Chapter 20 #2
The grass tickled Trisha’s palms as her thoughts circled back to Tilia’s words. Shi’as had told her she’d find answers in the mortal world. Why? If the fae king had met her mother, he would have known. Perhaps… Her breath caught.
He might even know their names.
Propped against the linden tree, Trisha’s lyre rested where she’d left it.
Her jaw set as hot anger burned her chest. She wouldn’t listen to Shi’as, not again.
If the High King expected to see her, she’d obey.
And if she proved herself, playing music from the mortal world, Teoryin would not demand she dance.
A shiver went down her spine. The fae’s touch froze just as much as their sharp nails bled, lusting for a taste of iron in her blood.
No. Voluntarily, she wouldn’t dance. But as long as she had the lyre, she didn’t have to.
Brushing her hands on her dress, Trisha clambered up. The rest had nourished her. The food, even more. Feeling more like herself again, she went to Dapple.
“Enjoying your meal?” She slid a hand down his neck.
The grass is tolerable. He whinnied, a hint of criticism in his thoughts. Still prefer oats.
If nothing else, Dapple remained a constant in her life. “Patience, friend. We won’t stay long.” A tension she’d not realized lifted from her shoulders.
Oats then? Dapple poked her with his warm muzzle, blowing warm air over her.
She buried her face in his warm hide, drawing a deep breath of his musky horsehide scent. “I promise,” she whispered.
Holding a comb carved out of a gleaming stone, Trisha walked to the river and pushed the half-ruined dress over her shoulders.
The woolly gown slid off into a formless pile on the dark grass.
All those articles Aine had so meticulously draped over her, the veneer of the mortal world, she shed as though another skin.
The placid water reflected the sky, her figure against its distant lights. The image shattered as she stepped into it. As cold as it was dark, the water stung her skin, but she gritted her teeth. Untangled her hair from its knots. Washed away cedar. And yet, its memory lingered.
Rilka danced near, splashing water with her tiny hands.
“You have a scar!” she announced, darting close to run a finger over her shoulder. It tickled.
“Memento from the mortal world,” Trisha said without looking. Rilka didn’t need to know what had caused it.
“It looks almost…” The fairy never finished.
A dragonfly caught her attention, and she leaped high, landing on a water lily to twirl there.
Pink petals spread around her, a private stage floating amidst the dark surface, the yellow stamens glowing in the dark.
With a careless gesture, she threw gold-speckled pollen into the air.
Growing bored, she zoomed back to her, tugging on Trisha’s hair. “Let’s go. It’s been eons since we’ve scared the ewe-burrows to the clouds.”
“Ewe-burrows will wait for us.” Trisha smiled. “Let me wash first.”
She scrubbed off the dirt, the leaves, until she shivered from the cold.
Only then did she climb back to the riverbank.
Her dress lay at her feet. It smelled of ash, and a faint memory of cedar lingered.
She resisted the impulse to bury her face in the soft wool.
But no power here nor in the mortal world would force her to tie back her vest. No Aine to tell her what to wear, no Senneth to make her conform to Moorhafen’s expectations.
Trisha’s wet hair hung down her back when she returned to the clearing. Her lyre waited.
“What will you play?” Rilka gamboled up and down, the mismatched wings fluttering.
She hadn’t lied. The new one was stronger.
It made her veer more to the left, requiring tiny adjustments to keep her straight.
She perched on the linden’s lower branch and rolled her shoulders.
“Maybe, if I like your song, I’ll fetch my flute. ”
Trisha’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t played it?”
Rilka froze. Grief, or anger, rippled over her features—and was gone. She shrugged with a bored expression. “Haven’t felt like it.”
Not pressing further, Trisha settled on the grass near Tilia’s tree. She took the instrument, touching its smooth wood. The truth hurt.
Plucking a string, she let her mind drift. Seven years of wandering under the sun, to find parents who never wanted to be remembered. She hadn’t known she had any tears left. But now, they streamed down her cheeks and onto her hands.
A drop on the lower string dulled its sound. Trisha’s fingers took the cue, finding the song she’d heard over the moors. The pain of an unseen bird in the twilight. Moorscry. Her hands found the melody, repeating it again, tears flowing more freely with each passing note.
Above, Rilka witnessed her mournful playing. She didn’t speak.
The song crescendoed, but Trisha didn’t find solace in it. Even her magic seemed muted, stuck inside her bones. She couldn’t let it go, playing the lyre like a woman possessed. Faster, faster, her fingers danced, striking strings.
The air stilled. The wind ceased. They’d abandoned her. Refused her. Was it a wonder she did the same? Only the song of a lone bird remained. Haunting. Biting. Trisha’s breath came out ragged, the cold, wet hair hanging limp against her back.
And then—
Twang.
A string cut loose. Her music died. Gasping, Trisha let go of the lyre. It thud as it fell to the ground. Trembling, she stared at the instrument, not believing what she had done. What she’d lost.
The leaves rustled as the fairy dove from the tree.
She stepped closer to the instrument but didn’t touch the broken string that lay flaccid on the dark grass, a lifeline rent to the mortal world.
Rilka looked up, dark eyes wide, mouth open.
Before she could utter a word, Trisha buried her face in her hands. She wept.