Chapter 16 #2
They played through the sunshine, with the servants bringing food, mead, and beer, the warm golden light moving unseen across the sky.
From the open windows, the smells of hay and burning fires carried inside.
Asa’s sharp-chinned smile stretched wide.
Her fox-eyes winked at Blainor’s shields, while Eldric’s demure flute-playing skirted excess flirtation.
Gareth, fatherly and steady, cranked the hurdy-gurdy, anchoring their wildness before it could go overboard.
Bran, with his deft lute, strayed outside of their agreed set, but Trisha couldn’t fault him.
He loved Moorhafen: its dark gray granite, its past, what he’d lost. His adoration bled through every note and every strum.
Trisha’s attention remained on her lyre and the lyrics of their song.
She didn’t look at the Warlord, but she couldn’t forget him, nor his silence and what it held within.
When the pause came, they all breathed out in relief, exhausted and exhilarated.
“Your first Midsummer. What do you think?” asked Asa with a sly wink. “Plans for the bonfire?”
Trisha’s spine straightened. “Plans?”
“The best part of the day,” Asa declared, snatching a chicken leg from the tray of a passing servant. “We burn to call forth the sun,” she said after a swallow. “But my favorite is to burn for other things. There’s plenty by the shore. Memories, old loves. New playthings.”
Trisha opened her mouth, trying to catch Asa’s unspooling thread. “I—”
“Asa! Your mind’s more rotten than a bog’s breath,” Bran huffed as he turned toward the fiddler, clenching his lute. “Shouldn’t surprise me you haven’t changed a bit.”
“And you’re still a man too stiff to realize there’s a birch stuck in your ass.”
Deciding it would be better to avoid whatever had happened in their past, Trisha gripped her lyre more firmly. “Actually, I’m unsure what to expect from the bonfire.” Her gaze alternated between Asa and Bran. “Seems it’s more than just burning some driftwood.”
“It’s rather fun,” Eldric said behind Asa’s shoulders. He smiled. “Don’t let these two convince you otherwise. Music, dancing. Drinks. That sort of thing.”
“Not to forget the main reason. The pyre,” Gareth added. He brushed a hand over his instrument and leaned in his chair, nodding at Trisha. “You should come, just for the experience.”
All this conversation about fire served only to remind Trisha of her last entanglements with Blainor. Unable to resist the impulse, she glanced toward the long table where the clan chiefs sat. Her heart jolted as she met Blainor’s eyes. Leaning back in his seat, he raised an eyebrow.
Trisha spun around, blinking rapidly. “B-Bonfire sounds lovely.”
“Prepare to burn your past to ash,” cheered Asa. “Perfect night for it.”
“After our next set, that is,” Bran said pointedly.
Asa rolled her eyes. “Killjoy.” But she didn’t object, finding her spot and lifting the fiddle back to her chin.
The next section was at Bran’s insistence: a chance for each individual player to take the stage. It allowed a moment of respite after hours of playing, but Trisha recognized Bran’s true intent. He hadn’t given up his hope of reclaiming his old teacher’s position as the Warlord’s Bard.
He could have it for all she cared. Neither she nor her magic minded who listened to her song: a royal court or a group of commoners.
Trisha slumped back in annoyance as she resisted the need to turn.
The silent wall that was Blainor’s presence stood there, at the periphery of her mind, immune to the temptations she wove into the melody.
She straightened and propped the lyre against her knee, then switched it to the other side.
Asa’s violin crooned a lively folk song in duple time, Trisha’s feet drumming at its tempo.
Considering her own piece, she tested her control over the power pulsing in her bones.
It swelled, as though sensing her intent.
Yes, purred her inner beast, reaching out its tendrils. Let me fly.
Trisha’s turn came after Bran’s complex ballad. She took the spot, testing the audience. A slight smile when she recognized dare in Bran’s gaze. The bloody war song had left the audience in a state.
Running her fingers over the strings, Trisha released a crystalline sound, a drop of rain over ice.
A deep breath. Another pluck. Faster and faster, her hands moved, the music cascaded, growing stronger.
Magic bolstering her song, like deep wells in the ground feeding into a river, it streamed through the smoky air, an echo of something new about to be born.
A hush fell in the hall. The thick smoke thinned, a fresh breath replacing the heavy odors: yeast and honey, the charred meat, and the sharp tang of sweat.
