Chapter 15
Sun crested over the gray walls, small gray birds chirping and flitting across the courtyard. A distant clang of metal echoed as Blainor’s shields went through their morning routines.
Trisha winced. Once again, she was sneaking out without her shield, Reike. She glared at the tall reed swaying next to the stable’s weathered stone before sighing.
It wasn’t its fault that Blainor had been right—thistledrift reed truly did grow everywhere.
Her next clue to finding her parents lay in the stone circles. Trisha’s only true memory: her mother leading her away from this world to another.
Trisha’s shoulders sank. The stretch on the shoreline, the white stones that opened the route to the Undying Lands had been untouched.
Forgotten. Could she trust it and dare ask about the fae?
Or would the people here also hurl a curse at her, spit at her boots, no matter that she was the Warlord’s Bard…
Her mouth went dry. If Blainor were to learn, it would be as good as admitting the truth. He could never learn about her past and what her magic could truly do.
Next to her, Dapple pawed at the dirt, ears flat.
Chuckling, she patted his neck. “Skipping breakfast once won’t hurt, you know?”
The horse snorted, informing her what he thought about her suggestion.
As she set the stirrup in place, a man’s voice broke through the clang of iron: “Bard an Tilia, I’m pleased to see you’re an early bird, too!”
Trisha’s teeth set. Unbelievable. She turned. “Good morning, Minstrel Jovell.”
Bran strode across the gravel, fastening the belt over his half-unbuttoned tunic. He stopped before her, smiling as though not realizing she tried to sneak into town without him. “Did we not agree to take the road to Havbrun together?”
Curse the nameless gods.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Nonsense,” he said firmly. After a sharp order over her shoulders to prepare his horse, he continued with an amiable voice, “We musicians must stick together, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” she muttered, sliding a hand over Dapple’s coat. Every minute wasted risked Reike finding out. The shield seemed perceptive, and Trisha had no doubts that the soldier was required to report everything back to Blainor. At least she knew how to fool this obnoxious bard.
Dapple blew warm air against her head, thoughts accusatory. Don’t forget, I left my oats for your hurry.
“You’re not the only one annoyed,” she said under her breath. “Hush now, Dapple.”
A heartbeat of temptation, to mount him and ride away, but it would be a slap in Bran Jovell’s face.
Trisha already pushed her limits, sneaking away without Reike.
Who knew what other northern traditions she might offend if she slighted Orin Lichtal’s bard?
No, she’d be better off keeping her composure.
Having fastened the collar of his dark green tunic, Bran was now smoothing his wavy brown hair behind his ears.
“Must be nice to be back in Moorhafen,” Trisha said, voice light. “It was your home for a while, wasn’t it?
An annoyed twitch in the corner of his eyes, twinkling with disdain. “It does bring up memories. Not all pleasant, of course. My old master was… much loved.”
A stablehand brought him a sorrel horse. Then, he faced Trisha. “Shall we, Bard an Tilia?”
With a long-drawn exhale, she climbed into the saddle and guided Dapple down the road. If Blainor asked later, she wouldn’t be lying now; she really hadn’t ridden alone.
The early light coated the landscape in syrupy hues.
Butterflies danced among wildflowers, their fragrance crowding her nose, and a cloud of mosquitoes hummed in the air.
Trisha stole a glance at her unwanted traveling companion.
Tall and wiry, even with his gaunt, bony features, Bran held a certain kind of charm for some.
There was still a while to go until they hit town, so Trisha supposed she’d better break the ice to win back any ill feelings he may still have from catching her trying to go it alone.
“Can you tell me more about Bard Sostung?” Trisha asked over the soft rhythm of clopping hooves. “He was your teacher, wasn’t he, the Warlord’s previous bard?”
A lark trilled above, diving over the tall grass. Bran’s gaze followed as it vanished behind the western hills where the sea rumbled. Where the Opening waited. “Lynjef… Yes. He passed away seven years ago.” His jaw was tense, as though he was holding back an old pain.
“He couldn’t have been the Warlord’s Bard for long,” Trisha mused.
“Holden granted him with Vis’ sigil.”
“Vis?” Hadn’t Aine said his name just last night?
The man shook his head. With a sideways glance, he explained as though to a child, “The First Bard to whom Ergoth gave his sign.”
Trisha’s eyes narrowed. Gend, too, had mentioned a pendant, but Blainor hadn’t given any sigils—not in Normark, not in Graystein. Nothing to indicate the title meant more. She shifted in the saddle. If it really came to it, he wouldn’t stand in her way, would he?
