Chapter 22
Trisha had to fix her lyre.
Despite her dream turning sour, she needed her voice back. The restless magic swelled inside her, each passing moment among the world saturated by the same threads that fed it, making it grow. Its demands were an insistent hum, ever since the night dance and Teoryin’s revelation.
Nameless gods, curse her. She had no strength to push it down.
I need your grief. Your pain.
She shut her eyelids, but the emotions were too much. Disappointment had dulled into a sore bruise. A quiet pain. Trisha’s parents had feared her magic enough to abandon her… Very well, then. They’d wanted her to forget. If so, she’d oblige.
Still, she couldn’t stay. She had to go back.
Why, Trisha wasn’t even sure. Going back would mean facing the man she’d run away from in the first place.
The thought filled her with nervousness.
Would Blainor welcome her back? He’d never flinched from her magic.
He understood enough. Was Moorhafen her destiny after all?
The only man who saw her didn’t fear what she could do.
But to go back, she needed her lyre. Only the one who had crafted it could fix it. This brought its own set of problems.
When the Shadow Sisters went to Grentuff with a request for a new instrument, they brought rare and precious gifts: sparkling gems of starlight, ink-black flowers imbued with magic and blood, and hollow bones of creatures too old to know their names.
She didn’t have such an option, nor the luxury of time.
Every day wasted meant more questions back in Eichlandt.
“Is that all?” Rilka peered down at the gleaming coins Trisha had emptied from the purse. Her tiny lips bloomed into a pout before she skipped into the wind, landing between Dapple’s ears. “How about this creature?”
Dapple tossed his head, flinging Rilka back into the air. Creature? This insect has too loud a voice.
Trisha sighed. Their bickering wasn’t helping.
Sticking her teasing tongue out at the horse, Rilka floated before her and piped. “Grentuff won’t fix it for nothing. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Trisha glared at the fairy before leaning against the rough bark of the linden tree. Through the canopy, the stars continued their endless spin. “He only accepts things he values himself.”
The king had taken her flower. What Tilia had were shells and smooth stones from the shoreline. Rilka carried her feathers and eggshells, hardly something to appease the cranky artist.
Trisha inspected the articles before her: dark copper and nickel coins.
The wind stirred her long, dark hair, much like her mother’s.
Grentuff had taken it once. Her shoulders sank.
Finding a loose thread, she twisted it around her finger.
Why the thought ached so much, she wasn’t sure.
Why was she still clinging to that memory—Trisha’s mother, taking her to the Undying Lands?
Giving up her hair hadn’t hurt her as a child.
Huffing, she yanked the thread loose from her skirt. If only she’d had the forethought before she escaped from Moorhafen. She could have brought something else. Not just her wrinkled clothes, not her now-broken lyre, not these useless coins.
She swallowed the bitter thought. Dwelling on what-ifs and regrets wouldn’t help; she was here now. She’d find a way to fix her lyre. And then, she’d find Blainor. If Grentuff demanded her hair, so be it. It would grow back.
Clambering up, she beat the grass off her woolen dress, the discarded vest still where she’d left it.
Trisha’s eyes narrowed, the thought taking shape while a few strides brought her to the garment.
She bent and picked it up, running a hand over the velvety nap.
Ordinary perhaps in the mortal world, but quite unique here in the Undying Lands.
Blessed Aine. If she ever saw the maid again, she’d hug her.
Rilka’s wings fluttered as she flew around Trisha, curious. “What’s that?”
Trisha stroked the soft suede, hope kindling in her chest. “My payment.”
“Then what are we waiting for?!” she cried with a clap, somersaulting toward the murmuring forests. Among the dark trunks, haloed lights palpitated to the slow beat of the Undying Lands, the ever-present magic—too sweet and cloying—thick in the air. “Let’s go see him at once!”
The artisan might sneer at her offering, but Trisha kept silent, following. Rilka’s ceaseless chatter filled the waiting hush as they made their way through the pathless path.
The trees stood in quiet sleep, exhaling dreams as the duo passed underneath their boughs.
The eerie glow of floating lights reflected on their leaves, turning them to silver and ice.
Her body wound tight, Trisha kept her eyes open for any movement.
Sleeping trees, no music. Teoryin’s court had scattered, and though Shi’as had promised advice she couldn’t bear another of his poisonous lessons.
Whatever he wanted, she’d best avoid him.
The forest thinned, her shoulders dropping, yet her heart thrummed in her throat.
