Chapter 14 #2
Her body betrayed her, heat pooling low, but she forced her spine to stiffen. Trisha hugged her lyre tighter. “Do all warlords have delusions of grandeur, or is it only you?”
“Such fire in your belly. Be careful not to let it scorch you to ash.” He budged a fraction, that masculine trace of wild forests and tobacco making her head spin. “Although you’d make a lovely pyre.”
“And that is what you want? To make me burn?” She wanted to bite off her tongue the moment this question left her.
“Have you not learned already how dangerous a question that is to a man?”
Every fiber screamed at her to pull back, but she forced her chin up. “Which one, my lord? That I should burn, or that it should be you to set the flames?”
A quick breath, his smile wavering. When it bloomed again, he leaned closer, voice dropping lower than low, deeper than deepest. “Are you inviting me to show you?”
The logs in the hearth snapped, and the stink of burning resin pervaded the air.
A shiver ran through her. Trisha’s every nerve tingled.
And still, she wouldn’t move, wouldn’t allow herself to sink into the temptation.
She knew better than to do that, pulling back.
“Burning at your hands sounds very painful. I think I’d better pass. ”
“These old things?” He lifted his palms. “The fire they kindle usually isn’t one of pain.” His smile turned even more crooked. “Unless pain is something asked for. Have I mentioned I have deft hands?”
Heat crept up her neck, his smile deepening. It only stoked her fury. She didn’t want this heat, not those eyes, and definitely didn’t want his hands near her skin, touching, teasing, rugged and warm—
No! Stop it!
Trisha cleared her throat clumsily. “Why are you doing this?” Are you torturing me on purpose?” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you enjoy seeing me squirm, or are you just wanting to hear your own voice?”
Blainor’s smile faded. He tilted his head. When he spoke, all teasing was gone from his voice. “And how exactly do I make you squirm?”
Suddenly, he stood too close. His musk surrounded her, and all she could focus on was his nearness. She swallowed. No thoughts, no answers, no glib remarks emerged. Damn. Damn. Damn.
His gaze fixed on her, sharp and knowing. The conversation around seemed like a meaningless blur. The only thing that mattered was him before her, seducing her with those storm-filled eyes. She had nowhere to go. No words to hide behind. She couldn’t even push back if she wanted to.
Her magic quivered, its warmth skimming beneath her skin, merging with this unbearable heat that burned through her. As Trisha’s fingers swaddled her lyre, a single accidental sound broke through.
Trisha blinked, gasped, and stepped backward. “I m-must play, my lord.”
The world rushed in: the laughter and conversations, the clink of cutlery against plates, and the snap of wood in the hearth. After a bit, Blainor inclined his head with a faint smile and retreated. “If you insist. But don’t forget, Trisha. I don’t like waiting.”
It was a wonder she could play anything at all. The fire still blazed inside her as the magic cooed with smug satisfaction.
Go to him. Now. Let me burn in your heat.
Trisha pressed her lips together, ignoring its voice.
She didn’t need this betrayal, as if her own power had become a traitor with her body.
And despite it, the warmth lingered, the magic’s throb aching.
But she kept her posture, threading the Fir Hall with the chords of her lyre.
Despite her control, magic coated the song with its sweet desire. She sniffed.
A scent of fresh pine and earth, threaded with a hint of smoke: cedar.
For half a note, her melody slowed under the temptation to indulge, her control fracturing.
Thank the stars, reason called her name.
Growling, she yanked the power back. The cedar notes faded.
A quick look around ensured that no one had noticed. She exhaled in relief.
Her gaze strayed toward the long table. With his uncanny ability to sense her magic, Blainor had likely noticed, of course. Another unwanted shiver trembled through her. He’d be waiting. Again.
If she were smart, she’d avoid him altogether. Each conversation pulled her deeper into Blainor’s orbit. Entanglement with him carried too many risks. She’d once trusted someone with that much power, and had paid its price.
Her fingers danced over the strings, transitioning into another song, and a low-pitched, melancholic tune filled with quiet yearning. Her plucking softened, the lyre’s voice turning ethereal. Trisha’s voice weaved through the melody like a gentle wind.
A few heads turned at her ghostly song. Among them, the narrow face of Orin’s bard—Bran Jovell. He’d been watching her too closely. Trisha wanted to scoff. The attention of another man was exactly what she did not need.
Her voice barely rose above the notes, ebbing and flowing like the tide, carried through the room’s din and hum by her magic.
She kept it under tight control, allowing only a drop—just enough to deepen the timbre of her voice and lace the lyre with an echo-like tremor.
An impossible feat with one instrument alone.
How many voices could she thread? Trisha shook her head, realizing that her helpful beast was eagerly doing precisely that: adding an extra voice to the song.
Not so strong, she reprimanded it, and the second voice weakened, though it didn’t die completely.
While spinning a song of the sea, her mind traveled back to those few stolen moments in her old home and Shi’as’ words.
