Chapter 16 #3
Trisha’s eyes narrowed, irritation flaring her nostrils.
Her magic quivered. Again, he’d avoided the impact of her music.
Did he think himself above her song? How she hungered to shatter his calm and make an impact with her melodies.
He heard her music but refused to obey it.
He didn’t move. Didn’t dance. He saw her, and still, he refused to react.
Did he consider her as some trifling songbird?
Her jaw tightened. She’d show him. Crack open that quiet control.
Trisha didn’t stop to think. She let go of her magic, and Asa’s fiddle crooned louder, Bran following with a deft lute thrum. Gareth’s hurdy-gurdy quickened the pace.
Her fingers danced over the lyre as Eldric’s flute whistled high-pitched notes, keeping her pace. The music waxed, resounding in the granite walls. More people ran to the floor, their laughter mingling with music. And still, Blainor sat motionless.
Trisha drenched their song with the cloying sweetness of her magic. A small voice inside her cautioned her against testing Blainor. Hadn’t he warned her at the battlement less than a week ago? But she ignored its muted urges, eyes locked with Blainor’s.
Feet drummed against the oak floor, women’s dresses swirling like flower petals. The song crescendoed, its pace quickening, and hands clapped. Over people’s heads, near the high table, a dark iron chandelier swung.
Blainor’s shoulders tensed, hand tightening on the goblet’s stem until the polished pewter bowed under the grip’s strength. A dent formed on its surface. His control held; the metal yielded before he would.
A victorious grin spread over her lips. At last. A fracture. She’d proven herself—Blainor was not immune to her songs. Intoxicated by her own power, Trisha breathed in its dense, saccharine scent. Let him feel it. Witness what she could do, what it meant to feel powerless.
She felt the tug of her magic, how it pulled everyone to the floor. Not even fire could resist, wax candles bending. The fastenings of the iron candelabrum creaked. Ropes groaned under the strain.
The sound shattered through her haze. Next to her, Asa was laughing, but the sound was strained, somehow wrong. Trisha’s concentration fractured. She blinked, realizing what she’d done.
The room was full, the dancefloor crowded. Among the richly woven wool and linen, glimpses of the servants’ brown. Her magic hummed, the air thick with honeysuckle and smoke. People’s eyes shone with glazed stares, and flames in the cressets were reaching to join them.
Breaking eye contact with Blainor, Trisha released a shuddering breath. The reality of it all struck hard. Midsummer. Clan Chiefs. Quickly, she reeled in all her magic, but it was too late to call back what she’d unleashed. She’d gone too far.
The chandelier creaked again. She jerked her face up, eyes widening in terror. So slowly, too slowly, Trisha watched the forked black iron fixture fall.
Crash.
First, silence. Then, screams, gowns and jackets swishing as everyone rushed to the sides. Hush fell over the Fir Hall.
Regret came first, followed by fear. What had her reckless act caused? She could have killed someone.
In the far corner, near the wall lined with an age-darkened coat of arms and time-gnawed tapestries, a man was engaged in an argument with another one.
Oblivious to the chaos, they ignored the disfigured arms of the candelabrum.
Caught between the two men stood a young woman, her hands spread wide, to keep them apart from each other.
A few armored shields emblazoned with the Dewingar crest approached the trio.
Stupid. So stupid.
Trisha’s pulse raced as she watched the servants hurriedly clear the wreckage from the dented floor and quickly smother the small flames scorching the darkened boards.
Thank the stars, no one was hurt, but the atmosphere in the Fir Hall was frenzied.
Heavy smoke eddied in the gold of the afternoon, stirred by the moving bodies.
Sweat and the residues of sweet honeysuckle itched at her throat.
She didn’t wait. She stood.
“I think I’m done for tonight.” No more music from her. Not today.
“Oh.” Asa spun round, worry twisting her narrow features.
“Can’t say I blame you.” Caressing her fiddle, she watched the servants carry the heavy chandelier out of the room.
Some of the chiefs were returning to their seats, people’s voices slowly resuming.
Across the crowd, Senneth’s flaxen-haired head turned toward them with a quick gesture to resume their music.
“Minstrels,” Bran said in a tight voice.
With a roll of her eyes, Asa lifted the violin to her chin. “Always the same.” She exchanged glances with Trisha and bowed a loud warble out of her fiddle. Her cheer returning, she winked. “See you at the bonfire!”
Trisha stepped back, the lyre cradled in her arms. It could have been worse, she reminded herself. Much, much worse. Luckily none, save for Blainor, seemed to have realized she’d caused the destruction.
Another look around. The argument in the corner was finished, the debris cleared.
Trisha’s shoulders dropped. Yet, the uneasy feeling squeezing her heart wouldn’t slacken.
Across the room, a stillness weighed against the movement and life.
Blainor sat immobile, face drawn. He leaned back, chin lowering, and tapped his dented cup.
Sucking in a breath, Trisha dodged his face. She escaped the Fir Hall and Blainor and prayed that her act hadn’t started an uncontainable fire this time.