Grentuff’s home looked just as it had in Trisha’s memory. Narrow trees surrounded a clearing and a pond at its center. Dark and bottomless, the light of the sleeping gods reflected on its surface. Rilka abandoned her hair, shooting toward the pulsating lights.
“Who comes?” asked a voice, raspy and low, the words warped through a mouth not shaped for spoken words.
Grentuff hobbled into view. Short and bent, covered in bungled-up brown fur, he peered at Trisha with his black, lightless eyes.
“Ah, Tilia’s human daughter.” His tufted ears rested low against his head. “I thought I sensed my lyre’s hum.” A breeze rustled the flora surrounding them, those round, coal-black eyes fixing on the instrument in Trisha’s arms. A shiver went through him.
“Careless mortal,” the gnarly creature snarled.
Before Trisha could react, Grentuff ripped the lyre from her arms, cradling it as if it were a baby.
He tapped the limp string that hung from the lyre like a wilted flower.
He raised the lyre closer to his face. A deep growl rumbled in his throat. “A scar! How dare you?”
Beyond his back, Rilka’s tiny shape was skittering across the surface of Grentuff’s pond, her shadow weaving between the lights. Trisha bit down her scowl. Rilka had wanted to come. The least she could do was to offer support.
“Not by my own vocation. The humans have forgotten all about your craft.”
Unimpressed, the fae snorted. “And you still want to go back?”
Of course the gossip had reached him. “Only you can restore its sound. I brought you something.” She offered the vest, the leather cords dangling in the air.
“Hmm. Sheep’s hide. Have not touched one in centuries,” Grentuff muttered as he ran a clawed hand over the leather. “Not your hair this time?” His smile was sharp. “The High King, particularly, is fond of their sound. Mortal hair, quick to grow. You would not miss it for long.”
Despite the hungry look in his eyes, Trisha kept her hands by her sides, her back straight. “The vest is my payment. No hair. No teeth. No nails. Surely, this would be far more valuable to you.”
Grentuff wrinkled his nose, long whiskers trembling. Something wicked gleamed behind his gaze. “You do? For your nails, I would let you keep your lyre even in your afterlife.” He chuckled, hind leg scratching his side. “You could play your songs to your ghosts and gods.”
The thought sent a frisson down her neck. For a heartbeat, she was tempted. To keep her lyre even after her death. But how could she play without her nails? She’d be stuck in the Undying Lands for weeks, if not months.
“Fine,” Trisha said with a careless shrug.” If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back. I can always ask Shi’as.”
Grentuff’s ears flattened into a frown. “You will not let the serpent touch my craft. The vile creature.”
“Who else would I turn to? I’m her ‘favorite mortal,’ after all.” She couldn’t prevent bitterness seeping into her voice.
“Ha!” Grentuff’s laugh was cold. “Not something to be proud of.” He shook his head, nudging at her. “If it were more than a string, I wouldn’t do it. But, well. One string.” Then, he said more solemnly, “Remember, I will collect it at your death.”
Trisha lifted her chin. “I haven’t forgotten.”
He looked at the broken lyre, then back at its owner. “I suppose it is The Player’s Song you want?”
“It’s my favorite,” Trisha admitted, gaze drifting skyward to where the nine-starred constellation twinkled.
“Figures. All musicians pick The Player.” He dug through a pile of stones, claws clicking against their surfaces.
Lifting one, smooth and rounded, he weighed it in his hand.
“For once, I would like to bind the light of The King’s Sword.
Or Serpent’s Fang. What magnificent destruction your lyre would bring to the mortal world. ”
“No, thank you.” Trisha’s retort was as fast as it was sharp. “I’d rather my music remain untainted by the king’s blade. And I certainly don’t play the serpent’s songs.”
“Not so foolish after all,” he grumbled with almost genuine disappointment. Gently, he brushed the lyre’s polished surface. “Dark Fae wood,” he muttered, pressing a pointed ear against it. “But its echoes carry mortal pains. It whispers memories of death.”
Trisha’s mouth dried. “Seven years under the human sun. Not even fae wood can resist its path.”
“The king told you that?” Grentuff scoffed.
“He does not understand my craft. I was the one to fashion your lyre. Trust me when I tell you this. Your lyre”—Grentuff’s black stare was piercing—“knows your heart better than you do.” He fell silent for a moment, furry hand stroking the instrument, his sharp claws tracing the shape with tenderness.
“It isn’t your lyre, no. It is the stars you chose.
” Grentuff pointed a knobby finger toward two faint stars.
“If you want something of real significance, consider that.”