Chapter 15 #2
Low-built houses of stone and wood lined the town square, peppered with wooden stalls with produce and wares.
People—workmen and farmers in rough wool and linen, women carrying wicker baskets—traversed across the worn stones.
Near an open well, a trio of players invited the onlookers to participate.
Despite the early hour, a small group had gathered around them.
Trisha slid off the saddle. She left Dapple untethered, tapping his flank before heading toward the players.
As she wove through bodies to reach the front, her magic’s heat prickled at her fingertips.
Why had she left her lyre at the castle?
She ached to bridge the chords with her starlit-spun strings and join their song.
The violist, a woman of her age with fox-colored hair, leaped while bowing her instrument.
The hurdy-gurdy player, a burly, bearded man, exchanged a wide grin with the flutist, the pace of their song picking up.
Trisha’s foot tapped the ground, magic surging in her blood.
Her eyes met the fiddler’s. A wink. The woman spun around, joining her companions, and started to sing.
O my forefathers’ blood upon the icy fields.
O my foremothers’ wails by the hearth grown cold.
Where did you go when the ghosts from the north came?
Where did you hide when their frost killed your crop…
Another pulse of magic made her skin itch, an almost painful sensation.
She fidgeted, trying to remain inconspicuous.
Bran stood next to her in his green tunic, arms crossed over his chest. If he realized, even suspected…
Her fists tightened against the rising tide of her magic.
Slowly, she forced down its hungry glow and swallowed, the wool of her collar scraping against her neck.
She’d need to play soon to ease the discomfort that suppressing her power brought.
By the nameless gods, she could never let anyone cut her off from her songs.
She’d lose her mind. As Trisha refocused, the violist drew the last notes, her song coming to an end.
A few chords still lingered in Trisha’s ears, a memory of the lyrics fading.
Something about ghosts of winter and death.
Without pausing, the group moved on to another piece.
By the time they finished, a crowd had gathered around them, nodding along to their tune.
A row of applause thundered through the air.
The fiddler then dropped her instrument with a bow.
“Thank you, beautiful people. My friends and I are grateful. And if you’re inclined to make us even more grateful, you can spare us a coin or two,” she said, gesturing to the two men behind her with a growing smirk. “Or better yet, a full crown!”
The trio gathered their wares before moving on, walking through the crowd. The violist approached Trisha and Bran. As the woman neared, her eyes fell on Bran Jovell. Her expression darkening, she suddenly stopped before them.
“Bran,” the woman said with a curt nod.
His response was just as restrained. “Asa. Still crooning the same songs, I hear.”
“You know each other?” Trisha asked, gaze bouncing between the two.
“Some,” Bran said stiffly before relaxing. “Asa, this is Trisha an Tilia, the Warlord’s new bard.”
Surprise widened the violist’s eyes. She glanced at Trisha’s chest for a second too long to be noticeable, then at her bare hands. “Oh? Where’s your instrument?”
“My lyre’s back in my room,” Trisha said with a smile, but she couldn’t forget how Asa too had glanced at her chest as though expecting to find something there. “I didn’t plan on impromptu songs this morning.”
Asa tossed her head back with a cackle. “You have a long way to go, Trisha an Tilia, if you think music allows breaks.” She nodded. “I’m Asa Steindotr. Pleasure.”
Trisha grinned, disarmed by the woman’s openness. “Pleasure. I’ll take your teaching to heart, Asa.” She glanced over Asa’s shoulder at the other players, who had drifted closer. “Will you introduce me to your companions, too?”
“This young charmer is Eldric Thorne,” Asa said, pointing toward the flutist, a young man with light brown hair.
Smiling shyly, he brushed a strand of hair off his forehead.
“And this lumbering beast”—she gestured toward the broad-shouldered hurdy-gurdy player—“is Gareth Witrider of the Sturmhjort.”
“An honor to meet you all.” Trisha bowed.
“Honor, eh?” Asa muttered with a quick look toward Bran. “Is there something you need from us, Bard an Tilia? Bran here knows Havbrun. After all, he spent many years as Ljynfel’s student.” She faced Minstrel Jovell. “How does it feel to be back, Bran?”
“Are you concerned, Asa? I’m touched.”
“Don’t you go unbelting yourself too soon,” she chortled. “I meant her.” Asa’s attention locked onto Trisha. “I heard you’re from the south. Best prepare yourself for Midsummer, you know. The Warlord’s Bard is an old title. You’re the first outsider ever to be named as one.”
Trisha’s eyes narrowed. Honorary title, Blainor had told her then. It seemed he hadn’t been completely upfront in Graystein.
She forced a smile. “The Warlord knows I’m not planning to stay for long.”
The incredulity of the others was palpable, but she ignored it.
She’d come to find the truth about her parents, and nothing could prevent her.
Not a meaningless title, not Blainor’s gray eyes, dark with heat, nor his touch sending her heart thundering.
She could weather the storm. “The Warlord extended his invitation for now,” Trisha said firmly.
The tension in Bran’s shoulders eased, but Asa shook her head. “I don’t know… No one in history has ever given away their title until either their lord or themselves are dead.”
Trisha froze before finding her voice. “Oh, I told the Warlord very clearly I’m not planning to stay. He knows.”
“How very sad to hear,” said Bran.
Trisha glanced at Asa and her fellow musicians, biting down her scoff. “Bran mentioned there’s a tradition for other musicians to play during the Midsummer Feast. If you’re not otherwise engaged, perhaps you’d be willing to join the celebration in Moorhafen?”
Minstrel Jovell scowled.
Asa smiled. Dangling the fiddle against her knee, she cocked her head and glanced at her partners.
