Chapter 17
The pebbles scuttled against the sand, Trisha’s strides long and fast. Still, they provided no escape from the memory of how pewter dented under Blainor’s strained hand or the echo of the chandlier’s impact with the ground.
She’d left her lyre in her room, but despite freedom from its weight, she felt no relief.
It was one thing to weave images and gentle emotions into her songs, but to hijack it from her fellow musicians? To compel the whole room under her spell?
The risk. It was a wonder no one was hurt! And all just to break Blainor’s composure.
She groaned. Nameless gods, curse her. She’d crossed that line she’d set for herself, allowing her pride and vanity to make her rash. Just like in Graystein. All that distance she’d gained—gone. She deserved to be whipped for her stupidity.
And yet, who could blame her? Blainor kept hiding his secrets, refusing to show what he truly wanted. If he had lied about her title, what else could he be hiding?
Fragrant notes of the white roses Aine had woven into her braid earlier itched her throat, their sweetness like her magic. She couldn’t breathe. The descending sun warmed her face, the world in bloom. A cloud of gnats and flies buzzed as swooping birds circled the surrounding fields.
A group of people walked ahead—men in their light summer linen, women in bright-colored dresses embroidered with patterns of leaves and flowers. Trisha squinted at a tall shape with a long dark braid. The man glanced over his shoulder, face brightening. He waved at her.
“Bard! Summer blessings!” Kaiden shouted.
“Blessings back to you,” she muttered, reaching him.
“Headed to the beach as well?”
“I heard the bonfire isn’t something one should miss.” A fraction of her tension loosened. Kaiden appeared the same, save for his wide grin, but he’d been more relaxed since their arrival in Moorhafen. With a furtive glance toward Kaiden’s young wife, Marleen, she guessed his reasons.
“Then walk with us,” he said, offering her a flask. “Your first Midsummer with us shouldn’t be spent alone.”
Strolling alongside them, she took the drink and sniffed. It had a spicy, herbal note, and it burned as it slid down her throat. Trisha coughed, tears in her eyes, quickly returning the flask to him.
Kaiden chuckled. “Not used to Livatz, are you?”
“Strong drinks are not something to help musical performances.”
“Speaking of musical performances,” Kaiden started. “Must be the first time all the chiefs took to the floor in years.” Grinning, he wrapped an arm around Marleen’s shoulders.
The woman laughed. “You forget Annath. Chief Wolfbach avoided the floor like it were the steppe of Everfrost.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Pity the chandelier didn’t hit his head when it fell.”
As though caused by the memory, others quieted, then Kaiden grinned, patting the hilt of his dagger. “No need to worry. If he, or his nephew, dares to come to the shoreline, I’ll be glad to finish what the Warlord didn’t.” A few chuckled, conversation resuming.
“Everyone’s going to the bonfires, then?” Trisha asked. She tried not to think about the mangled iron or sputtering candles on the darkened floor. Or the look on the Warlord’s face.
“It’s tradition,” Marleen confirmed.
Would Blainor come, too? She didn’t ask.
Someone started singing, and the others joined in the song.
A mishmash of off-tune voices bellowed out lewd verses.
It seemed just the thing for Midsummer, if the reactions from the others were of any indication.
Couples, families, and the elderly… Kaiden insisted on stopping to greet and exchange blessings with everyone.
It took longer than Trisha would have preferred to crest the low-lying western hills. Shivering in the brisk wind, she accepted another swig from Kaiden’s flask. The spirit tasted just as bad the second time, but its fire warmed her against the breeze.
Below the hill, the restless sea spread, waves crashing against the dark stones on the sand.
A tall construct of wood and twine soared near the waterfront, just waiting to combust in flames.
Several smaller cones of driftwood peppered the beach, the blazing sun gleaming on dark wood.
A crowd had already gathered there. Shouts, laughter, and music carried to her ears.
Trisha followed the others as they descended the hillside.
The sand blew into her nose, the sea rushing to meet the shore.
People emerged and disappeared: Fjorten and Byne and their three red-headed boys.
The Blutmeer chief with Reike’s father and Reike.
Gareth and Eldric. The hurdy-gurdy player pressed another cup of the same spicy liquor into her hands.
Dutifully, Trisha cheered with the men as a fiddle’s sound rose above the wind. “Asa?” she asked, craning her neck to catch a sight of the woman.
