Chapter 14
What a fool she’d been, thinking a visit to the Undying Lands would soothe her woes.
Instead, what she’d gained was a picked-at scab never even close to healing.
And even more, Shi’as’ torturing premonition.
The snake’s words kept slithering through her brain, his hissing warnings and taunts straining her nerves.
Until one of us falls, eh? Trisha clenched her hands and forced herself not to think of Shi’as. The serpent reveled in lasting pain, and she knew better than to trust his words. Fidgeting, she waited for Aine to finish tying her dress laces.
She wouldn’t unravel. Never. Not for Blainor. He meant nothing. Just a man with captivating eyes and a smile that made her pulse thump. Others had done so, too. If only she could remember the last one.
“Mistress?” Aine’s words jarred her from her thoughts. “Did something happen during the ride?” From Trisha’s window, she could see the long shadows strewn over the land.
Trisha froze. Had someone seen her vanish into thin air earlier? “No? Why are you asking?”
Aine stepped back. “You said something about falling, mistress.” A thoughtful furrow appeared on her forehead. “Is that why you were late?” Shaking her head, she sighed. “Next time, don’t leave your guard behind.”
Trisha bit down her annoyance. How should she know it had been so late—the sun seemed almost never to set here. There was no avoiding the firing line of questions. “No. I’m not hurt. Who did you say has already arrived?”
Aine puckered her mouth, motioning with her hand. “Turn around. I must get you ready before Master Usmer gets mad at me.”
Trisha couldn’t resist glancing at the cleavage of her tight bodice. A flutter came from somewhere deep within. Her teeth snapped together. Blainor could go to hell.
“You missed Chief Lichtal’s arrival during your… exploration. He also brought his bard.”
“Minstrel Jovell?” Trisha wasn’t sure how she felt about meeting the sour-faced musician.
“Your lack of presence was also commented on when the Warlord welcomed Chief Falkvind and his people.”
“I, um, lost sense of time,” Trisha grumbled, wincing as Aine tightened her vest.
The maid tsk’ed. “Let me get a look, mistress.”
Trisha turned.
Aine adjusted the seams, squinting, and hmphed. “I suppose it’ll do.” Placing her hands on her hips, she nodded. “You might not wear Vis’ pendant, but you look like the Warlord’s Bard.”
Trisha wanted to ask about the pendant, but the maid was already moving toward the door. “The Warlord expects to hear you play, Bard an Tilia. Don’t keep him waiting.”
She picked up her lyre. Soft linen and wool whispered against the dark oak boards as she exited at a brisk pace. Servants in their liveries sailed past her, each giving her a respectful nod, a few approaching as though to ask her something. Too distracted, she didn’t stop, just waved her hand.
“The Warlord expects me.”
Gend, too, had mentioned this pendant. What did it mean? She bit her lip, cursing her lack of understanding about Eichlandt’s customs.
Trisha’s steps slowed a touch as the Fir Hall drew nearer.
Low laughs and muffled words grew louder.
The tang of roasted food blended with fresh herbs, her shadow wavering on the stone as she passed lanterns affixed to the stone walls.
At the doorway, she lingered, wiping her clammy hand on her skirt.
She glanced up, and then, her stomach dropped.
Blainor stood across the floor, his tall shape visible among the sea of people. He waited by the fireplace where she’d play.
Drawing in a breath, Trisha entered. People gave her space, a few of the Dewingar clan members inclining their heads.
She kept her neck straight, unease growing at each step.
The sable wheel of the Blainor’s family crest hung from the ceiling, golden light sparkling on the granite.
Trisha’s quick steps had now slowed to a crawl.
Dark strands curled at the Warlord’s nape, rich embroidery sparking in the collar of his green tunic. His head tilted before he turned around. Trisha hugged her lyre to her chest.
Two other men were in his company: wild-haired Gend Blutmeer and the graying Chief Lichtal. They, too, noticed her. Silent, they watched, Gend with a curious air around his eyes, while tension had sharpened Orin’s face.
“Warlord, Chief Lichtal, and Chief Blutmeer.” She nodded.
“Did you enjoy your ride, Starling?” A hint of disapproval edged Blainor’s question.
She suppressed her wince, feigning nonchalance. “Had I known how much attention you paid to my little forays, I would’ve invited you with me.”
“Indeed?” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “Perhaps you should’ve, although disappearing for more than half a day might raise a few eyebrows.”
“I’m flattered you kept track.”
“I do my best not to disappoint, Starling. Especially when you leave yourself so exposed.” He waved off a servant, turning to the two men. “Chief Lichtal was just commenting on your performance at Graystein.”
