut him off?”
Fjorten set his empty cup on the tray. With a glance toward Kaiden, he turned and smiled. “Past grievances.”
“That, I understood. But of what?” She wasn’t interested in Blainor’s past. No. She was only asking to understand the land he ruled and what he hid from her. “What’s so special about snow in some mountain? What’s actually in Everfrost?”
“Bad things, that’s what. Best for all if they remain buried there.”
There was gravity in Fjorten’s voice. Trisha turned to face the high table, where the Warlord sat with his court and Gend’s retinue. “Bad enough to kill?”
After a pause, Fjorten blew air out his nose. “One way of putting it.”
Trisha acknowledged his cryptic response with a tilt of her head. The vestiges of light glinted on her lyre that waited by the fireplace. Ever since the meeting with the chiefs, she’d felt unbalanced. Restless. Not even music helped.
“I guess it’s time to prove myself as a Warlord’s Bard, again,” she muttered. “And no, Kaiden, I’m not planning on ballads, you’ll be happy to hear. But maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll play a march for you to draw your swords and run into the night.”
The men chuckled, and Trisha smiled faintly.
That smile fell as she approached her seat.
A march was the last thing she wished to play.
Despite her attempts, she couldn’t forget how the steel had sparked earlier this afternoon, the way fear had squeezed her heart when Annath had sliced the air aiming to kill.
Trisha lifted the instrument onto her lap, fingertips tracing the razor-thin strings.
Fjorten’s caged responses had only served to stoke her curiosity. Had Blainor lost someone to Everfrost? She blew an annoyed breath. If she were to stay in his court longer, she’d need to know what kind of beasts hid beyond the northern mountains, amidst the ice of Everfrost.
Twilight settled, and the candles burned low as the long northern day exhaled its final light.
Across the darkened floor, Fjorten and Kaiden took their seats by the Warlord’s table. Byne too sat there, nodding at Annath’s second-in-command, who was scowling at the Blutmeer chief over her shoulder.
She wrapped her hands around the lyre on her lap as she wondered what they spoke about. Her fingers twitched, letting an errant note slip free. It rustled her magic, a balmy rush rising from her chest. A deep sigh left her. Not tonight.
Of course, her magic ignored her. Exerting itself against her mind, it cooed like a petulant child. Let me loose.
Before she could stomp it out this time, the strings of her lyre vibrated, glinting with a blue-tinted glow. And just like that, the magic slipped free. How easily it happened when she didn’t try so hard. The power enveloped her, tempting her to sink into its warm embrace.
But she resisted its call and struck a chord. A jarring sound, like an eroded string, set her teeth on edge. Sharp, almost vicious, it brought back that memory from the Assembly Hall, the hair-curling tang of blood’s copper, the hollow look on Blainor’s face.
Trisha plucked at the strings again. Gentler now, the promptings of potential coursing through her veins, a sweet scent of honeysuckle growing stronger. As she closed her eyes and exhaled, tension lifted from her shoulders.
The song poured out, clear as a river. A small smile lifted her lips. She knew this piece. Her composition of the river and the linden trees, a memory she’d crafted while crossing the world to the south and back.
Blainor leaned back in his chair, head just off-kilter.
He seemed no worse for wear after the confrontation with Annath, dressed in a woolen brocade embroidered in gold, a fur-trimmed cloak thrown over his shoulders.
Dark curls dangled on his forehead like traps to ensnare, shadows accentuating the defined lines of his face.
The fragrant magic diffused through the thin eddies of smoke, an irresistible seduction beckoning her to follow.
It whispered, Calm, calm.
Trisha obeyed, the strings of her lyre speaking for her. Pure and ethereal, the music echoed off the room’s walls. She faced the Warlord, yet her mind remained with the notes trickling from her lyre.
The song altered almost on its own, shadows deepening—its honeysuckle gaining a new complexity. Trisha’s heart stuttered when she recognized it. Linden flowers, flooding her nose. Her smile widened, lost in the memory. Tilia. Her fingers followed the tug of her magic, redirecting the melody.
A pulse of energy wavered across the air.
Surprised voices, people backing away and pointing.
Trisha’s breath caught. Before her, growing from darkened boards, a tree sprouted, its boughs stretching toward the ceiling. Its trunk thickened, lush canopy strewn over the spacious hall.
A young man in bright colors gestured at his friends, reaching up. His face was full of wonder as he turned, presenting them with a branch he’d snapped apart.
Trisha couldn’t stop. She plucked at the strings, the tree growing. It grew and grew until it crested taller than the room, passing the dark support beams, through the vaulted stone ceiling. The fragrance of linden flowers thickened, their sweet aroma dizzying.
And that dark hollow in the tree’s trunk, waiting. A pang of sorrow went through her. She’d slept in it as a child.
The song continued, pulling Trisha deeper into its folds.
The realization was mild, distant, like watching the world from beneath water.
She was drowning, sinking deeper with every strike of her lyre.
The audience ceased to exist. Their surprised murmurs, their shapes circling the linden tree.
Only her music remained, the images it evoked: fragments of sky, streaking twilight, distant constellations spun into melody.
The candles fizzed, and the unfelt breeze rustled the leaves of an ancient tree.
Beyond the smoke, glimpses of a dark forest, the glow of pulsing fae lights, and indistinct shapes from her childhood.
