Chapter 25
Her old room awaited. The bright quilt lay over Trisha’s bed, the wooden table set to face the eastern heights.
Her road-beaten tunic hung on the chair, bags propped in the corner where she’d left them.
She ran a finger along her lyre’s case. Someone had moved it away from the door.
It made her ache a little. Carefully, she tucked her lyre inside it before sitting in her chair.
The swell of hills in the distance, the grass swaying in the wind.
One by one, she removed the morrowflowers from her hair.
They were still fresh, their colors shifting from red to green, from green to gold.
Flexing her fingers, she crushed them, and their sweet, honeysuckle scent infused the air, cutting through the mildew in her room.
Unlatching the window, she let the fresh wind inside.
She paused, then made up her mind. Trisha scattered the crushed petals to the wind without another thought.
The current caught them, carrying the torn flowers away.
A tender and fragile emotion bloomed in her chest.
Blainor knew. Somehow, he had known where they came from. But if she asked him how, she’d open the door for him to pry. It hadn’t escaped her that he’d restrained himself, but she’d sensed the curiosity—the questions. And yet, he hadn’t broached them.
The door opened, and Trisha turned. Aine stood there in her brown gown, an apron tied at her waist. A wry smile flickered over the maid’s face. “Lost your vest, I see,” she said dryly.
Trisha suppressed a wince and muttered, “Met someone who had more need for it.”
Aine snorted, shaking her head. “I’ll get your bath prepared; I expect you’d want one.”
Trisha remained conscious of Aine’s glances, the almost-questions the maid barely kept inside while she helped Trisha rinse off the dust and remnants of the Undying Lands and its magic.
It was in the lingering touch of her fingers as she helped Trisha don her gown, in the pout of her mouth as she pawed at her hair.
But when she suggested braiding it down and Trisha simply nodded, Aine couldn’t hold her curiosity in any longer.
“Your travels have changed you, then, mistress.”
“They have?” Trisha asked.
Aine paused, Trisha’s long locks looped in her hands. “Letting me braid your hair without a fight? You’re either very tired or you’ve finally accepted you’re not just a girl.”
Trisha fell silent, smirking to herself.
It was true. She’d left something behind in the Undying Lands.
A shadow, a memory. Her fingers slid over the soft wool of her skirt, an echo of her pain stirring within.
It hurt to know why her parents had abandoned her.
Why they’d broken their promise as parents.
She had traveled the world, south and back.
Starved, lied, nearly died, before finding her way to Eichlandt.
What a fool she’d been, running away. And all because Shi’as had told her she’d find the answers in the mortal world.
She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. They’d given her away because of her magic. Nothing had changed. That same power still coursed in her veins. Trisha blinked against the tears as a warm swell rose to her skin.
You’re mine.
Her hands flexed, but she didn’t resist it, allowing the sway of its heat to linger within.
Then, Aine was ready. She nodded in approval, and Trisha rubbed the soft texture of her green gown. The girdle pressed into her waist, but perhaps she would learn to tolerate it. A pale dusk crept over the sky, shadows growing taller as she left the room carrying her lyre.
Had the walk to the Fir Hall been this long before?
Trisha’s heart thumped restlessly. She’d confronted Blainor, but now came the hard part.
Would the peace hold? And the others. She almost groaned.
Fjorten, Byne, and everyone else would surely have many, many questions.
Not to mention Blainor’s aging seneschal.
Senneth’s icy disapproval and snide remarks would sour the evening.
There was little doubt that her escape would have diminished her already tenuous position in his eyes.
A few of the servants gave her startled looks. Her fingers pressed into the lyre’s arms. Four weeks, Blainor had said. For her, mere days, but for everyone else, a whole month had passed.
Trisha inhaled, squaring her shoulders. Her footfalls echoed in the silent hall.
Rich tapestries whispered tales of vanished histories.
She slowed by one, depicting a dark fortress over the green hill: Moorhafen.
Beneath the castle walls, armored warriors clashed with spears and swords, crimson pooling in the ground.
Far beyond, pale forms approached. A draft skimmed her neck, the lanterns’ glow thinned, shadows rushing to steal the space from the retreating light. She shivered.
At the entrance to the Fir Hall, Trisha halted.
Men in bright tunics and women in long gowns and silken veils bent their heads together, while servants in their brown liveries swerved between long tables and clusters of people.