“Burning her memories,” Gareth said with a shrug.
“Or playing with them. With her, you can never really tell.” Despite the words, his tone was warm.
“Did you bring something for the ancestors, too?” He pointed toward the towering pile of driftwood and lumber.
The lifeless structure loomed before them like some baleful creature of the liminal space.
“Why?”
“An offering,” Eldric responded for the hurdy-gurdy player. “The longest day of the year means the ancestors are near. They’ll hear.”
She squeezed the mug. “Well, then. It seems I’ve been woefully unprepared for this ceremony.” Trisha peered inside her empty cup. “The only thing I have is this. Hardly something appropriate to burn with the pyre.”
Gareth’s hand closed over her fingers, gently pushing the cup to her chest. “It’ll do. Consider it a well-loved token,” he said. “It’s not every day a minstrel gets to play for each clan chief and the Warlord, you hear?”
Her mouth firmed before she exhaled. “Thank you. Perhaps the ancestors will appreciate some of this Livatz, too?”
Gareth and Eldric chuckled, lifting their drinks. They toasted again as the wind swirled, and the crowd laughed while Asa’s violin brought a haunting melody to life.
The sun turned deep red, shadows spreading across the ground as three people with burning torches approached the effigy. They stuck their staves into it. The fire caught, flames licking the wood. And even though the wind blew, the fire refused to bow.
The fiddle’s melody grew, and soon enough, soft notes of a lute joined it. Trisha shook her head, exchanging knowing looks with Gareth and Eldric. Bran’s doing. Trust him to find another stage at the beach from the shadows and wind. Only the best for Minstrel Jovell.
The crowd began moving, circling the growing flames, each person gently tossing something into the fire: flowers, pieces of cloth, a cut braid.
She joined the line, cradling the cup Gareth had given her, and wondered what to ask.
When her turn came, the fire flicked high, heating her face whole.
Trisha held on to her cup before chucking it and the drips from what was left of spiced liquor into the pyre.
“Direction,” she whispered, unsure if the ritual required her spoken words or if the ancestors would pick it up from her mind.
The fire accepted the cup without objections.
Perhaps that, in itself, was a sign? She quickly moved to let the others present their own tokens for the Midsummer’s fire.
During the procession, she’d lost sight of Gareth and Eldric.
Draping her cloak tighter around her shoulders, she retreated and simply watched the fire grow.
Thick smoke filled the air, the bonfire spitting sparkles into the darkening evening.
Music swelled in the wind, songs advancing between duple and triple time as dancing commenced again.
Forms moved around the red and orange flames, shadows strewn across the sand.
Shivering, she wished for another cup of that spicy drink.
Perhaps the alcohol’s burn could sear away her feeling of displacement—this reckless desire aching inside her.
Trisha sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes. It would be better to return.
A shift in the crowd, surprised murmurs and shouts. Someone had materialized beside her. She tensed, knowing without looking, without turning, who had found her.
The two stood side by side as the flames roared, people danced, and music surged.
Trisha’s hands wrapped around her elbows.
She refused to think about the dented cup and the tenseness on Blainor’s face.
She’d enchanted the Fir Hall, but it had been him she’d wanted to charm. He’d known it, and now he was here.
“Have you enjoyed yourself, Starling? Found Midsummer to your liking?” The softness in his tone carried a harder edge.
She swallowed. “It’s been… lively, my lord.”
“Lively indeed.” He studied her. “I should be furious. What you did earlier was dangerous. I warned you. You could have ignited something more violent than a brawl.”
“Is that why you’re here, my lord? To scold me?”
“No. I’m here because you made me come.”
She glared at him, ignoring the handsome scents that clung to him, or how electrifyingly near he stood. For weeks, they’d circled each other, each turn tightening her nerves until she didn’t know whether to pounce or flee.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about my title, that it’s forever?”
An emotion wavered across his face. Want. Or a flicker of regret. “Vis’ pendant is for life, Trisha. Have I given you one?” Blainor nodded toward her chest.
“If that’s the truth, why did you withhold it?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d be interested. Have you changed your mind?”
Biting her bottom lip, she looked away. Shadows capered across the sand as people moved around the bonfire. The fire’s embers burned an eye-blinding crimson, and thick smoke darkened the twilight.