A movement of shadowy wings, charcoal skin dusted with starlight, and a shrill of innocent laughter like glass bells ringing, ringing.
Grief and yearning both stabbed at her, a reminder of the things she’d left behind. What she had been.
Through the visions of an ancient tree and forest, Blainor’s eyes pierced the haze of her song. His expression was of a man who couldn’t believe what he saw, yet hungered for more.
The song reached its crescendo at a piercing, nostalgic chord. Trisha’s breath quivered. The thought brought an image: a field of reeds, stone circles in the distance, and Trisha’s mother’s skirt flapping as she dragged her onward.
It struck through the magic’s pull, shattering the spell she’d unwittingly cast on herself.
The smoky air, laced with smells of scorched fish and meat, itched at her nostrils as the world rushed in to remind her she’d never left.
Trisha’s finger faltered, music fading. The fragrance of linden flowers waned.
She almost dropped her lyre, strength fleeing her.
So much. How brightly her magic had burned. How close she’d come to tearing apart the veil separating her two homes.
Muffled protests, people spinning around in haste.
The stone floor was unbroken, the fae forest and linden tree gone.
On the raised table, the Warlord and his close circle remained unmoved.
Fjorten, face in a puzzled crunch, gave Trisha a suspicious but worried glance.
Next to him, Kaiden stared into his cup as though blaming its content, while Gend, half-standing, looked around with his mouth ajar.
Then the people froze as they all confirmed their suspicions with one another.
A hush descended, a shuffle of soles, as the people gazed at their Warlord for guidance on how they should react.
Blainor sat like a too-tightly wounded spring.
Slowly, his shoulders slackened, tension melting away. He leaned back and arched a brow.
A heartbeat of hesitation before Trisha’s jaw tightened.
Like a pool of sunlight, warmth gathered in her chest. She had to think quickly.
Trisha ran her fingers over the strings, the lyre pliant under her touch.
At her command, it sang out a pealing sound, and a wave of honeysuckle washed across the hall.
Movement returned, expressions brightened, and lighter conversations resumed. That young man in bright colors lifted his hand, still holding the twig. Frowning, he dropped it. He turned, crushing it under his feet.
She’d fixed it, but nothing was resolved.
Trisha’s heart was still drumming against her rib cage. No matter that she’d countered her stumble, she’d been caught. A heavy weight settled in her stomach as she met a pair of gray eyes across the hall. Dipping his chin, Blainor raised a goblet.
Trisha yanked her gaze away. She dared not look up again. The mellow chime of her lyre reflected off the stone walls as she continued, but she couldn’t ignore it. Blainor had seen everything. The realization burned her throat.
This warlord had witnessed her tearing open that old wound. Trisha had left, but still, the scent of the linden tree ached in her bones. Seven years. Her regret should have dulled by now.
No. She bit her teeth and banished the thought. Blainor be damned. He didn’t own her. She wouldn’t give him the right to twist the guilt inside her like a knife.
Defiance hardening her expression, she continued as though nothing had happened.
Filling the Fir Hall with music, she welcomed the simmer of her righteous anger, pouring her frustration into her songs.
Righteous, deserved anger. No soothing ballads, no marches.
With her jaw set, she plucked brisk jigs, southern dances, and even a few eastern troikas.
Their cheerfulness stoked her resistance, and she drew the last note, ready to face whatever awaited.
A gesture from Blainor beckoned her to join him and others by the high table, and she soon approached.
“Good playing, southerner.” Kaiden shot her a grin, making her space. “Although I’m disappointed you didn’t play that promised march.”
Trisha cleared her throat. “Decided we’d had enough blood and sharp weapons for one day.” She accepted a drink from a servant, painfully aware of the presence of the knowing Warlord’s broad shoulders only a man’s width away. “Might be I’m just not northerner enough.”
“Not yet, you mean,” Blainor corrected, tapping the table.
Lifting the drink to her lips, Trisha pretended not to hear.
Kaiden’s wife, Marleen, smiled. “You’ll meet the rest of the Dewingar clan in the coming days. You’ve already seen Master Arlund and his daughter.” She nodded toward a lower table where the elder man and that dark-haired beauty were seated tonight.
Kaiden snorted. “Sarie? She’s a snake. Ambitious one.”
Marleen chuckled, exchanging knowing glances with Byne. “She and her father both. They won’t appreciate the news once it’s confirmed.”
Trisha’s head tilted. She opened her mouth to ask when the air shifted, and Blainor interrupted her before she got a word out. “Come with me, Trisha. We have matters to discuss.”
Her heart stuttered.
“Or should I… persuade you?”
“I’m doubtful we have anything to talk about, my lord,” she said firmly, turning back to Kaiden and Marleen. “Marleen, do you—”
“No, I think we do,” Blainor cut across, voice grave.
The others went silent, brows lifted. A servants’ steps scraped against the floor; the surrounding murmurs and laughs were too loud. Trisha’s fingers pressed against the smooth pewter cup until she yielded under the weight of his demand.
“Very well, my lord.”
“Good.” Standing, he offered her his hand. “Carry on without us.” Blainor’s gaze moved to Gend, his voice gaining a harder edge. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
A pang of thrilling curiosity, Gend’s lips widened before he lifted his goblet to hide the expression. “Enjoy your… talk, Warlord.”
Trisha followed Blainor out of the Fir Hall, the stares of his people burning her back.