“Thank you for the invitation. You won’t hear us refusing. Who wouldn’t want to play within Moorhafen’s halls?” She paused, fixing her with a suspicious look. “Is there something we can offer in return?”
Trisha pretended to consider. “I’m here to learn about stories and songs. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to share.” She thought for a moment, then added, “How about a trade?”
“Stories, eh?” Asa asked before settling against a nearby barrel. “What are you interested in?”
Her fingers flexed against the desire, tension scratching at her throat, but she met the fiddler’s eyes with a mild smile. “I’m working on a composition. For now, I’m collecting information and old stories about captured and abandoned children. Do you know of any?”
Asa wrinkled her nose. “Not immediately. Sounds like a lament or tragic tale.”
“I’m still structuring it,” Trisha replied. “The ending’s not quite decided.”
“Our people don’t abandon children,” said Bran with a sharp tone of reprimand. “Maybe they do in the south, but here, children ensure the future. They’re valued.”
Bitterness flooded Trisha. Valued? A wave of disappointment and anger washed over her. Her parents had not valued her enough? Feared her too much? She lowered her face. “I see. But if you remember anything, let me know. I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Asa said. “Now, all this talk about the Midsummer Feast has made me thirsty. Let’s get something to drink, and we can discuss the plans better, yes?”
Senneth’s pale eyes narrowed when Trisha informed him of the addition of musicians.
“Minstrel Jovell I understand—he’s played here often enough. But three new ones, people we don’t know, haven’t vetted…”
“Oh, Bran knows Asa,” Trisha said with an insincere smile.
The older man leaned back on his heels, frowning in thought. “Minstrel Jovell’s word carries a certain gravitas,” he mused and tapped his sharp chin.
Trisha gritted her teeth. Asa and her friends would counterbalance Bran Jovell’s slick disingenuousness.
She looked forward to practice sessions with them—a chance to have true comrades, someone to joke about music, laugh, learn about their homes.
And whether they knew about stone circles near a field of thistledrift reeds.
And what the title she’d claimed in Graystain truly meant.
“I understand that the celebration lasts for a whole day,” she said with a demure glance at her feet. “Bran told me about the tradition of inviting other players to share their songs.”
“Well, after Ljynfel’s passing…” Senneth’s tone carried a hint of faint assent, his gaze turning unfocused.
“I would appreciate it, to play with local musicians, sir.” The honesty in her words bled through. “They know what tunes people expect to hear, and it would be good for me to practice with them.”
Senneth didn’t respond immediately. “I suppose it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, Bard an Tilia,” he said while tapping his chin. “Although Master Dewingar would need to provide his blessing.”
“Naturally. Will you let me know his decision, then? After you’ve discussed it with the Warlord?”
Perhaps something in her tone alerted Senneth, for his expression sharpened. “You’re not planning to discuss this with him yourself?”
“Oh, well, if you must know…” Trisha fidgeted.
“Asa, Eldric, and Gareth invited me to join them tonight in the town. It’s such an excellent opportunity to start preparing for Midsummer, don’t you agree?
” Senneth’s mouth opened, but before he got a word in, Trisha continued, “As a matter of fact, I already said yes.”
The white-haired seneschal’s posture turned stiff like an iron rod, and his nostrils flared. “Bard an Tilia,” Senneth said in an icy tone. “Am I understanding this right? You’ve decided to play in Havbrun tonight?”
Trisha nodded. “But fear not; I have arranged a replacement player. Bran Jovell has kindly promised to provide entertainment in my stead. As Ljyfel’s previous student, I know he’s missed his chance to play in his old home. Chief Lichtal would be pleased to hear his bard play, I’m sure.”
Just to witness Senneth speechless for a moment was deeply rewarding. At last, the seneschal mastered his shock, but his icy glare was unforgiving. “The Warlord will be displeased.”
“The Warlord should be glad that I’m taking my task as his bard seriously, immersing myself with his people, learning from them,” Trisha said, proud of herself.
“Asa has promised to teach me the most common songs played during Midsummer, and tomorrow, we’ll put together the program for the day.
If we’re given time and place to practice, I should be able to demonstrate the full set in two to three days. ”
Senneth simply stared her up and down, aghast. But Trisha implored him to yield, to penetrate that glacial silence.
“Master Usmer, trust me. I’m a trained bard.” She pushed aside a shimmer of uncertainty that gnawed at her insides. “With the rest of the chieftains arriving, I’m sure you’ll be busy ensuring everything is taken care of.”
Senneth shook his head, expression mirroring the gesture’s disbelief. “Bard an Tilia,” he finally said, unbothered to hide his disapproval. “If this is the kind of behavior you’re used to in those distant southern states, I must state my objection to the Warlord regarding his choice.”
“I’m so sorry for misunderstanding. I thought I was to take care of the entertainment and music for the Midsummer Feast?
Since Moorhafen hasn’t had a permanent minstrel since Bard Lynjef’s death, I didn’t think it would matter that much.
” She let out a performative sigh. “Minstrel Jovell will be so disappointed. I believe he already informed Chief Lichtal of the arrangement.”
Senneth’s jaw tightened, ice sparkling beneath his narrowed gaze. “I’ll let the Warlord know of the situation, Bard an Tilia.”
Trisha gave him her warmest smile, grateful she’d already collected her lyre.
She didn’t wish to be in Moorhafen when Senneth informed Blainor of her little ploy.
He wouldn’t be pleased. Yet, a sliver of reckless thrill tilted her lips, curiosity begging her to stay and witness it.
Blainor might think he had tamed her, confused her mind with his heated gaze, but Trisha knew better.
She would never give herself to a man who gave her only lies.