Trisha’s concentration was on the song, the honeysuckle scent of her magic wrapping her in its cloak.
It reveled in her music, in the sound of her lyre.
It was the song the hatchlings sang when they broke through their shells.
The same tune fawns hummed when pushing up onto their legs for the first time.
Trisha sang, loud and clear, in an unbridled joy of witnessing life.
How a baby sucked for the first time, the shyness of a first kiss, and how death brought life and remade the world.
The night might kill the sun, but each morning, it was reborn.
The road was wide, stretching, never-ending.
A secret to be discovered behind every curve.
Her magic danced through the strings, weaving them in its honeydew aroma.
It rejoiced in Trisha’s song. And no man or woman could resist their call.
Hands joined, feet shuffled. Even through her fervor, Trisha sensed movement and heard cheers.
Laughing, couples spun across the open space, following the wild melody she coaxed out of her lyre.
When Trisha’s song drew to an end, Asa was there—jumping up, fiddle ready under her chin as she drew a sweeping note, picking up from where Trisha had left off.
The music lived on. Drawing a deep breath, she rested her wrist and aching fingers.
The song’s lasting heat and zeal burned on her cheeks, the magic thrum heating her skin.
Bran drifted closer, chuckling. “Never thought I’d witness the day Senneth Usmer dances.”
The white-haired seneschal Trisha would have never imagined even knowing the steps to Asa’s branle was moving on the floor, Byne as his partner.
Fjorten’s wife was smiling, scarcely hiding her amusement as she glanced toward her husband.
Fjorten stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest. A stunned frown wavered across his face.
Bran bowed, resignation filling his eyes. “The Warlord chose his bard well.”
“Come now, Minstrel Jovell,” Trisha said. “One should not dwell on such thoughts during Midsummer. It’s a celebration of life and music, is it not?” She nodded toward Asa. “And we have a set to play.”
Bran strummed his lute absentmindedly. “Music, yes.” His words were slow before he gave a rueful smile.
“For once, I wouldn’t mind being the one to dance and not…
not to play.” An embarrassed laugh escaped him, a startled expression softening the angles of his face.
“Yes, you’re right, Bard an Tilia. We’re here to play. ”
Whirling around, he lifted his lute and joined the other minstrels.
Trisha’s mouth curving slightly, she continued to play.
The notes echoed, but she kept her inner power leashed tightly.
If it had succeeded in luring even Bran to feel its pull, perhaps it was better to keep her guard up.
Her teeth clenched as she fought to contain the heat of her magic.
It surged against her will, but Trisha’s control held.
Only the tiniest trickle wove into their notes.
No matter Bran’s sudden compliment, his ego clashed with the group, and furthermore, they had not played together until four days ago.
A little lie to bind their notes, but in this case, a justified one.
The music swelled. Asa’s grin stretched wide as she bowed notes from her fiddle, her eyes shimmering with glee. Eldric returned the trill with his flute.
After Midsummer, they would collect their belongings and leave, free to follow the road.
First, to Sturmhjort, then the north toward Halsdal.
Trisha ached to join them and discover the place of her vision: the white stones beyond tall reeds, and the blurry outlines of the house she knew in her bones must have been her home.
But no. She blew a strand of hair before her eyes. Instead, she was to stay and play for the Warlord and his chiefs.
While running her fingers over the strings, Trisha entertained herself with how to confront Blainor.
Would she toss this title at his feet? Tell him she’d had enough?
Yes. She’d shatter that insufferable calm and make him show something real.
She was here to play, not to think about Blainor and his damned secrets.
Buyoed by her defiance, she faced the chief’s table; her eyebrows shot up upon realizing the table was abandoned, the clan chiefs out on the floor.
A pretty woman from Byne’s circle spun in Gend Blutmeer’s arms, the chief’s wild curls bouncing about his head.
Even Orin, with his frost-faced wife, danced like there was no tomorrow.
Really, not many sat anymore—Annath Wolfbach did, carrying his injury from the knife fight with a vicious frown over his face.
But it wasn’t Annath that captured Trisha’s entire attention. Blainor’s gaze met hers. His head tilted, smile begging a challenge. The man hadn’t moved, showing no indication that he’d even desired to join the dancers.