Her knees lost their strength. The smells of zesty herbs, baked breads, and hops suffused the smoky air, the candles in chandeliers casting their glow.
People nearest to the door fell silent, their mouths ajar, as though they’d seen a ghost. Among them stood Blainor’s seneschal, Senneth.
The flaxen-haired man approached, hands clasped behind his back. “How delightful, Bard an Tilia! I thought we’d never see you again.”
She resisted the impulse to wince, ignoring the unsaid. “I trust you’re well, Master Usmer?”
“That,” the aging seneschal said, “depends on who asks. Should you desire to abandon your duty again, I’d appreciate a warning, Mistress an Tilia. That is, it isn’t too much to ask.”
She gave him a measured nod. “We shall see, Master Usmer.”
His nostrils narrowed. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? A word of advice—not that you’d take it—but should you ever wish to be even half of Lynjef’s worth, show some humility.”
Her fingers, which had been tracing the flowers carved in her lyre, stilled. “Do keep clinging to your opinion, Master Usmer. Fools often do.”
She didn’t wait for his response, striding past him into the stone hall.
Across the dark floor, near one of the thick pillars, stood Blainor.
He spoke to a sturdy man with red-brown hair—Fjorten.
Looking up, Blainor met her stare, and the lines of his face tightened before relaxing.
A subtle nod. Trisha’s skin tingled at the weight of his gray eyes as she approached.
People ceased their conversing as she passed, the hush following in her trail.
Fjorten turned, his tawny, intelligent eyes measuring the silence between the Warlord and his bard. He wore a barbed smile when she reached them. “Gave us a merry chase, Bard. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Fjorten.” Trisha remained conscious of Blainor’s presence, his broad shoulders draped in silver and indigo, his dark hair, and his silence. Not hostile, but… cautious. “It’s good to be back.”
“And…” Fjorten started with a quick look at the Warlord. How much had Blainor shared with him about their conversation? “As I understand, you’ll be staying?”
A passing servant offered a goblet, which Trisha rejected with a shake of her head. “Yes, I’ll stay.” A part of her braced for rejection.
“Good! It’ll be nice to hear some music again.” Fjorten tilted his head and tugged at his trimmed beard. “And I expect you’ve brought some new tunes with you? From… wherever you went.”
“Perhaps.” She turned toward Blainor. “Would the Warlord might prefer more… conventional music?”
“Conventional is not a term I’d ever associate with you. Play what you wish, Starling.”
The smile broke through despite everything. She’d never been so glad to hear that ridiculous moniker. Although he didn’t smile back, the steel in his gray eyes seemed tempered.
Trisha fidgeted, the hems of her green gown brushing the dark stone. “I should probably get settled,” she said, “and get that song ready.”
Before she could move, a woman’s voice spoke behind her. “Welcome back, Bard an Tilia.” Byne stepped next to Fjorten, placing a hand on his arm. Her narrow face was unreadable, a short veil covering her light brown hair.
Trisha inclined her head. “Hello, Mistress Tifbrunn. I hope all has been well with you.”
Byne’s mouth stiffened before she nodded. A quick sideways glance toward the Warlord preceded slowly spoken words. “Once you’re done with your music, would you grace our table with your presence?” Despite such a polite tone, the look in her pale eyes remained standoffish.
Trisha resisted the impulse to gauge Blainor’s reaction.
Firmly, she pushed away the heaviness Byne’s aloofness brought.
Senneth’s reaction, she’d expected, but Byne was Fjorten’s wife and stood in Blainor’s close circle.
She nodded, a warmth soothing the sting; Byne might’ve given the invitation, but they came from him. “Yes. Thank you.”
With a restrained bow, Trisha retreated.
Their attention prickled her nape, but only one of them sent her heart scampering.
Her place by the fireplace, a high-backed wooden chair, and a table with a pitcher of water and a bowl of fresh fruit, awaited.
Smoothing her dress, she took the seat and set the lyre on her lap.
Running her fingers over the strings, she tested the instrument’s pitch.
In her bones, the magic tingled, its warm glow eager to lace her song.
Her head tilted as she gauged its disposition.
Tonight, it felt lighter, purring contentment like a cat.
Almost curious, she strummed once while loosening her control.
Like a gently swaying wave, it wove into the notes, its sweet scent entwining in the air.
The flames in the fireplace and cressets lining the long hall bowed.