Tomorrow, she’d go to the town, Havbrun, and seek answers to her past. She glanced at the broad-shouldered figure seated with aging Orin, bulky Gend, and one of the younger chieftains—a dark-haired man she’d learned was Naddod Falkvind.
Her mouth flattened. She was in Eichlandt to find answers, not to fall for a pair of gray eyes, no matter how seductive they were. Yes, Trisha nodded, straightening, and clung to the thought like a shield. She would not stumble again.
After her performance, she remained seated.
The fire warmed her neck as she ran a finger over the imprints of flowers and leaves carved into her lyre’s frame.
The music had soothed her nerves, offering a chance to reconcile with her magic.
It stopped cooing those alluring promises, stopped fighting against her.
Still, she lingered—just a moment. Finally, running short of excuses, she sighed and stood.
A movement from her right, a few steps, and a low-pitched voice. “Bard an Tilia, we meet again.”
Trisha blinked, staring at the drawn face of Bran Jovell. “Minstrel Jovell,” she managed to say at last, instantly wary. “What a surprise.”
Why had he sought her out now? Why at all, even? He’d avoided her in Graystein, scowling whenever their gazes met before Orin Lichtal’s feast had drawn to a close. Their exchange had been brief, but she hadn’t forgotten his blistering disdain.
Satisfaction warmed her insides. She’d proven herself to Blainor’s people. No matter the risk of her song’s bewitchment, it had been her first test, and she’d far surpassed it. Orin’s avoidance spoke loud enough.
Bran dipped into the slightest bow. “Not unpleasant, I hope?”
She resisted the impulse to raise her brow. “Is there something I can do for you, Minstrel Jovell?”
His shoulders stiffened, his eyes flicking briefly toward the long table and Blainor.
He pursed his lips flat before exhaling.
“Nothing more than a bard talking to another one.” Without waiting for Trisha’s response, he guided her away from the fireplace, gesturing to a servant to deliver a drink.
Pressing a pewter cup into her hands, he continued lightly, “With the summer solstice approaching, I thought it wise to discuss what you’ve planned for the festivities.
” He sipped the mead, looking at her over the rim of his cup.
Trisha took a swallow while her mind worked furiously.
The summer solstice. She’d completely ignored it.
Less than a week away, she was sure to be expected to perform then.
Perhaps she should ask Senneth. Or Blainor, who was following them from his place by the table’s end.
When their eyes met, the frown deepened, sending a shiver of unease through her before he abruptly turned away.
“I admit I’ve received very little instruction on what to expect,” she said.
“Oh? I’d be glad to help. I’ve spent quite a few years in Moorhaffen.”
“So I understand,” replied Trisha. “Because of your previous teacher?”
“Bard Lynjef Sostung, yes. But I’ve not missed the celebration since becoming a man. All clan heads will be present.”
Further away, Orin laughed at something Fjorten said. Trisha frowned, taking her time to consider his offer. “I’m assuming you’d expect something in return?”
“Just a chance to share the stage,” he said carelessly, his gaze straying toward the fireplace and the table where her lyre rested. Trisha didn’t fail to notice his straying attention. “Perhaps to learn more about your craft; it certainly seems to have enthralled the Warlord.”
Trisha’s fingers flexed on her cup. She’d rather die than let anyone else go near her lyre and soil its magic. Least of all, Bran, with his long fingers and greedy eyes.
“I’m not one to possess the stage, especially during the longest day of the year,” she said. “I’d be more than glad to share it.”
Bran smiled. “Excellent. Perhaps we can discuss more tomorrow?”
She’d wanted to visit Havbrun. Trisha bit her lip.
“Unless you have something planned already?” he added, as though sensing her irritation.
“Just… thought I’d get more familiar with the town. I’ve had only a few chances to go there since my arrival.”
“I could join?” he offered. “Havbrun’s streets are well known to me. Would you like a guide?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, the refusal ready on her tongue, but then smoothed down the reaction. “That’s very… considerate. I wouldn’t want to take you from your lord’s side.”
“No need to fear. Chief Lichtal is occupied with the Warlord and the other chiefs for the whole day,” Bran said with a sly smile, tone carrying a hint of challenge. “As a matter of fact, I insist.”
She pressed her lips together, eyes narrowing. What was he after? He’d clearly made up his mind. If that was the case, she needed to be clever and mislead him into believing she’d fallen for this… whatever his ploy was. “Thank you, Minstrel Jovell.”
First thing in the morning, she’d slip away without him. Bran Jovell, with his dubious motives, jealousy, and sharp eyes and ears, was the last person she wanted accompanying her as she unearthed the secrets of her past. Well, almost.
Trisha’s gaze strayed to the back of the room. Blainor held his drink in absolute stillness. As their gazes met, his lips reeled back.
She stilled. The tension in his posture spoke volumes, and Trisha wasn’t quite foolish enough to brave his storm waiting to break over her. Before Blainor could summon her to him, she bade goodbye to Bran.
Perhaps it was an escape, and she a coward. Trisha told herself it was only for this time.