Another thought snagged her attention. She turned. “Holden—the Warlord’s father?”
Bran smiled. “Holden the Furious. First to unite the clans in a century.”
A cloud passed the sun, wind tugging at her cloak. Again, Holden. Blainor’s father was like a perpetual shadow.
“Is…” She cursed her curiosity, but it was too late to hold it back. “Is the Warlord like his father?”
Bran kept his eyes on the road, his mare flicking away the buzz of flies with its tail. “Holden Dewingar cursed the day his son won his title,” he said curtly. “A word of warning, Bard an Tilia. You don’t want to bring his name up to the Warlord.”
She fell silent, fighting against unease.
Once again, she found a wall standing in her way as she tried to pry into Blainor’s past. What sorrows did it hide?
Grinding her teeth, she reminded herself that she wasn’t interested.
Not in his offer to wait, not to find out if his word to send her into flames held true.
It was almost a relief when the drone of activity and life grew louder.
A tang of smoke curled after the hammering of steel, the stench of dung and sweat replacing flower pollen.
They rode into the waking town. Men and women strode down the streets, carrying baskets, hauling carts.
A cadaver of a strange game hung on a hook near the butcher’s nook.
Her eyes lingered on the shape, almost like a pig and not quite.
“What’s that?” Trisha pointed at the dead animal.
“Warghog,” Bran said. “Creature of the moors, rarely eaten.” A quick turn of his mouth suggested amusement. “Expect it on Midsummer. Its meat is said to carry the land’s strength and its… vitality.”
She nodded slowly. “I’m starting to think the Midsummer Feast’s something of a revel?”
“You could say that. People tend to get carried away. Many bear the birthdate nine months hence.”
Trisha puckered her mouth, desperately trying not to let her thoughts wander to a familiar pair of gray eyes.
Bran continued, “So, what are you interested in learning about Havbrun? The shrine?” He nodded toward the town’s center. “Not really anything interesting: old bones and stone. The coppice by the moor, tended by Karring Katla, is much more interesting.”
“Karring, who?”
“Katla. She’s ours,” Bran said, wrinkling his pointed nose. “A… witch, I’d guess you southerners would say.”
“A witch?” she repeated, instantly wary. This Katla would surely sense the magic in her notes.
“Keeper of the lore and speaker for the ancestor,” Bran said. “An ancient hag. You’ll see her at Midsummer, too. She serves summer mead to the chieftains.”
Another option she hadn’t known about; this Karring might be able to help her find her parents. After a brief lull, Trisha asked, “She serves the Warlord?”
“She serves no one.” Bran chortled out a dry laugh.
“The Karring has blessed the Warlord’s rule.
” Something reverent crept into his voice, and what sounded unmistakably close to fear, too.
“Not even his father received the ancestor’s blessing.
” Bran’s narrow face turned, his voice becoming hoarse. “She speaks to the dead.”
Trisha bit down on further questions. If the witch attended the Midsummer Feast, would she recognize the sweet scent of her magic? Realize its origins? “You must have played many times here in Midsummer?” she asked.
“A few times. My offer stands, Bard an Tilia. I’d be delighted to teach you the Midsummer songs.” A flash of a smile, too pointed for genuine.
“You’re most generous, Minstrel Jovell. Thank you. I wouldn’t want to offend the people with my ignorance. If the Warlord named me as his bard, I should ask his permission, surely?” Eyes wide, she hid her smile as a frown darkened Bran’s brows.
“People expect the Warlord’s Bard to invite other players.” He paused, adding, “Midsummer brings the clans together. They come to hear the stories to take back their homes.”
Her lips pressed tightly as she pondered the conundrum Bran had presented. How conveniently Blainor’s seneschal had forgotten to share this little information with her when she’d asked about the Midsummer Feast. “Players across Eichlandt?”
Bran nodded in response, a smug smile curving his mouth.
What an obnoxious man. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of veering Dapple closer, just enough to give him a push and see his long-nosed face land in the mud.
The image cheered her a bit, but not enough to banish the looming clouds of Midsummer from her mind.
Biting her lower lip, Trisha made up her mind.
“In this case, I should learn local tunes,” she said, at last. “The town must have a place for that.”
Creases formed on Bran’s forehead before smoothing away. “The market square. That’s where the minstrels gather. I’ll show the way.”
Even before they reached the place Bran led her, Trisha heard the brisk sound of a fiddle, the low buzz of a hurdy-gurdy, and the trill of a flute flowing through the air. A thrill jolted through her.