Dipping into a bow, she remained aware of Blainor’s presence beside her. The magic pulsed, tingling against her skin. “I hope your travels went well, my lord.”
Orin regarded her warily before returning the bow. “Bard an Tilia, a pleasure to meet again.”
An unbidden image emerged—his glossy eyes, arm reaching toward her. She shoved it aside. “I’m delighted you recall me, Chief Lichtal. I played only one song.”
“Your songs have a tendency to linger, Starling,” Blainor said.
She forced herself to relax her jaw. “Indeed, my lord? I thought they leave you unaffected.”
“Hardly unaffected, my bard.”
Her fingers pressed into her lyre as she fought off the memory of his touch. He made her want dangerous things. “Your high praise warms my heart.”
“Anything else?”
Impossible man. She turned back toward Gend and Orin with a smile. “My lords, as I’m due to start my performance soon, do you have any requests? I’d be thrilled to play something for you.”
“Thrilled, now?” Blainor interjected.
She ground her teeth and kept her eyes fixed on the gray-bearded face of Orin and the bear-like Gend. “My apologies on behalf of the Warlord. I’d be delighted to dedicate a song to you.”
Orin shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “I know better now, but thank you for your offer, Bard an Tilia.”
“Are you not asking for my requests, Trisha? Aren’t you curious to hear what I want?” Blainor asked.
“Oh, I know what to play without asking, my lord,” she said blithely, not even looking at him. “I recall you told me your preference at that inn back at Normark.”
“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind since then? The forbidden has never worked for me, if you must know.”
She loathed her inability to fight off the allure of being seen.
Trisha drew a deep breath. She couldn’t trust him.
The echo of Gend’s words about the pendant rang in her mind, and how everyone had quieted when the Blutmeer chief mentioned Everfrost. She turned toward the wild-haired northern chief.
“Chief Blutmeer, despite being new to the Warlord’s court, I look forward to learning more about Eichlandt and its people. ”
Gend gave her a faint smile. “Bard an Tilia, the pleasure has been all mine. I look forward to welcoming you to my halls one day.”
“I hope your meeting with the Warlord has been fruitful? You sounded concerned when you brought up the glaciers north of Eichlandt. Everfrost, I believe?” She couldn’t prevent herself, glancing at the man by her side.
Concern dimmed Gend’s gaze. Frost-bitten scars freckled over the sun and salt-hardened skin. “I pray for Great Father that I’m wrong. The Warlord knows—”
“Are you planning to compose a song today, Trisha an Tilia?” Blainor interrupted. “If so, I assure you Eichlandt holds other stories in addition to the glaciers of Everfrost.”
She stood taller. “Perhaps the Warlord should trust in his bard’s competence. Everfrost sounds like a great motif for a fierce ballad.” Turning toward Gend, she asked, “Or what do you think, Chief Blutmeer?”
Gend’s mouth opened and closed, his attention ricocheting between Trisha and Blainor.
“I trust in the Warlord’s choice. Whatever you choose, you’ll hear no complaints.
” He inclined his head to Blainor. “Perhaps I should follow the Warlord’s lead and pick a bard from the south the next time I go there. ”
“I recommend asking. That usually goes over better elsewhere,” Trisha muttered.
“Starling, it was persuasion, not a kidnapping. Besides, I’m sure you don’t need a reminder. You’ll know when I’ve abducted you.”
Despite herself, Trisha’s breath hitched. Damn him.
“If you excuse me, Bard an Tilia. Warlord,” Orin said, slapping a hand on Gend’s shoulder. “Let’s find Naddod. It’s been months since we last saw him.”
Gend scoffed. “Listen to him brag, you mean?” But he soon followed the elder chief with a curt nod to Blainor and Trisha.
As the two men’s backs shrank, a sinking feeling settled in her stomach.
It was just them now. Alone. Had Blainor orchestrated this?
It seemed nearly impossible how quickly and naturally it happened.
Never mind, she’d find another opportunity to engage with the Blutmeer chief.
Or ask about Orin’s maps. Trisha opted to stare into the fire before she directed her tongue at the Warlord.
“Must make you feel powerful, having the ability to drive your chieftains away without even a word.”
“Were you hoping to avoid me, Starling? What secrets are you hiding this time?”
She glared at him. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“Oh, those are exactly the ones someone should hear.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came. The hum of conversations filled the air, and the fireplace blazed too hot. She needed cold air, fresh wind—anything to separate her from Blainor’s questions and sharp eyes.
He turned to her. “Am I getting too close, Trisha?”